#starry scribes

You’re not sure what possessed you to come out to the middle of Bumfuck, California for a photoshoot, but your friend was incredibly convincing, and so was the money he offered. It would just be some indie makeup commercial, nothing too complicated, and you’d get some free lipgloss out of it too. This meant you were now staying at a tiny little hotel in Azusa, the most boring town in the entire state, waiting impatiently outside for some guy in a silver Prius to show up and take you to the shoot. 

Despite technically being a “model,” you’re not one of those super rich runway ones that get to be on the cover of Vogue. Not that you minded at all, that industry sounds like shit from what you’ve heard, and you’re perfectly happy being in little indie magazines and Instagram adverts for makeup brands. You’re a photography model, not a supermodel, and you’re perfectly content with that. This does mean, however, that you’re stuck taking Spree socials, which you hate. 

Rideshares are already iffy to you, you never actually know how trustworthy the driver is, being being in a social is worse. The sheer amount of manspreading men you’ve had to sit next to in dirty SUVs makes you want to go up to San Francisco just to jump off of the Golden Gate. But you’re frugal as all hell, which means you’ll sacrifice what little semblance of dignity you have left to save two bucks, all while praying to whatever god might exist up there that your driver isn’t a creep and no one else requests him while you’re still in the car. 

Luckily for you, it doesn’t take long for the Prius to show up, and your driver rolls down the window to wave you over, calling out your name and shouting out, “Hey! I’m Kurt, I’m your Spree driver!” You give him a bit of a forced smile as you slide into the backseat, diagonal from his, looking at his side profile with slight intrigue. He’s… cuter than his photo looks, a goofy little grin on his face as he asks “So where are you headed?”

You give him the address of the studio, explaining “One of my friends asked me to do a shoot with him for this new makeup line. I just wish it wasn’t… here, of all places. No offense.”

Kurt laughs. “None taken, this city kinda sucks. Not much to do here, and not that many pretty girls either.” A small flush comes to his face as he says this—you can see it in the rearview mirror—and you suspect he isn’t that used to flirting with girls. “So… you’re a model?”

You shrug. “Of sorts. Mostly social media stuff.”

“Oh, sick, so you’re like a content creator?” he asks. “I am too! That’s why I’ve got all these cameras, I’m streaming right now actually.”

“Oh?” You feel like you should be a little creeped out about this, yet it doesn’t really bother you at all. Instead, you smile brightly at the camera right above the rearview mirror, wiggling your fingers in a wave. “Hi everyone!” you singsong, much to Kurt’s delight. 

“Hey, you should follow me on Instagram and stuff. KurtsWorld96 on all platforms,” he says. “I’ll follow you back and everything. Y’know, follow-for-follow.”

You give him a bit of an odd look, though you’re not fully sure if he can see your face. You didn’t think anyone actually ever said “follow-for-follow” in real life. He was cute, though, and incredibly entertaining, so you agree, pulling out your phone. 

“There,” you say, quickly following him on Instagram and leaning forward to take a selfie, your chin coming to rest on his shoulder. He glances over at your phone, one hand coming up to make a little peace sign as you snap the photo.

“Make sure you tag me in that,” he reminds you, making you hold back a little snort. 

“How could I forget?” you tease, tagging him as requested before uploading it to your story. 

You enjoy a bit of light banter with him for the rest of the drive, finding it entertaining how easy it was to get him all flustered and rambly. He’s constantly trying to flirt, trying to make it seem like he’s all suave and charismatic, but ends up a blushing mess when you actually entertain him and flirt back. It’s endearing, in a way.

When he drops you off, you make sure to rate him five stars per his request, though you were planning on doing that anyway. You tip him with cash and a kiss on the cheek, though you don’t linger long enough to see how he reacts to it, instead wiggling your fingers in another wave as you head off into the studio without looking behind you. 

You can’t seem to get Kurt out of your mind for the whole photoshoot, constantly looking at his pages and finding his other platforms whenever you get the chance to go on your phone. You’re not entirely sure what kind of chokehold this odd little Spree driver has on you is, yet you find yourself completely enamoured with him and you can’t explain why. You find his YouTube channel, watch the videos with the grainy camera quality and tinny, too-quiet audio. 

He barely has followers or views, and judging by the quality of content, you can see why. Oddly enough, it’s not a turn off. It’s cute; silly, you’d even say. God knows why this failure of a “content creator” has you so enraptured with him, but you’ll be damned if you don’t see him again. Though the next time you do, you’re determined to kiss him somewhere other than just his cheek. 

