You tell Steve that you don't think you're capable of orgasming with a guy. He's determined to prove you wrong.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 4.2k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) mutual masturbation, porn with very little plot, hint of friends to lovers, pet names, steve is packing, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: request by @djobriens | this is inspired by that scene from off campus!! recently watched it and i am forever changed. this was yet another request that started as a blurb and ended up being way too long.
Telling one of your closest friends that a guy had never made you come had seemed like an okay idea at first. Unless that guy was Steve Harrington who took the news like it was a personal insult.
"What?" He asked, a look of horror on his face as he stared at you as though he was waiting for some sort of punchline. "Never? You're kidding right? This is some sort of sick joke—"
Your face feels hot as you look away from Steve, suddenly regretting telling him about your disappointing date from Saturday night. Suddenly regretting being too honest with him, about the lack of orgasms that you had received from men over the years. You would usually talk about this sort of stuff with Robin but she was on vacation with her family and you needed someone to vent to. And so, you had showed up to Steve’s under the guise of a movie night and general catch up.
But maybe venting to Steve had been a bad idea.
"Forget I said anything," you say quickly, leaning over to grab the large bowl of popcorn that had been sitting on Steve's lap and stuffing a large handful into your mouth just to avoid answering any further questions.
But of course—Steve wasn't going to let you off that easily.
"I'm serious!" Steve says, snatching the popcorn back and placing it on the coffee table before shifting on the sofa to look at you properly. "This is—this is abhorrent. Do you exclusively date selfish assholes or something?"
If you hadn't had a mouthful of popcorn, you would have probably argued with him. But instead you settle for sending him a glare as you chew what was left of the salty popcorn in your mouth.
"Do you finish when you touch yourself?"
You nearly choke on a popcorn kernel.
"Jesus Christ, Harrington!" you gasp out, your face now so hot you were surprised that steam wasn’t rising from your skin. “You can’t just ask me that—”
“—what?” Steve asks, seemingly confused why you were so taken aback by his question. “I’m trying to help—”
“—by asking me about masturbation?”
“I’m just trying to understand the situation!”
You huff because you knew deep down Steve had good intentions. You knew he wasn’t asking to be a creep—he was asking because he genuinely cared about you and wanted to help you with the situation. But talking about something so intimate with Steve made you feel a lot of things that you weren’t quite sure what to do with.
“Yes,” you say finally, determinedly not looking at Steve as you answer. “Yes, I um, I finish when I—you know—”
“—touch yourself?” Steve finishes for you and the words send heat coursing through your entire body. You shift on the couch beside him, eyes on his TV that was currently playing some sitcom you were no longer paying attention to. “C’mon, don’t be coy about it! Masturbation is normal! I do it at least three times a—”
“—Steve!” You scold him, your face somehow even hotter as you turn to glare at him. “I don’t need to know about how many times a week you jerk off—”
“—actually, I was going to say that I do it three times a day.”
You look at him and suddenly, any intelligent thought you had disappears. Because now all you could think about was Steve and what he’d look like fucking his fist with his cock. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about Steve in that way before. He may be a good friend of yours but he was also stupidly attractive and wore jeans that hugged his lower half a little too well. Sometimes, if you had a chance to look at him for long enough, you could see the imprint of his thick cock over the denim. And his ass—
“You know I’m kidding right?” Steve asks you, seeming to take your lack of response as disgust—when in reality it was anything but. “I don’t—that’s just excessive. Few times a week is enough for me—”
“—okay, okay! I get it!” You interrupt, wanting him to stop talking because his words were going straight to your core and you didn’t want your traitorous eyes to shift down to his lap. “I don’t need to know your…schedule.”
Steve smiles a little before nudging you with his elbow. “It’s pretty rigorous, I’ll tell you that—”
“—Steven—”
“—sorry,” Steve grins at you before he finally looks away from you. You pray that he drops the entire conversation, that he doesn’t ask anymore questions so that you could finally take moment to relax—
“So, it’s not you—it’s just the guys that you’re seeing?”
