laura

23. i blog out my thoughts.

[fragulaura]

Paris looks good today

[swtnerry]

ICE CREAM INCIDENT

pairing: steve harrington x bff reader

summary: a melting hawkins afternoon, one dripping ice cream cone, and steve’s eyes that can’t look away.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

warnings: 18+, smut, mdni, dry humping, heavy sexual tension, best friends to lovers, public risk (car), swearing. not proofread.

the summers in hawkins were unbearable. the pavement burned through the thin soles of your shoes, and the sun pressed down so heavy it felt like it was melting everything it touched. your light tank top and shorts clung to your skin, offering no relief. you hated summer. in winter you could bundle up and escape the cold. here, even breathing felt like swallowing fire.

“i can’t believe i followed your stupid idea of getting in the car,” you muttered, wiping sweat from your forehead. “it’s literally hotter here than inside the mall.”

“it wasn’t an idea,” steve shot back, wiping his own sweaty palms on his jeans. “it was a suggestion.” his blue t-shirt was turning darker in patches, sticking to his chest. “and i said: maybe the car is colder because we parked it under a tree.”

“do you know what maybe means?” he added.

“yeah genius, but didn’t you think about something called sun that moves?” you replied.

“okay okay, eat your ice cream. i don’t want this baby getting sticky and covered with vanilla.” he gave up, knowing he’d never win an argument with you.

“it’s hot and we’re eating ice cream, steve. i can’t promise anything,” you shrugged.

his eyebrows stayed furrowed, eyes locked on every little movement you made. he thought you didn’t notice, but he was already clutching a wad of napkins, ready to wipe away any drip before it could touch the leather.

you loved pissing him off. two years of friendship and you still never got tired of it. he was funnier when he got grumpy, and he was used to it. he’d act annoyed for a minute, then be laughing at your dumb jokes three minutes later.

this summer you’d both decided to find jobs. you and robin teased him endlessly about not needing the money, but he insisted. he wanted to prove he could do it without leaning on his parents. robin had already landed something at the supermarket but steve hated the uniform and the pay, so the two of you kept applying to new places every monday like clockwork.

somehow you’d ended up at the ice cream shop, and now you had to deal with steve’s neat-freak ass and his obsession with keeping his car extremely clean.

“relax your annoying ass. it’s not my fault your big mouth devoured your cone a second after we got out of the mall.”

“i’m not gonna say anything else, but i swear if you mess it up, you’re cleaning it,” he said, running a hand through his damp hair. wet brown strands clung to his forehead.

“i’m not cleaning anything. especially not so you can keep showing off to your failed dates. it gives me secondhand embarrassment,” you laughed.

“one: those are not failed dates. and two, you only say that because you’re clearly jealous.”

“oh my god, you definitely have heatstroke. you’re literally talking nonsense now,” you said, bursting into laughter.

“i’m not making anything up. you only say that when you don’t have an argument against me and i’m just noticing a pattern.”

your smile faded a little. he had never gone there before, even when you teased him constantly. the words made your stomach flip with a nervousness you didn’t want to name.

of course he was your friend. that was the title you gave everyone else. but you spent every day together, crashed at each other’s houses, shared everything. nothing suspicious.

still, when he said it, your brain short-circuited. the silence that followed stretched on for a bit too long.

you cleared your throat and changed the subject, desperate to save your own sanity. you didn’t notice the way he was staring at you the whole time, waiting for a real answer.

“stop talking and listen,” you said after an awkward pause. “we have to check this new shop near the park. molly just told me they’re hiring. i don’t know what for but—” you kept talking, dragging the little plastic spoon through the softening ice cream and licking it slowly.

steve wasn’t listening anymore.

his mouth was still slightly open, shiny and pink from the flavor he’d finished earlier. you felt a cool shiver run down your spine despite the suffocating heat. you cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away before your thoughts wandered somewhere they shouldn’t. he was staring straight at your lips.

you kept avoiding his eyes, trying to focus on talking, until the melted cream started running down your arm. “oh fuck,” drops of vanilla slid onto your thighs. you reacted fast, licking every streak from your skin, then opening your mouth to catch the falling scoop.

your tongue passed over your sticky fingers, cleaning them, before finally circling your cold, sweet lips.

when you glanced up, steve wasn’t complaining about the mess. his eyes were fixed on you.

he turned his head sharply, tapping the steering wheel, then shifted awkwardly and looked out the window.

the silence stretched too long, again.