Kurt can’t stop thinking about you. He’s been scrolling through your Instagram for what seems like ages. Pictures of you out with your friends, having lunch, drinking, clubbing, so pretty in those tight dresses that hug all of your curves just perfectly. Those photoshoots he was so curious about, all incredibly tame, yet your posts and photos somehow manage to get him going anyway. 

Those makeup campaigns where your lips look so shiny and kissable because of whatever gloss you’re promoting. Pictures of you at the beach with your friends, your perfect little mouth wrapped around a popsicle, the way your fingers curl around a bottle of Coke. All so innocent, yet Kurt’s mind can’t help but twist them into something that will feed his dreams each night. 

He’s now parked across the street from the little hotel you’re staying in, looking back and forth from his phone—opened to your Instagram, as it has been for the entire day—and outside his window. His stream’s ended for a while now, the content would’ve been stale anyway. Just him sitting in his car in the dark, waiting for you to step out of whatever Spree or GoGo that you ordered to take you home. He can’t help but feel a spark of jealousy flare up within him as he thinks of you being in some other car with some other rideshare driver. It’s stupid, he had only met you a few hours ago. He’s a glorified taxi, not your boyfriend or anything, yet he can’t help the feeling. 

Kurt only hopes the room you’re staying in has a window overlooking the front of the building; hopes he can see you from where he’s parked, or else this would’ve all been for nothing. By some miracle his prayers are answered, as he eventually sees you step out of some Honda and enter the building. He waits, eyes fixated on the rows of windows on the front of the hotel, and breathes a sigh of relief as one of the ones nearest to the ground floor lights up. He can see it’s you through the glass, watching as you’re quick to shed the weight of the day by stripping off your clothes. 

The street is wide, leaving a great distance between him and your window, so he can only barely see into it, but Kurt is a clever person. His partially obscured vision is nothing a camera zoom can’t fix. He swore to himself he’d only use his phone to get a better look at you, that he wouldn’t take picture, but he’s never had much willpower. He tells himself it’s out of his control as his thumb taps the photo button repeatedly, capturing grainy photos of your lace-clad ass or the slope of your chest from the side as you release your tits from the confines of your bra. 

He’s glad he’s not streaming. Not because he’s ashamed of his actions—there’s no room for guilt when all of the blood in his brain has rushed south by now—but because he doesn’t want anyone else to see you like this. Only he gets to watch as you rummage around your suitcase for your pajamas, wearing nothing but some lacy panties and giving him a perfect view of your ass while bent over like that. You’re unaware of the open blinds, unaware of the photos cumulating in his phone. These are all for his eyes only, no one else’s. 

When you finally get back to the hotel and changed into your pajamas, you’re quick to get onto your laptop, not caring for dinner or a shower or anything. You had a big lunch and you could always shower in the morning. Right now, you’ve got a one-track mind, and it’s fixated on showing Kurt how much you care for him. 

You think he might be stupid, or maybe just incredibly inobservant, because it wasn’t hard to figure out his address by watching his videos and scrolling through his posts. He really needs to be more careful, but lucky for him, you’re not some weird creepy murderer. Of course you’re not, you just want to help! 

He clearly needs better equipment and you have some spare cash lying around, and you certainly don’t need a new pair of shoes. Why not use it for a good cause? Sure, you could send the packages to his P.O. box, but that’s what any other fan would do. If you don’t send it directly to him, how will he know that you really, truly care? That you’re different from all the rest?

You stay up until the early hours of the day, scrolling to the depths of the Best Buy online store and looking through pages upon pages of Amazon filming and recording equipment. You’ve never been one too care so much about this sort of tech; sure you knew what cameras were popular and some of your editor friends would show you the befores and afters for your photoshoots, but that was about it. 

Honestly, you don’t even care that much when it comes to Kurt’s content “improving.” Sure, it’s a bit cringey, but in an endearing way. A way that makes you giggle as you have his item reviews on in the background of your scrolling, as you rewatch his stories and highlights maybe hundreds, if not thousands, of times. But you know he wants views and followers and you also know that people care about visuals and content quality, so you’ll do whatever you can to help him with that. 

You input the name and address as Kurt’s when ordering all the stuff, too focused on getting it to him to remember that you’d need to write some sort of letter to go along with them so he knows they’re from you. It doesn’t matter, though. You’re determined to see him again. You’ll know you will, and once you do, you can just tell him then. 

So what if you’ve only just met him? So what if your only conversation was twelve hours ago, and lasted for maybe twenty minutes? Those twenty minutes were enough for you to know that he’s the one for you, and that you’re really and truly meant to be together. You’ll order a million Sprees if you have to, keep up with his streams and stories and “accidentally” run into him at a taco truck or something. Whatever it is, you know you’ll see him again.

