18+ steve harrington x fem!reader, the sloppiest top to ever sloppy top (aka oral f receiving), bathroom shenanigans, cocky!steve, weddings, barb lives in this one
Okay give me bridesmaid!reader and groomsman!steve who get paired up in the wedding party to walk down the aisle together. you're not initially thrilled about it, sure, he's strikingly handsome, tan and fit. But he's also kind of an asshole. For all the reasons listed above. You knew before he even opened his mouth that he would be, because no man that hot is ever humble about it.
Nancy informed you at her bachelorette party that he was single, with a not-so-subtle wink wink. But now, even after only one conversation for which you're not even sober, you know there's not a snowflake's chance in hell you'd ever consider dating Steve Harrington.
It's the rehearsal dinner. He shows up in a starched button-down, not a wrinkle to behold, with the top buttons undone just enough for you to catch a twinkling silver chain and a thatch of thick, brown chest hair. And god, he would be so hot if he just Didn't Speak.
You're sat across from him when it's time to start eating, the same seat you've been assigned for the actual reception this weekend. Every time he looks up from his smoked salmon, he makes brief eye contact with you. He's not exactly smirking, but the expression isn't innocent either. You've caught him doing it at least five times now, and you're starting to wonder how much damage a wedged heel to the shin would cause.
The dinner comes and goes without incident, managing to actually enjoy yourself for most of the evening.
The wedding is a different story.
Steve's taken every opportunity available to him to flirt with you. A hand on the small of your back when he passes by you, every door opened, fleeting compliments.
About two hours before the ceremony begins Barb, doing her due diligence as Nancy's maid of honor, pulls the wedding party aside to make sure everyone understands what they're meant to do and when they're meant to do it.
Finally, she addresses you and Steve, "You two will come out after Robin and Eddie, got it?"
You nod, Steve mock salutes.
There's time to kill after that. Nancy and Jonathan are doing their first look, the other bridesmaids getting ready. With little else to do, you decide to walk the venue. It's a beautiful, rustic lodge with high vaulted ceilings and wood-everything. Candles in sconces, bathing every room in a warm glow.
You smell expensive cologne before you hear the voice attached to it:
"Not from you." You reply, not bothering to stop or turn.
"C'mon, don't be like that," he jogs slightly to catch up with you.
You stop, turn, "Are you this relentless with every woman you meet or am I an exception?"
"Maybe I'm just used to getting what I want." Steve says, voice low and rough like timber. He grins, crowding you. Your resolve is concerningly close to cracking.
"Let this be a lesson for you then."
You attempt to sidestep him, continuing on your way before a strong hand grasps your upper arm firmly.
"Don't be cute," he says, directly into the shell of your ear, "I see the way you look at me, baby. So why don't we both stop pretending that you don't want this?"
Your breath hitches in your throat, goosebumps crawling up the back of your neck, "You can't touch my face. Or my hair," you whisper, Steve brow crinkles, "Don't wanna ruin it."
He grins wide, like a shark who's caught the scent of blood in the water, pulling you by the arm into the unisex bathroom a few feet away from where you stand.
Steve kicks the door shut with his foot, reaching back to lock it before shoving you up against the sink adorning a wide marble countertop, eliciting a gasp from you.
There wasn't a second of the interaction where you could've guessed what would happen next. Steve's hands grip your hips roughly, keeping you in place while he makes out with the skin of your neck, careful not to leave visible hickeys lest you surely kill him.
"Fuck, you smell good," he pants against your neck, "wonder how you taste."
He drops to his knees in an instant, pushing your dress up your thighs with a haste no one's every exhibited in the task of eating you out before. It's like he was starving for it, unable to wait another second.
His hands rip your panties down your legs so quickly that you hear a stitch pop, suddenly thankful you hadn't worn an expensive pair. Again, he doesn't waste time-- diving headfirst into your cunt, like it's his life mission to make you come on his mouth in this stupidly fancy bathroom.
Your hands grip his hair roughly as he all but makes out with your pussy. You've never felt anything like this in your life. It almost pisses you off.
With every tug of his perfectly coif hair Steve groans and whines into the cavern of your pussy, wrapping his lips around you and sucking gently before two strong fingers slip inside you, pumping rhythmically and somehow exactly where you need them.
Before this, you'd have placed money on Steve being a mediocre fuck at best. Too cocky, too spoiled, too rich. But, to both your pleasure and displeasure, he knows exactly what he's doing. And he knows it, too.
"Jesus Christ," you pant, head thrown back against the impeccably clean mirror behind you.
One hand grips your thigh where he holds your dress up, the other slamming against your g-spot with near expert precision. It's getting hard to stay quiet.
Steve looks up a particularly loud whine, shakes his head and narrows his eyes, but doesn't dare stop his ministrations.
You freeze but Steve is unbothered, "One minute!" He calls, the picture of calm.
Whoever's on the other side of the door doesn't go far. You can hear him on the phone just outside the bathroom.
Steve stands, his fingers still crooked inside you, "Can you stay quiet?" He whispers, inches from you face.
"Good girl." The rough pad of his thumb plays with your clit, rubbing tight circles, his other hand groping your tits through your satin dress.
"Look so fuckin' sexy in this," he pants, eyes heavy-lidded, "Can I?"
You know he's asking to slip the cups of you dress down to reveal your breasts. You nod and he acts immediately, certainly leaving marks where he sucks against your pebbled nipple and the supple skin there.
You gasp and keen at a particularly harsh bite, edging dangerously close to your release. Without looking, Steve slaps a hand over your mouth. You're going to kill him.
You come with a muffled moan against the palm of his hand. Steve fucks you through it, whispering filth in your ear all the while.
"Quiet. Wouldn't want the whole wedding party to know you're getting fucked like a slut in here, huh?"
You shake your head, stick your tongue out and lick the palm of his hand when he won't move it away from your face and you've ridden out the last of your orgasm.
He takes the hint, removes his hand and wipes it against the complimentary towels by the sink.
"Dick! I told you not to touch my face!" You scold, whipping around to assess the damage in the mirror.
"And I told you to be quiet." He argues, fixing the back of your dress for you in an act of chivalry you're very intentionally choosing to ignore.
Steve grabs your shoulder when he's done, turns you to face him, "You look fine. Great, even. Now let's go before someone gets suspicious."
And if he gives a subtle squeeze of your arm as you walk down the aisle to watch your best friends get married, or pulls you aside to dance during the reception, or God forbid, show up at your hotel room after the night has ended for everyone else, well.
That's no one's business but yours.
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