“Steve, can’t we just—”
“—no, we can’t,” Steve says, sitting up and looking at you with a careful expression. “Listen—I know you feel awkward talking about this with me but—I just—I care about you and I care about the way guys treat you. And if they’re not making you come, not taking the time to work out what you want, then they’re not treating you right. I—I just want to make sure that you know it’s not you that’s the problem here. It’s them.”
You swallow because, god, why did he have to be so caring? Why did he know the exact right thing to say? And why did you have the sudden urge to press your thighs together?
“I dunno,” you say finally, your throat a little dry for reasons that had everything to do with the man sitting right beside you. “What if—what if guys just can’t make me come? Like I’m too complicated down there or—”
“—stop right there,” Steve interrupts, not unkindly but in a firm sort of way that shuts you up almost instantly. “What did I just say? It’s not you. You said you can make yourself come so I promise you—you’re not the problem. They are. They’re being selfish. They need to—they need to take the time to learn what your body needs. Ask you what you like, how you respond to what they’re doing to you.”
It was good advice, genuinely. But all you could think about as you listened to Steve was what he’d be like in bed. If he would take the time to learn what your body needed, if he would ask you what you liked, if he’d watch—lips parted and eyes wide—as your body writhed beneath him, as your plushy walls squeezed around his—
“I don’t know Steve,” you say quietly, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you try not to think too hard about the image you had of Steve’s head between your thighs, of his lips wet with your slick dripping down to his chin. “I don’t know if it’s just that. I mean—it’s not like what they’re doing is really bad because I get close, I—it’s like right before I get there—I just seize up or something.”
Steve listens carefully, his attention solely on you as you try your best to explain the issue and when you’re done, he takes a few seconds to mull over what you had just told him.
“These guys,” Steve begins, hazel eyes flickering between yours as he studies your expression. “Do you trust them?”
“What?” You ask, a little confused at the question. “I don’t know what you—”
“—do you trust them?” Steve repeats the question, not elaboration or clarification—just a small quirk of his brow as he waits for you to respond. “Do you trust them enough to let yourself go completely?”
The question takes you by surprise and you want to say yes—but the word dies on your tongue and the lack of a response was enough of an answer for Steve. He looks at you for a moment too long, hazel eyes studying you as though he was trying to look inside your brain.
“Do you trust me?”
You don’t even think as you nod—because of course you trusted Steve. You trusted him with your life. After everything that had happened in Hawkins, it was hard not to.
“Of course I—”
“—then make yourself come in front of me.”
The silence that greeted Steve’s words was deafening. You stare at him, eyes wide as you let his words truly sink in. You let yourself come to terms with the fact that you weren’t having some strange sex dream. That your good friend and guy you occasionally had inappropriate thoughts had just asked you to make yourself come in front of him.
“Why?” You ask him finally because though you were shocked—there was a large part of you that didn’t want to say no to his offer.
“I just—I think it might help,” Steve shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you notice the way the tips of his ears redden. “I mean sex is pretty fucking vulnerable so you might just need an experience with someone you trust who cares about you. So you know it’s okay to—to let go in front of someone.”
The way he says it—with so much care in his voice that it almost makes you forget about the whole making yourself come in front of him thing. He makes it sound so sweet that you find yourself lost for words again.
“You think it’s weird,” Steve says, shifting away an inch or so away from you on the couch—in your state of shock you had barely noticed that he had begun to inch closer to you. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t have—”
“—n-no, no, no,” you stutter out before you could stop yourself with a subtle shake of your head. “I mean—yeah, it’s weird but—as you said I-I trust you.”
Steve blinks and then—seems to realise that you weren’t completely disgusted by his proposal and sits up a little straighter on the couch.
“Really? You—you’d want to try and—”
“—yes,” you say before he could finish his sentence because you were feeling incredibly turned on by the thought of Steve watching you touch yourself and you didn’t want to let rational thought creep in now. “It could help and if it doesn’t then—”
“—then we just forget it ever happened,” he finishes with a quick nod. “Yeah, totally. Like it never happened.”
You look at each other then, apparently both waiting for the other to back out. But when neither of you do, Steve visibly swallows as he stands up from his couch, holding out his hand out for you to take..