It’s been two days since those packages came in the mail for Kurt. Two days since he set up the new cameras for his car, that new facecam on his PC, tested out the mic for his item reviews and figured out how to Bluetooth the tiny fluffy microphone to his phone for his videos. Everything was working out perfectly. His videos and streams are clearly much higher quality now, and people are even starting to watch them! Not many comments or subscribers yet, and he still wants to find those loyal fans that will stick around, but views gotta count for something!

The only issue is that he doesn’t know who sent him all the stuff. It was sent directly to his home address, oddly enough, rather than the P.O. box he had on all of his socials. His name was on the package, and there was no note or anything. He, unfortunately, had no way of tracing who this mystery fan was that sent him all of this cool and expensive new equipment. This, as he puts it, sucks balls. 

He wants to know who cares for him this much, wants to repay them. Not in money, being a Spree driver does not pay enough for that, but in some other way. Maybe with a drink or lunch or a good fuck. The last one would partially also be for himself. But he’s got nothing. No leads, not even a whisper of an idea of who could’ve blown so much money on him. 

Hopefully, whoever sent him the stuff is watching his videos, and sees how he’s putting all of the new equipment to work. Unfortunately, averaging maybe twenty views per video doesn’t rake in all that much money, so he’s still got a job to do. Still driving people around and dropping them off, a routine he’s pretty much accustomed to now. To his surprise, as he drives around on what’s supposed to be a normal Friday night, he sees a familiar profile picture as a ride request comes in.

It’s you. He recognizes you from the selfie you uploaded as your profile picture on the Spree app. Those same eyes, framed by dark lashes that seemed to bore into his soul whenever he scrolled through old photos of you. One hand down his pants, the other on his phone, as if those past selfies knew what he was doing. As if those eyes were constantly calling him a creep, a pervert. Those lips that still linger on his cheek from all those days ago when you pressed a soft kiss to his skin, your gloss leaving sticky residue on it. He didn’t wipe it away until he got home that night. God, how he wishes it were those lips that were wrapped around him each night instead of his fist.

Pulling up to the front of some shitty club, he watches as you stumble out in a dress that hugs your body in all the right way. Your heels dangle from your wrist as you’re barefoot on the concrete, your eyes roaming around for your ride. They lock with his quickly through the window of his car, and your entire face lights up as you see him. You’re quick to stumble your way into the front seat, all giggly with your face flushed and makeup slightly smudged.

“Fun night?” he asks weakly as the smell of your perfume envelopes him entirely; stronger now than it was when you had first met, considering you’re right next to him this time. 

“Yeah,” you say with a sigh. “My friends decided to continue with their pub crawl but I think I’ve had enough, y’know?”

“Smart,” he says, giving you a smile and eliciting another giggle from your pretty mouth. 

“So…” you start, eyes drifting around the car, roving over slowly, your gaze lingering a bit too long on both his face and his lap. “That new equipment working out well for you?”

“Yeah! It’s—” he pauses, glances over at you, staring just long enough to start swerving a bit into the other lane. “Shit— how’d you know about the new stuff?” He hadn’t found time to make a video about it yet, and it slipped his mind to even post something quick about it on his story. He’s been too busy with work, all the set-up the new tech required, and of course, he kept getting distracted by your photos every time he opened up Instagram. 

His question makes you laugh as if it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever said. “‘Cause I sent them, silly,” you say, reaching over the console to rest a hand on his thigh. “What? Don’t you like ‘em?” you ask with a small pout. The color is slightly rubbed off, the residue no doubt staining the glasses back at the club you were just in, but they’re still shiny and glossy, like you decided to reapply just before leaving. 

“No— no! I love them. I’ve been using all of the stuff you sent! I just— I didn’t realize it was you that sent them,” he says, fumbling his words a bit as he feels the warmth of your palm through his jeans, which, really, shouldn’t be possible considering how thick denim is. “Thanks for buying it and everything. It’s all really sick, and all the stuff works really well. I mean, I think my videos have improved by, like, at least a hundred percent.”

Your pouty lips melt into a relaxed and satisfied smile. “Good,” you say, body slumping against the door, though your hand stays on his thigh.

Both of you are quiet for the entire drive back to your hotel, and he thinks you’ve fallen asleep until you perk up as soon as he stops in front of the building. Your hand leaves his leg as you move to undo your seatbelt, but you don’t get out of the car immediately. Instead, you turn to him, leaning over the console and reaching your hand to run through his hair. 

“Hey, um, do you maybe wanna… come in with me?” you ask softly, so quiet Kurt thinks he’s imagining it.