“what are you getting weird for?” you asked, finishing the last bite of the cone.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, staring straight ahead.

“you know what i mean. why are you suddenly quiet and not yelling at me for almost ruining your car?”

“it doesn’t matter. can we go?” he reached for the keys, but you stopped him. your hand, still a little sticky, wrapped softly around his wrist. “why won’t you even look at me idiot? i’m serious.”

he wiped his hands, and your eyes followed unconsciously.

that’s when you saw it.

the obvious bulge straining against his jeans. heat flooded your cheeks, hotter than the sun outside. sweat slid down between your breasts, but this time it had nothing to do with the weather.

you gulped and looked at him. his t-shirt clung to every line of his chest like a second skin. the few inches between you suddenly felt impossibly small.

when he finally met your eyes, his pupils were blown wide.

people would call you a liar if you said you’d never noticed how attractive steve was. how broad his back looked when he stretched, how his biceps strained against those tight shirts. knowing you’d caused this reaction in him made your head spin.

“steve…” you breathed. you quickly glanced outside. the street was empty; it was the worst hour of a summer afternoon. no one was stupid enough to be out.

“fuck, i’m sorry, i don’t know why—” he started, hands moving nervously, but you weren’t listening anymore.

you bit your lip, then moved without thinking. you straddled him, settling on his lap. the sound that left steve’s mouth sent shivers through you. his body burned under yours, skin slick with sweat.

you slid your hands down his damp chest. he tensed, hips lifting instinctively to meet you.

“shit,” he moaned softly. his hands settled firm and sure on your lower back, holding you close like he’d been waiting years for permission.

“what are we doing?” he asked, eyes dropping to your lips before finding yours again. “i don’t know—” you struggled, because he kept moving, pressing his hard cock right against your core. “you’re the one who had a little problem down there,” you teased breathlessly. he smirked, and you laughed, the sound shaky with want. “says the one on top of me right now.” his hands slid down to grip your ass, pulling you tighter.

you couldn’t wait any longer, so you kissed him, one hand cupping the back of his neck while the other slipped into his hair. when he pulled back for air, looking around nervously, you rolled your hips slow and deliberate. “someone could walk by and se—fuck.”

“we’re the only idiots trying to get heatstroke in the middle of the street, steve.” you kissed him again, deeper. that was all it took. he opened his mouth, tongue sliding against yours, turning the kiss messy and desperate. the salt on his lips mixed with the lingering sweetness of ice cream. your hips ground together, pulling soft, needy sounds from both of you.

“god, you feel so fucking good.” he murmured against your mouth. one hand stayed on your hip guiding you, while the other cupped the back of your neck, pressing your foreheads together.

his other hand tugged at your soaked tank top; you helped him pull it off and did the same with his shirt. your palms slid over his bare biceps, squeezing the firm muscles as you moved faster.

your lips brushed with every shared breath, every gasp. you clenched around the hard press of him, desperate for more. he thrust up harder, chasing friction. the heat started pooling low in your belly, almost burning.

steve set a rhythm, steady and deep, like he never wanted it to end.

“i’m close,” he whispered into your mouth.

“me too,” you breathed, blood buzzing under your skin.

he gripped your ass again, helping you move exactly how you both needed. “just like that… oh god.” his head fell back against the seat, neck exposed and shining with sweat. you kissed along his throat until the pleasure crashed over you. “fuck,” you moaned, hips stuttering as waves rolled through you. steve kept going, chasing his own release until his body tensed and trembled beneath you, a soft whine pressed into your ear.

you stayed like that, foreheads together, breathing each other in while the car windows fogged from the heat of your bodies. the tension melted away, and suddenly you both burst into laughter, giddy and a little dazed.

you left a small, sweet peck on his lips.

he kissed you again, slower this time, cupping your jaw gently while his other hand rubbed soothing circles on your sticky back.

outside, the sun kept beating down, but for once the heat felt perfect.