“You wanna—go somewhere more comfortable?”
Steve’s bedroom was surprisingly tidy considering the fact he hadn’t been expecting company. Still, there’s some clothes strewn across his bed that Steve makes quick work of tidying up.
“Sorry,” he mutters as he dumps the clothes onto his desk before gesturing towards his bed for you to sit down.
You glance down at his bed before you look back at him. Because now you felt nervous—now you were thinking about lying on his sheets and fingering yourself in front of him. And perhaps you were just starting to realise how insane that would be and—
“Hey.”
You feel one of Steve’s large hands on your arm and it pulls you back to reality. You hadn’t even realised that you had been staring blankly down at his plaid sheets, already too in your own head about what was about to happen. Steve’s gentle touch, his fingertips brushing over your skin help to ground you—remind you that this wasn’t a stranger you had met at a bar or someone you had been set up with by a mutual friend. This was Steve. Your good, totally platonic friend, Steve.
“You’re okay,” he says gently, thumb rubbing gentle circles in your skin and unknowingly turning your insides into goo. “I’m gonna put on some music, okay? Help you relax a bit. Just take a seat.”
You listen because you did not know what else to do, sitting on the very edge of his bed and watching as he walks over to his vinyl player perched on top of a chest of drawers. You continue to watch him from the back as he sorts through the small stack of vinyls he had, apparently trying to find the perfect record.
A few moments later, the sound of Baby Now That I’ve Found You by the Foundations starts to play and you feel your shoulders visibly relax before Steve turns around to look at you.
“Really?” You ask him with a faint smile. “Is this you trying to set the mood?”
“That obvious, huh?” Steve asks you as he steps towards the bed—towards you.
You watch him, your lips parting as he stands a foot or so away from you now. The room feels five times smaller as Steve’s eyes are on you.
“What if it doesn’t work?” You ask Steve suddenly. “What if there’s something wrong if me or—”
Steve cuts you off by saying your name and the way he says it steals the air from your lungs.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” Steve says firmly, as though he believed every syllable. “Absoluetly nothing.”
You nod, choosing to believe him as you look at his face, the smooth voices of the Foundations putting you a little more at ease. “Okay so—we’re doing this. Okay. Are you just going to watch me or—”
You stop when you see Steve shaking his head. Your body suddenly feels hot, as though all the blood in your body had been replaced by fire. It was almost as though it seemed to know what Steve was going to say before he said it.
“No,” Steve says in a low voice that goes straight to your aching centre. “You’re going to show me. And I’ll show you.”
Everything became very still after that. The both of you just looked at each other—your chest heaving and his eyes flickering over your face as though trying to find any hint of uncertainty. You wanted to be the one to make the first move and you almost do, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you as you build up the courage to do so. But before you could find the hem of your t-shirt, Steve begins to lift up his top.
The first flash of his soft stomach, of his happy trail and you seemed to forget how to breathe. God, he was gorgeous. Moles and freckles were dotted over his skin, there was a generous smattering of hair over his chest that made your thighs press together and you wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through it. In truth, you could have looked at him for hours.
But instead, you take a deep breath before you very slowly get to your feet.
Steve is watching you carefully as you begin to lift up your own shirt. His eyes on you should have made you feel self conscious, should have made you think twice of the very unsexy bra you were wearing, should have made you think of all the parts of yourself you didn’t like. But there was something about the way he was looking at you as you let your shirt fall to the floor that made you feel the very opposite of self conscious.
And so, before you could second guess yourself—you made the next move before him.
Your fingers fiddle momentarily with the button of your jeans before you unzip them, the sound making Steve’s eyes widen slightly. And when you begin to tug your jeans down over your hips and then your thighs, leaving you in just your mismatched underwear, you watch in fascination as a faint blush creeps up Steve’s neck.
You step out of your jeans, not looking away from Steve for even a second so you didn’t miss a single facial expression. So that you didn’t miss the way the flush had crept up his cheeks and right up to the very tips of his ears, how his breathing had started to become shallow.
“You look—”
“—don’t,” you say, surprised to find that your voice was barely a whisper.