His lips part but no sound comes out for a bit until he nods rapidly with a desperate and needy “Yeah.”

You lean back over to your seat as he quickly finds a place to park, the beeping of the seatbelt indicator muffled to both of you now. You forget your shoes in his car but you don’t care, too eager to get him up to your room. As soon as you’re upstairs and the door clicks shut behind him, you’re quick to tug him down onto the squishy hotel mattress, lips finding his as your hands work to rid him of his clothes. 

It’s clear he’s a bit inexperienced, not quite knowing where to put his hands, or even how to kiss. You don’t mind, though; you’re happy to take the lead tonight. You take over the kiss, tongue finding its way into his mouth as you unzip and tug off the green plaid hoodie he’s wearing. Your hands slide up under the t-shirt he has underneath, and you can feel him shiver a bit as your nails gently rake down the side of his ribs.

You remove one of your hands from its spot under his shirt and guide one of his to the zipper on the back of your dress, waiting patiently as he tugs it down. You get off the bed to shimmy it off, letting it fall in a sparkly heap at your feet. Left in nothing but a pair of panties—because you weren’t going to wear a bra with spaghetti straps—Kurt’s mouth goes dry and his pants grow tighter, if that was even possible. Seeing you like this, bare in front of him, soft skin close enough to touch, to kiss and taste, he knows one thing for sure. 

This is so much better than the photos. 

a/n: three thousand words of pain, suffering, and ovulation

Maybe I should’ve just stayed unemployed, you think as you’re sprawled across the tiled floor of a Starcourt Mall bathroom with your best friend—Robin—and the guy you hate the most, your ex-boyfriend: Steve Harrington. Maybe he’s the second guy you hate most now, though, considering that creepy Russian doctor that drugged the three of you up has definitely moved to the top of the list. At least you didn’t have to worry about the creepy Russians anymore.

You and Robin are giggling about nothing in particular, side by side. You’re not quite sure what’s so funny. You don’t even think there’s an actual reason for your laughter. But with the drugs wearing off, the way the ceiling spins and the fluorescent lights making you see spots, you just laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Steve asks, sliding under the stall wall from the next one over to join the two of you in the handicap stall. 

“Dunno,” you mumble. You feel like you should hate him like you usually do. But you don’t, not right now. Not when everything is so floaty and spacey.

“Gonna get snacks,” Robin decides, standing up after giving you a hug.

“Ooh, get me a pretzel,” you say, as if anything is open right now.

Once she’s gone, it leaves you and Steve alone together. Your giggles have stopped now, with Robin gone, and you’re kind of just staring at him. 

“What? Is there something on my face?” he asks.

“Yeah. Right here,” you say, tapping at your eye, where his is blackened. 

He feels at his gently with a wince. “Oh.”

“Why does this always happen to us?” you ask.

“What do you mean?”

You sit up, your back against the wall. “I mean us getting stuck together. And just always being around each other all the time. We always seem to share shifts, we got stuck in the ice cream freezer together that one time while Robin was on lunch and almost froze to death, and now this,” you say. “It’s like you’re stalking me or something.”

“Well the freezer was an accident,” he says. “But the shifts thing might be my fault.”

“What?”

It might be the drugs lowering his inhibitions, telling him it’s a good idea to let all his emotions pour out. He doesn’t stop talking, even when it would be smart to. “I keep on trading shifts with Robin ‘cause I wanna see you more,” he explains. “Which is why she always has a family emergency when you expect to work with her.”

You’re a bit angry but mostly confused. “Why?”

Steve laughs, moving to sit against the same wall as you, so you’re shoulder-to-shoulder rather than face-to-face. “Because I still love you,” he says, trying to take your hand in his.

You tug away, scooting further from him, but not leaving entirely. “You didn’t love me when we were together,” you accuse. “You were all over Nancy when we were dating.” You don’t blame Nancy at all. It’s not her fault she’s pretty and smart and everything you couldn’t be all those years ago. But you don’t think you’d ever forgive Steve for breaking up with you just so he could go to her. 

It’s not like he ever explicitly cheated. He didn’t start doing anything until after he broke up with you. But you caught him staring multiple times; not just at her, but at so many other girls. Their tits, their asses, their everythings. And with the speed he went to her after leaving you— taking him less than a week to move on—it made you think he never loved you at all. You cried back then. It makes you laugh now. Sometimes you can’t believe how ridiculous and stupid you were to believe he’d ever truly love you.

“And I was stupid then. I mean, come on, we were just kids. And I get if you hate my guts, I would too. I don’t expect you to like me back in the slightest,” he says with a long sigh. 