——————————————————————————

divider by chateaubarnes

[yasministration]

embracing guilt

pairing: jonathan byers x reader summary: steve is a nosy motherfucker and he's not afraid to admit it, but when he finds some things that tiptoe past his close friends' boundaries, he immediately feels guilty. a.k.a steve discovers your relationship with jonathan after snooping in his friend's room wc: 1.4k+ cw: allusions to smut but honestly noy even, stonathan friendship

Over the years, Steve Harrington has learned to embrace the fact that he is one nosy man. Nosier than most people around him, and especially when it comes to the people in his close circle. He pretends to be nosy about the people he doesn’t know — about the people he used to walk the school halls with and what they’re doing not — but what Steve really cares about are the details about his closest friends.

He’s shameless now, sitting in Jonathan’s room, fingers twitching at his sides. Not to steal, but to snoop. Jonathan has left him alone for a limited time, and Steve knows this might be his only chance to learn something new about his friend. He starts with the obvious choice, ducking low to see if Jonathan is hiding anything under his bed, but all he finds is a box of unopened rolls of film. Steve hums, standing up and making his way to Jonathan’s desk. He opens the first drawer, then the second, sighing disappointedly when all he finds are boring work documents and badly written film ideas.

Steve prompts himself to think like his friend. He is Jonathan. He walks towards the bedroom’s door, then rolls his shoulders back as he turns around, taking in the small room in front of him. I am Jonathan, and I have a secret, Steve thinks, humming thoughtfully. I am boring, and trust my family not to go through my things, so I’m not careful with my secrets. Steve smirks, hoping to himself that Jonathan isn’t as stupid as he’s portraying him in his own mind, though his expectations are low. Steve plops himself down on Jonathan’s mattress, keeping his eyes on the bedroom door as he opens the drawer of Jonathan’s bedside table.

A delighted laugh leaves Steve as he pokes his finger around the stuffed drawer, hitting a hard plastic box. He grabs it with one extended hand, not caring that papers and trinkets are collapsing on top of each other, destroying the organised mess in the drawer. The little box is made of a dark purple plastic with a lid that flips open, and Steve can see through its side that there’s stacks of instant film photos. He chews on his bottom lip, hoping that there’s something interesting inside, not just the regular artsy photos that no one sees the beauty in but Jonathan.

He flicks the lid up, wincing when it painfully stays shut. Steve sticks his finger in his mouth for a moment to ease the pain, sticking the box between his thighs so he can use his other hand to open the box. Steve makes a noise of achievement as the lid lets loose, and he raises his eyebrows when the first polaroids on both stacks are turned face down. He lets out a deep exhale, shutting his eyes for a long moment as his thumb hooks under the first image. He turns the picture over, and his jaw instantly drops open, eyes going wide.

Whatever Steve was expecting, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t a picture of you on your knees on Jonathan’s mattress, wearing nothing but a bra, underwear and a beaming smile on your face. There’s nothing special about your attire (or lack thereof), but somehow that shocks Steve even more. It’s so… mundane. Are all the other images in the stack photos of you? Are you and Jonathan dating? He gulps thickly, immediately knowing what has to be done. He puts the image aside to glance down at the one below it, feeling the blood flee from his face. You’re half straddling Jonathan in this one, one leg supporting your body weight on the mattress, the other one resting over Jonathan’s thigh. Below you, Jonathan is shirtless, and he’s only wearing boxers, leaving the rest of his body bare. His arm is tight around your waist, creating an arch of your body into his, chest pressing against his. But neither of you focus on the other’s near naked bodies, instead looking into each other’s eyes, lips almost touching. The photo is taken in a mirror — the very one hanging on the back of Jonathan’s door.