“Why not?” He asks gently, head tilting to the side as he begins to unbuckle his belt.
You lick your lips, eyes still on his face but desperately wanting to shift lower to watch as he unzips his jeans.
“Becuase I might think that you’re just saying it to make me feel better,” you say. “Considering what we’re about to do.”
“I would never lie about how beautiful I think you are,” Steve says simply, his eyes still on you as he finally pulls his jeans down.
You barely have a moment to comprehend Steve calling you beautiful before you catch sight of him in only his boxers. He was—shit, he was perfect. You let your eyes dip down to feast on his delicious thighs, his boxers that had a large, noticeable tent in them that made your core throb.
Your throat felt dry, you didn't quite know what to do. All you knew is that Steve Harrington was hard just by looking at you. The thought sends a hot surge through your body, as though every damn nerve was suddenly burning beneath your skin. And perhaps it was that thought—the idea that you had made Steve hard without really doing anything—that you reached carefully behind you to unclip your bra.
Steve visibly swallows as your breasts spill out, finally seeing your hardened peaks as you let your bra fall to the floor alongside your t-shirt and jeans.
There was a beat and then—
He begins to tug down his boxers.
You had imagined what Steve Harrignton’s cock would look like more times than you cared to admit. But every mental image you had conjured up was nothing—nothing—compared to what was standing to attention right in front of you. His cock was long, thick and heavy, so heavy in fact it had made an audible sound when it had slapped against his soft tummy. His cock was beautiful—he was beautiful. Slightly curved in a way that you knew was made for hitting that spot inside of you just right. The ruddy tip of his cock was already leaking precum, which you shamelessly watch drool along a vein bulging along his length. Your mouth felt incredibly dry as you ogled the sheer size of him, imagining what it would be like for his thick cock to split you open—
You come to your senses just enough to discard your panties. They stick to your cunt briefly due to how fucking drenched you already were and Steve notices—his bottom lip between his teeth as he marvels at how your lips cling to the fabric before giving way, his cock twitching when he sees the damp patch your wetness had caused.
And there you both were, both finally completely bare in front of one another for the first time. Both looking shamelessly at the other’s body, both clearly desperate to touch the other but not dare to do so.
And then, without a word to each other, you sink back down onto his bed while Steve reaches blindly behind him to pull out his desk chair.
It was only now beginning to feel real, as you look at Steve’s face at the same time he looks at you.
“Still with me?” He asks you breathlessly.
You take your time to answer, spreading your legs a little wider and watching with immense satisfaction as his eyes flicker down to your soaked pussy. Another surge of something hot like molten lava surges through you as you notice the way his hand twitches towards his cock.
“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Still with you.”
You could have looked at each other for hours, days even. But your pussy was clenching around nothing and more precum dribbled out of Steve’s cock and you both knew you couldn’t wait any longer.
Steve moved first, one of his large hands wrapping around his thick cock before giving himself one, two gentle strokes. The sound of his own precum wetting his cock was obscene and it was that noise that made you trail your fingers delicately over the skin of your inner thigh before making contact with the soaked, sensitive flesh between your legs.
The relief was instant. You felt your entire body relax, your eyelids flutter for a brief moment before you made sure to look back at Steve. He was already watching you and for a moment you just smile at each other—almost shyly despite the situation—before you both focus back on pleasuring yourselves.
Your fingers glide easily through your folds, your slick allowing you to plunge two fingers inside of yourself. A breathy moan left your lips before you could stop it. You were almost embarrassed by it but then you notice the way Steve’s jaw clenches at the sound, the way he squeezes his cock a little bit tighter.
His words—his filthy fucking words—go right through you. Your cunt clenches around your fingers and you briefly wonder if you had died and gone to heaven, if Steve Harrington was really dirty talking to you right now.
“C’mon pretty girl,” Steve grits out as he pumps his dick that little bit faster, eyes not leaving yours. “Don’t hold back. Please, baby. Don’t you dare hold back on me.”
You could barely believe it, the words that were falling from his lips, the pet names he had just called you. But you didn’t question it—too busy fucking yourself with your slick fingers as you let out another soft, almost pornographic moan.