“Steve, you basically pseudo-cheated on me, of course I hate you,” you snap, cutting him off. 

“I know,” he says. He has no apology this time, just an acceptance of what he did to you. 

“You were a dick. And honestly? Sometimes, you still are,” you continue, hugging your knees to your chest.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been stalkerish. I swear I’m not gonna try to ‘One Way or Another’ you or anything, I’ll cut it out, I swear. I just— I knew you didn’t like me after everything but I still wanted to be close to you and around you so I kept giving Robin part of my tips so she’d trade shifts—” he rambles. 

“Steve,” you say, stopping him. “I don’t doubt that you’ve changed. I know we were kids, stupid ones at that. And I trust you’re a better person now. But I can’t forgive you fully, not yet at least.”

“I know,” he mumbles, head hanging. 

“But I’m willing to try. If you promise to stop being a stalker. I want to believe you’re a better person because—fuck—I miss you sometimes. But I can’t risk getting hurt again. Not until I’m sure you’re not going to do the exact same thing to me as you did three years ago,” you say. “But I want to be your friend. For now, at least.”

“For now?” he asks, looking up at you with a mix of curiosity and hope. 

“Maybe more, someday in the future,” you say. “Maybe we can be together again. But not yet. And there’s no guarantee, Steve.”

He nods eagerly, tugging you in for a tight hug, ignoring your yelp. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are,” you say. “I have missed you. Just— your lame jokes, the way you always smell like hairspray, stupid things like that. Things that I shouldn’t really miss.”

You have missed him. Ever since he broke up with you, you haven’t stopped. Even after you’ve “moved on” from him, going out with other guys and letting your friends set you up, you always wished it was Steve instead. Always wished it was his scent of hairspray and cinnamon wrapping around you rather than whatever shitty bodyspray or cologne your date decided to wear to movie night. Always wished you had him there so he can offer to pay for your lunch, even though you both knew that you could easily pay for it yourself. He’d always pay, and you’d always slip a twenty into his pocket when he wasn’t looking.

In every date or boyfriend you’ve had since, none of them have ever been what you wanted. None of them were ever Steve. You tried to deny it for so long. He hurt you, how could you be so hung up on him? But now, there’s no use in denying. You couldn’t even if you wanted to, not with the remnants of whatever the Russians pumped into you still coursing through your system. 

“I must’ve been a shitty boyfriend then,” he says with a soft sniffle. You’re not sure if he’s crying or not; his face is still buried in your shoulder. “Considering you don’t miss any gestures or anything I’ve ever done for you. Not that there were any gestures.”

“You would climb through my window at night,” you say, pulling back. 

“That was creepy,” he objects.

“Not within context. Within context, it was romantic.” You’re not sure why you’re arguing in his favor so much. Maybe because you’ve decided he’s worse when he’s all sniffly and pouty. Whether worse means “more annoying” or “annoyingly attractive,” you don’t quite know either.

“Promise you’re not lying?” he asks.

You laugh softly at his utter ridiculousness. “I promise.”

“I know you don’t love me back or anything but can I just hold you? While we’re still all drugged up still so I can pretend?” 

It’s a stupid question, a longshot. But you still say “Yeah. Sure.” with a long and reluctant sigh. You smile as you answer, though, so he knows you’re not really annoyed. He tugs you in eagerly, burying his face in your hair, as if he can’t get enough of you.

“You’re gonna suffocate me,” you say.

“I don’t care. I’ve missed this,” he says.

Maybe if drugs weren’t still coursing through your system, you’d say something else, or you wouldn’t say anything at all. Instead, what comes out of your mouth is a quiet agreement, laced with some shame, but you can’t find it in you to care right now. “Yeah,” you say with a soft sigh. “I did too.”

When Robin returns, a cold soft pretzel and some M&M’s in hand, probably stolen from the movie theater concessions, she immediately spots the two of you cuddled up together. “Finally made up, lovebirds?” she asks, handing you your pretzel and tossing a bag of M&M’s at Steve.

“Not fully,” you say, taking a bite of the pretzel and breaking off a chunk for Steve. “But we’re getting there.”

“Fucking finally. I was getting tired of watching Steve pine for you from a distance,” she groans, stealing a piece of pretzel from you. 

“I’m gonna get worse,” he informs her. “Now that I know I actually have a chance.”

Robin groans and you and Steve laugh as the bathroom door bursts open to reveal the two adolescents that saved your asses, ready to scold you incessantly, you’re sure. 

a/n: maybe reader forgave him too easily but what can i say he’s too pretty to be mad at for long