Steve can predict what the rest of the photos are, but he lets himself keep guessing, because as nosy as he is, he respects his friends enough not to go snooping through naked photos of them. He returns the photos in the box, then abandons the box in the drawer as Jonathan had left it.

He thinks back to last time he was in this house with you and Jonathan. Robin, Nancy and Eddie had been here too, with the one exception from Joyce that you all needed to keep an eye out for the younger ones. Glorified babysitting, even though they were always out without anyone knowing of their whereabouts. You had all been huddled in the living room, when you eventually wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering lightly to bring heat to your body.

“Cold?” Jonathan had asked you from across the coffee table. You had nodded, and Jonathan had nodded in the direction of his room, offering “You want a hoodie?”

Steve remembers the way you had smiled shyly, shrugging your shoulders with twinkling eyes as you mumbled “Would you let me steal one?”

“Yeah, you can get one. Or I’ll-” He cut himself off when you pushed yourself off the cushion you were sat on, beelining to his room. You returned wearing a hoodie, and as you sat, Steve had thought about the way your face had lit up for Jonathan, like you had a crush on him.

Now he knows.

He doesn’t feel relieved or excited to have discovered this, instead he feels an overwhelming sensation of guilt. And so when Jonathan walks into the room, Steve immediately blurts out “I went through your things.”

Jonathan sighs, gesturing disappointedly with his arms as he scolds “Steve! Come on man!” But Steve doesn’t reply, so Jonathan takes a moment to observe his friend, squinting his eyes at him. “Steve?” Jonathan prompts, and the shameful boy shrugs slowly, shoulders stuck by his ears. “Steve, what did you find?”

“I know you guys are dating.” Jonathan’s jaw goes slack at Steve’s confession. “Dude.”

“I only saw the top two photos!”

“Why were you going through my things anyway!?”

“Because I’m nosy! But I didn’t expect to find-” Steve gestures clumsily with both hands, spluttering as he tries to find the right word to describe the intimate photos he had found.

“So what did you expect to find!?” Jonathan asks, internally panicking. What is he going to tell you?

“I don’t know, like porn magazines or an embarrassing diary?” Jonathan huffs, unable to understand Steve’s moral standing. Still, he’s grateful for the guilt the boy displays, and the immediate honesty he had shown.

“Okay, hold on, let me give her a call.” Steve’s eyebrows lift up in surprise when Jonathan walks out of the room to dial your number on the house phone. He trails behind him, waiting by the bedroom door and watching from a distance as Jonathan rounds his shoulders nervously, cradling the phone by his ear as he waits for your response.

“Hi baby.” Jonathan mumbles through the crackling of your phone, and you stretch on your bed at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. “Hi handsome.” Jonathan flushes darkly, trying to picture you. Did you answer from your bedroom, or did you pick up from the house’s main phone? He hopes for the first one, picturing you in your small pyjamas, knowing you’ve been home all day. “Steve knows about us.”

Jonathan isn’t expecting you to laugh lightly from the other end of the line, but you do, and he instantly feels a little weight lifted off his chest. You’re not made. “That’s okay, Jonny, they’re bound to find out at some point or another. Not like we tried very hard to hide it either.”

The memory hits Jonathan like a truck. He knows exactly which occasion you’re talking about, and he instinctively glances up to see if Steve’s still here. He is, and Jonathan quickly looks away. Slow kisses in the Harrington’s guest bathroom at a small gathering is indeed risky, especially when you were wearing a glittery gloss that’s difficult to wipe away, leaving traces of itself on Jonathan’s skin.

“Can I see you today?” Jonathan asks, and Steve smirks from the doorway, retreating back into Jonathan’s room as you respond “You can see me right now if you want to.”