“That’s it,” Steve murmurs, the schlick, schlick, schlick of him fucking his fist filling the room as he watching your soaked fingers move in and out of your needy hole like it was the best damn thing he had ever seen. “Soak your fingers f’me. That’s so fucking hot.”
You let out a whimper at that, his words having such an impact on you that your hips buck upwards to meet your fingers, your eyes fluttering again as pleasure floods into every pore over your skin.
“Steve,” you mewl out as your fingers pump in and out of your hole, your breasts bouncing with each and every thrust. “Fuck, Steve. Feels so fucking good.”
Steve hadn’t been expecting you to dirty talk but god, had it been the most welcome surprise.
“Yeah? Gonna make yourself come for me, sweet girl?” Steve asks you, now pumping his dick frantically as he watches you roll your hips against his bed—your slick soaking his sheets. “Gonna get my bed all wet? Make me smell you on my sheets for days?”
You whimper and nod desperately as you curl your fingers, hitting that spongey spot inside of you that had you mewling out yet again.
“Gonna touch your clit for me?” Steve asks you, breathing heavily as he tries to hold back as the sight of you pleasuring yourself on his bed was suddenly becoming too much for him. “C’mon, please. Wanna see you lose it, baby.”
It was like Steve knew exactly what you needed, almost as though he knew your body better than you did without even touching it.
Your other hand—the one that had been curled into the sheets beneath you—journeys to between your legs. And that first brush of your fingertip over your swollen, arching clit had you seeing stars. You’re pretty sure you moan out Steve’s name but it also could have been nonsense. All you could focus on was Steve’s own pleasure dancing across his face and the dual sensation of your fingers plunging in and out of your soaked cunt and the other that was circling around your clit.
Pleasure was consuming you—it was white hot and you could feel it pulsing in every nerve in your body. You could feel the blood in your veins burning as the coil in your gut was pulled tighter and tighter while you played with your swollen clit.
“That’s it,” Steve gasps out, his eyes only on you as you neared the edge. “C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and come for me. You can do it, I know you can.”
You wish that you could have held on, that you could have prolonged your pleasure by a few more seconds. But your orgasm had snuck up on you—crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your thighs shook, your toes curled and Steve’s name fell from your lips as you came all over your fingers, your juices soaking Steve’s bed.
And it was that—watching you finally trusting him enough to let yourself go completely that made Steve follow along right behind you. You watch in awe as his toes curl, as his stomach clenches and how his head tilts back against the back of the chair in ecstasy, his release spilling all over that soft tummy of his. Steve lets out a loud groan, followed by your name and you swear, you could have come for a second time from that sound alone.
You withdraw your fingers as you catch your breath, your chest heaving and body still buzzing after the intensity of your orgasm.
Finally, after taking a moment or two to prepare yourself, you finally look at Steve’s face. He was already looking at you and smiling.
“See,” he breathes out. “Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s all about trust.”
“Steve Harrington being right for once?” You say, smiling. “It must be a miracle.”
You both laugh and though you both clean up, get dressed and promise each other nothing will change between you—deep down you both knew that after tonight? Things would never be the same again.
another fun little hc because i am deeply unwell with keys fever rn
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
Keys is, without question, the most attentive boyfriend you've ever had.
Sweet, kind, considerate—maybe a little introverted, not the type for grand gestures or constant PDA—but he always takes care of you in all the ways that matter.
He's the kind of guy who automatically switches sides so he's the one closest to traffic when you're walking together. The kind who remembers your favorite snacks after you mention them once; he somehow always has them waiting in his pantry whenever you come over.
If you fall asleep on his couch with your head in his lap, he'll sit there for hours with his leg completely numb before even considering waking you up.
And that carries over into the bedroom, too.
He’s attentive in a way that makes you feel so completely safe, so completely looked after. Always checking in, always tuned in to the smallest shifts in you. You think he genuinely likes taking care of you, making sure you’re alright, making sure you feel good, that you're enjoying yourself as much as he is.