Jonathan gulps: he quickly needs to think up an excuse to ditch Steve.

taglist: @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, @fandomhoe101, @sharkers00, @paankhaleyaaar, @bearymuchso, @princesstiti14, @challengers4ev, @wowbyselene, @lunavelha, @iceyyhyeji, @doiki3, @maymo0, @daisylove3, @ballylagginblues, @cosm1cpiink, @laufeysvalentine, @eyantice, @cheetoscmj, @l0vesreceipt, @snake-in-a-flower-crown, @fakeeminkk, @wintermoonly, @learninglinesintherainn, @szampon1

[spikedfearn]

PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT

ONE-SHOT

pairing: owen brompton x fem!reader summary: after one disastrous date too many, Owen decides he needs honest feedback—and somehow convinces you, his closest friend, to take him on a practice date. What begins as an awkward evening of supermarket pasta, handwritten assessments, and painfully earnest flirting quickly turns into a kissing lesson neither of you is prepared to treat as pretend.

wc: 8.4k

a/n: i sailed the seven seas last week to watch finding emily since it doesn’t release in the us until august 28th, but i’ll still be catching it in theaters when it does. i missed writing for spike so much—he’s literally why i made this blog, hence the username—and i’m so glad his beautiful, kissable face will be back on the big screen next month. owen was awkward, earnest, hopelessly romantic, and painfully lovable, and spike was easily the best part of the film. i’m usually not a rom-com person because they can be too cheesy, but this one balanced the comedy and heart pretty well. i def plan on writing a few fics for my pathetic wet cat bf <333 now i just have to hold out until 4 Kids Walk Into a Bank, where he plays a bottle blonde bank robber, which is going to make me lose my mind. not beta read.

warnings: explicit sexual content, piv, oral (f!receiving), fingering, handjob (sorta), multiple orgasms, condom use, dirty talk, praise kink, nipple play, messy kissing, light biting, marking, risk of getting caught, first time together, eager to please!Owen, alcohol consumption, friends to lovers, mutual pining, practice date, love confession, getting together, fluff

MASTERLIST

Owen Brompton had been back from his date for exactly eleven minutes before deciding it’d been a catastrophe.

This was impressive, considering he’d spent the first six of those minutes insisting it had gone “reasonably well, actually” while pacing the narrow stretch of carpet between the sofa and the telly with his coat still on. The remaining five had been dedicated to tearing that claim apart in such painful detail that you suspected he’d started preparing the postmortem before the woman had even finished saying goodnight.

“She didn’t laugh.”

You looked up from your corner of the sofa, where you’d been waiting with two cans of cider and an increasingly cold box of chips balanced across your knees. Matt had let you in twenty minutes ago, taken one look at the food in your lap, and announced that Owen had apparently arranged his own emergency response team. He and Freya had disappeared upstairs not long after that, though you’d heard Matt laughing through the ceiling when Owen came stumbling through the front door with the expression of a man returning from war.

“At anything?” you asked.

“She laughed twice.”

“Then she did laugh.”

“Not properly.” Owen stopped pacing long enough to look genuinely offended that you couldn’t understand the distinction. His hair had caught the rain on the walk home, leaving the ends damp and curling around his forehead. “One of them was more of an exhale.”

“That still counts.”

“It absolutely doesn’t. People exhale all the time.”

“They’d die otherwise.”

“That’s not the point.”

He started pacing again.

The front room was small enough that three strides took him from the secondhand sofa to the cluttered shelf where Freya kept framed photos, candles and a ceramic dish full of loose change. Owen’s guitar leaned against the radiator beside one of the speakers he’d spent an entire Sunday repositioning, despite Matt repeatedly threatening to throw both of them into the street. Sheet music and unopened post had spread across the coffee table, and a single sock had somehow ended up on top of Owen’s battered amp.

The ceiling light was off, leaving the room lit by the amber lamp beside you and the blue standby glow from his equipment. Rain ticked faintly against the front window. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked, followed by Matt’s muffled voice and Freya telling him to leave Owen alone.

Owen pushed both hands through his hair.

“I asked too many questions.”

“You were on a date. Questions are usually encouraged.”

“Not in the manner of a police interview.”

“What did you ask her?”

“What sort of childhood she had.”

You stared at him.

Owen’s shoulders dropped. “It were relevant at the time.”

“To what?”

“We were talking about crisps.”

A laugh escaped before you could swallow it.

His expression sharpened with vindication rather than embarrassment. “See? You’re laughing now. That’s what’s meant to happen.”