He's open-minded—always willing to try something new if it interests you—though the two of you usually end up drifting back to your favorites. Missionary, lotus, anything that gets him close enough to brush your hair back from your face, to watch your face scrunch up in ecstasy. He's the type to lace his fingers through yours just so you’ll have something to hold onto when you let go.
With Keys, affection isn't loud.
It's the hand on your waist guiding you through a crowd, the jacket draped over you when you fall asleep on the car ride home.
He’s a sweet guy, is what you’re saying.
So naturally, about a month into dating, you decide surprising him at his apartment is a great idea.
You slip inside with the spare key because he told you weeks ago “it’s okay to stop by whenever.”
You think it'll be cute.
Maybe you'll sneak up behind him, cover his eyes, press a kiss to his cheek just to watch him go all flustered and pink for you.
You've got a soft plushie tucked under your arm—a teddy bear wearing a blue hoodie and tiny little glasses that looks exactly like him. Keys Bear, as you'd immediately named him in your head.
You're still grinning to yourself as you jiggle the door open.
Except the moment you step inside you hear:
“Motherfucker.”
You stop dead, the keys still dangling from your fingers, plushie nearly slipping from your arm, because...
Who the hell was that?
You know that voice.
But at the same time... you don't.
It sounded like Keys.
Except lower, rougher. Completely stripped of the soft-spoken warmth you're used to hearing.
“There’s no fucking way that hit me.”
Click.
Click-click-click.
“Where did this guy even come from?”
Click-click.
“Yeah, okay. Sure. That's bullshit.”
Your eyebrows slowly climb toward your hairline.
Keys swears?
Obviously he does; he's an adult, you've never assumed otherwise.
But around you, the harshest word you've ever heard him say is probably “damn.”
You inch down the hallway toward his bedroom, the door cracked open enough for you to peek through.
And you find your sweet, considerate, impossibly patient boyfriend sitting there, three inches from the monitor, headset on, shoulders wound so tight they're practically touching his ears.
His eyes are locked onto the screen with laser-focus, fingers flying across the keyboard faster than you can follow.
The same fingers that slip into yours mid-conversation.
The same fingers that patiently untangle your necklaces when they knot, zip up your dresses when you're struggling with the clasp.
The same fingers that help you fold laundry on lazy Sunday mornings because “it's faster if two people do it.”
The same fingers that once spent forty-five minutes researching heating pads online because he was not about to let you suffer through cramps with anything mediocre.
You've never seen him look this focused before.
Jaw set tight, a tendon in his neck standing out in a way you’re not used to seeing. His eyes are narrowed behind his glasses, the screen reflecting in quick, restless flashes of light across the lenses.
“Are you actually serious right now?”
Click.
“Push mid.”
Click-click.
“No—don’t stand there, move.”
Click.
“Yeah. That's what I thought.”
Your stomach does a strange little flip.
Because...
Is this your boyfriend?
Your sweet boyfriend?
Your “text me when you get home” boyfriend?
Your “hold still, it's cold” boyfriend?
Your “I saw this and thought of you” boyfriend?
Your “I made extra food because I knew you’d forget to eat” boyfriend?
The man who says “sorry” when he needs to squeeze past someone in a grocery aisle?
The man who once spent an entire afternoon helping his elderly neighbor move furniture because her grandson couldn't make it over that week?
The man who gets pink in the face whenever you compliment him?
Who still gets visibly flustered every time you kiss his cheek?
That man?
And what really gets you, about all this, isn't the swearing.
It's his tone.
Key’s isn’t shouting into his microphone or slamming his desk the way you’d expect from most gamers.
If anything, he’s speaking in this low, calm register.
Something a little degrading in his voice when he tells his teammates: “You wanna try that one again?” or “Nice job, buddy. Maybe hit something next time.”
A kind of cool, knowing arrogance that only comes from being completely certain he’s right.
Which, judging by the groans from the people in his headset and the score steadily climbing on his screen, he usually is.
You always knew your boyfriend liked being right.
When you first met Keys, you'd figured out pretty quickly that he was insanely smart. Competitive, too.
You just never realized he’d been holding himself back this whole time.