“I’m laughing because you somehow interrogated a woman about her formative years over a packet of salt and vinegar.”

“She said she didn’t like them.”

“And that concerned you?”

“It suggested a sheltered upbringing.”

You moved the chips before you spilled them. “Owen.”

“I panicked.”

“I can tell.”

He finally shrugged out of his wet coat and tossed it toward the armchair. It hit the back, slid off and landed in a heap beside the leg. Owen looked at it, seemed to consider picking it up, then apparently decided his romantic failures needed his attention more urgently.

“She was lovely,” he said. “That’s the worst part.”

“How’s that the worst part?”

“Because if she’d been horrible, I could blame her.”

“You can still blame her. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m trying to grow.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

Owen dropped onto the sofa beside you. The cushions dipped beneath his weight, nudging your thigh against his, and the damp chill clinging to him came with the smell of rain, lager and whatever cologne he’d put far too much of on before leaving. You’d taken the piss out of him for it when he’d come downstairs earlier, and Freya had agreed with you while Matt stood behind Owen pretending to choke.

Now it had faded into something softer beneath the warmth of his skin.

He reached for one of the ciders and pressed the cold can to his forehead.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“You decide you’re in love before the starters arrive.”

“I didn’t decide I was in love.”

“You sent me a message from the toilet saying she had soulful eyes.”

“That was an observation.”

“You’d known her forty minutes.”

“Some things are immediately apparent.”

You pulled the can away from his face before he could freeze his brain and cracked it open for him. Owen accepted it with a mumbled thanks, still looking personally wounded by the entire concept of dating.

The problem was that you knew he meant it. Owen might dramatize every awkward silence and attach ridiculous significance to minor details, but he never treated affection carelessly. Every crush became a possibility. Every possibility became a whole story he could already hear playing beneath the rest of his life, complete with swelling strings, a key change and the perfect final chorus.

Then reality failed to follow the arrangement, and he came home confused.

“You need practice,” you said.

Owen looked at you over the rim of the can. “I’ve been on dates.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know how dates work.”

“You asked a woman what emotional damage led to her crisp preferences.”

“I didn’t phrase it like that.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

He nudged your knee with his. “All right, then. Dating expert. What do you suggest?”

“You need someone to tell you when you’re being weird.”

“You already do that constantly.”

“Someone who can do it during the date.”

Owen lowered the cider.

His attention sharpened in a way that made you suddenly aware of how closely you were sitting, your legs still touching because neither of you had bothered to move.

You’d known him long enough to recognize the exact second an idea took hold. It appeared first in his eyes, then gathered behind his mouth while he tested the wording. Usually, this process ended with him suggesting something unnecessarily complicated and insisting it was the obvious solution.

“You could,” he said.

You blinked. “I could what?”

“Go on a date with me.”

The words settled between you.

Owen immediately started waving one hand, trying to physically rearrange them into something less dangerous.

“Not a real date.”

“Obviously.”

“A practice one.”

“Right.”

“So you can observe.”

“You make it sound like a wildlife documentary.”

“You know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, you did.

The suggestion should’ve been ridiculous. It should’ve joined the long list of Owen’s ideas that only sounded reasonable after midnight, alongside buying a smoke machine for his bedroom and trying to write an entire song using nothing but things he found in Matt and Freya’s kitchen.

Instead, your stomach tightened.

You covered it with a laugh. “You want me to grade you?”

“Not grade. Just offer constructive feedback.”

“I’m giving you a failing mark already.”

“We haven’t started.”

“You’re arguing with your instructor.”

“I thought you were my date.”

“You can’t afford my rates.”

Owen’s smile appeared slowly, crooked at one corner and far more charming than anything he’d probably attempted across the table that evening. “Come on. It’ll help.”

The ease of his expression didn’t quite hide the way his thumb kept rubbing against the side of the can. Owen was nervous. He was trying not to look it, but you’d spent too many evenings beside him not to notice the little signs: the restless fingers, the slight tilt of his head, the way he filled every silence before it got the chance to reject him first.

You should’ve said no.

Instead, you leaned back against the cushions and pretended to think about it.

“We’d need rules.”

“Course.”

“We pretend we’ve never met.”

“Fine.”

“I’m allowed to stop you whenever you say something embarrassing.”

“That seems unnecessarily broad.”

“You asked for my help.”

“Carry on.”

“You don’t argue with the feedback.”

Owen opened his mouth.

You pointed at him.

He shut it again.

“And nothing that happens during the date counts.”

Something unreadable moved across his face before he nodded. “Because it’s practice.”

“Exactly.”

“Right.”

You held out your hand. “Deal?”

Owen looked at it, then at you.

His palm was warm when he took yours. His fingers closed firmly, lingering a beat longer than a handshake needed to.

“Deal.”

For a man who claimed to need emergency romantic intervention, Owen took the practice date alarmingly seriously.

Matt and Freya were going out on Saturday, which meant Owen had the house to himself for most of the evening. This information arrived in a string of messages that began with Matt and Freya won’t be here and was followed, less than thirty seconds later, by Not that I arranged that and Don’t make it weird.

You arrived just after seven to find the usual clutter from the front room stacked in precarious towers beside the stairs. Owen’s guitar had been moved into the corner. The sock had disappeared from the amp, though you suspected he’d hidden it rather than washed it, and two candles burned inside mismatched glass holders beside plates of supermarket pasta.

Owen had put on a clean shirt.

It was dark green, slightly wrinkled and buttoned incorrectly.

You stood on the front step staring at the uneven collar.

He followed your gaze and looked down.

“Fuck.”

“That’s our first note.”

“The date hasn’t started.”

“You opened the door.”

“Wait there.”

“Owen.”

He shut it in your face.

Movement thudded through the hall, followed by a muffled curse and the unmistakable sound of something being knocked off the little table by the stairs. Less than a minute later, the door opened again.

His shirt was fixed. His cheeks were pink.

“Hello,” he said with painful formality. “You must be…”

“You know my name.”

“We’re pretending.”

“You’re terrible at pretending.”

“Can we start again?”

“You’ve already used your restart.”

“You never said there was only one.”

“This is why people need contracts.”

Owen glanced past you towards the empty pavement before stepping aside. “D’you want to come in?”

You crossed the threshold, and he closed the door behind you.

The candles were excessive for a practice date. So was the bottle of wine waiting in a metal bowl full of rapidly melting ice. A tiny vase stood between the plates with a single flower inside it.

You touched one of the petals.

It was made of fabric.

“Did you buy this?”

Owen pulled out your chair. “It was already here.”

“Why did you own one fake flower?”

“I don’t. Freya does.”

“Does Freya know you stole her fake flower?”

“She said I could borrow it.”

“Did she know what for?”

Owen looked away. “Eventually.”

You could already imagine that conversation.

You sat down, mostly because the tips of his ears had turned red. Owen pushed your chair in with more force than necessary, nearly trapping you against the table, then hurried around to the opposite side. He paused before sitting, apparently trying to remember what people who’d just met were meant to say.

You waited.

He waited.

The candle flame leaned in the draft.

“So,” Owen began, “what sort of childhood did you have?”

You burst out laughing.

His composure broke with a grin. “All right. Had to get it out of the way.”

“That would’ve ended the date immediately.”

“You’re still here.”

“Only because I know where Matt keeps the wine.”

“That’s my wine.”

“Then why did he tell me not to let you open the expensive bottle?”

Owen’s eyes shifted towards the kitchen. “He’s a liar.”

He poured you a glass, briefly missing the rim and splashing a little across the table. You watched him blot it with a tea towel while muttering that this part would be edited out of the official assessment.

Once the initial performance wore off, the evening became surprisingly convincing.

Owen asked normal questions.

Mostly.

He wanted to know which place you’d return to for a single afternoon if distance didn’t matter, what album you wished you could hear for the first time again and whether you thought people were more honest in the dark. The questions were still unmistakably his, too earnest and specific for polite conversation, but they pulled answers from you that he hadn’t heard before.