It's like discovering your golden retriever has teeth.
Because for the first time, it occurs to you that your boyfriend isn't nice because he lacks a backbone.
He isn't sweet because he's incapable of being mean.
He's sweet because he actively chooses to be.
Watching him now, it's obvious.
That quick wit, that confidence. That razor-sharp sarcasm and the ease with which he fires back cutting comments without missing a beat.
A side that clearly existed long before you met him.
It's always been there, just hidden underneath polite smiles and good manners.
That contrast, unfortunately, is making it very difficult for you to think straight.
And even more difficult to stand straight.
You shift your weight in the doorway, still clutching little Keys Bear against your chest as you feel heat pool between your thighs, growing wetter with each passing second—another low, mumbled comment from him, dry and just this side of mean, effortless in the way he says it and so different from the softness he shows you.
On screen, another defeat.
Keys lets out a long, suffering sigh, dragging a hand through his hair as he slumps back in his chair.
It swivels slightly with the motion, and his gaze finally catches on you in his peripheral vision.
You watch as those big, expressive puppy-dog eyes go round with shock.
And just like that, Gamer Keys disappears.
He jolts, the headset nearly flying off as he yanks it from his head, sending it clattering onto the keyboard.
“Baby! Hey!” The smile that spreads across his face is instantly familiar, warm and soft, albeit surprised. “When did you, uh, when did you get here?”
You blink, remembering to swallow the spit pooled on your tongue before you speak.
“Just now.”
Keys studies you for a second.
The slack-jawed, slightly dazed look on your face must give you away, because his brows pull together.
“Is... everything okay?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Okay, cause… I mean, you’re kinda just staring at me right now? So...”
Yeah.
Because ten minutes ago you thought your boyfriend was the sweetest man alive.
And you still do.
Except now you’ve discovered there’s an entirely different side to him underneath all that softness.
A side that's confident, quick-witted, ruthless, almost intimidating when the situation calls for it.
Mean.
You clear your throat, glancing down at the teddy bear still squished against your chest before holding it out.
“I brought you this.”
Keys blinks at it, then carefully takes it from you with both hands.
And the expression that breaks across his face is so soft, so fond, it makes you doubt whether the last few minutes were real at all.
“Wow, this is... he’s so cute,” he huffs out a quiet laugh, turning it in his hands, thumb smoothing over its head. He looks up at you, a boyish grin pulling at his mouth, his glasses catching the light. “Is this supposed to be me?”
You nod.
He lets out another laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. I see it.”
He gently props the plushie up right beside his monitor, adjusting it once before letting it settle.
Then he reaches for you. It’s easy and instinctive—one arm slipping around your waist as he draws you closer, spreading his legs and guiding you into the space between his knees.
Your hands come up to rest on his shoulders, fingers carding through the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
He tilts his head up to look at you, still a little concerned, trying to figure out why you haven’t stopped staring at him.
“Hey, you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, quieter this time, thumb brushing against your side.
You lean down, palms gently holding him in place as you press a sweet, feather-light kiss to his cheek. You give his face a soft little squeeze afterward, pleased by the scrunch of his nose and the way his grin spreads.
His ears turn pink.
There he is.
Your Keys.
“Just missed you,” you mumble, then glance toward the glowing monitor behind him. “Can I watch you finish your game?”
His brows lift slightly.
“The game?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh, you sure?” he blinks, clearly thrown. “We can do something else.”
You shake your head.
“No. Keep playing. I wanna see.”
A slow, slightly confused smile tugs at his mouth before he nods.
“Okay, yeah, sure. Let me grab you a chair.”
You hum, then—much to Keys’ surprise—you turn around and plop yourself down, right into the space between his thighs.
His chest presses flush against your back, the familiar warmth of him wrapping around you. The sudden closeness seems to catch him off guard; you feel his breath hitch right by your ear, his lips grazing against your skin when he exhales.
You wiggle your hips, rubbing against his lap as you try to get comfortable, and immediately feel him go still behind you.
You bear just a little more of your weight down before turning your head, catching his wide-eyed gaze with a sweet smile.
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