You’d known Owen for nearly a year. You’d watched him fall asleep against your shoulder during a film and wake up with the seam of your shirt imprinted across his cheek. You’d sat on the floor of his bedroom while he played half-finished melodies and watched your expression before deciding whether he liked them. You knew he hated mushrooms, loved the hum of old amplifiers warming up and pretended not to care when people forgot his birthday.

You also knew he never talked about his mum for long. Her absence still sat quietly throughout the house, in the photographs Freya dusted and the way Matt’s jokes sometimes stopped too suddenly. Owen could turn almost anything into a love story, but grief was one of the few things he couldn’t arrange into music and make sense of.

Still, he surprised you.

Owen listened differently when he imagined he only had one evening to learn you.

His gaze stayed on your face, soft but steady. He didn’t interrupt unless excitement got the better of him, and even then, he always remembered where you’d stopped. He brought up details you’d mentioned months ago and disguised them as guesses, smiling whenever he got one right.

“You’re cheating,” you said eventually.

Owen paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “How?”

“You already know me.”

“You know me too.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Seems relevant.”

“You’re using prior knowledge to impress your date.”

“That’s called preparation.”

“No, it’s called fraud.”

He leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. Candlelight caught in his eyes and warmed the damp curls near his forehead.

“Are you impressed?”

You took a drink instead of answering.

Owen’s smile deepened.

“That’s not a no.”

“Your pasta’s overcooked.”

“I didn’t ask about the pasta.”

“You should. It’s the main issue currently facing us.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“You’re getting cocky.”

“Is that bad?”

“It can be.”

Owen rested his forearms on the table. “D’you like it?”

Your pulse stumbled.

He asked it lightly, but his attention had changed. The room felt smaller than it had a second ago. Rain whispered against the window, quieter than the other night, and the music playing through Owen’s speakers had reached the space between songs.

You looked down at your wine.

“Your date shouldn’t have to reassure you constantly.”

“That wasn’t feedback.”

“It is now.”

“I think you’re abusing your authority.”

“You asked me to evaluate you.”

“And you’ve been very thorough.”

His voice had lowered.

You lifted your eyes again.

Owen was still smiling, but the nervousness had returned beneath it. You could see it in the tension around his mouth and the way his fingers curled against the table. For all the ridiculous confidence he could find when he was performing, he was waiting for you to decide whether he’d crossed a line.

You could’ve backpedaled.

Instead, you said, “You’re leaning.”

“So are you.”

You realized with some irritation that he was right.

You sat back.

Owen laughed under his breath.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m receiving mixed feedback.”

“You were doing better before you started congratulating yourself.”

He took another drink, but the glass didn’t hide his smile.

After dinner, Owen cleared the plates while you inspected the handwritten card he’d left beside your place setting.

PRACTICE DATE ASSESSMENT, it read across the top.

Beneath it, he’d drawn several categories with boxes ranging from poor to exceptional.

Conversation.

Table manners.

Emotional availability.

General romantic intrigue.

Kissing.

You held up the card when he came back from the kitchen.

“Kissing?”

Owen nearly dropped the plates.

“It’s a standard category.”

“According to who?”

“Everyone.”

“You made this.”

“Based on accepted criteria.”

“You left all the boxes blank.”

“I assumed you’d fill it in afterwards.”

“You assumed a lot.”

He set the plates down and wiped his hands on his trousers. “You said it was meant to be a full assessment.”

“I don’t remember promising practical demonstrations.”

“Then how can the results be accurate?”

The question came too quickly.

Owen had rehearsed it.

You narrowed your eyes. “Was this your plan?”

“What plan?”

“Dinner. Wine. Candles. Luring me into some elaborate kissing evaluation.”

“I haven’t lured anyone.”

“You shut the door behind me.”

“That’s generally what doors are for.”

“Owen.”

He lowered himself onto the sofa, leaving a very deliberate stretch of cushion between you.

His knee started bouncing.

“It was just a category,” he said.

“You could cross it out.”

“I could.”

Neither of you moved.

The music continued at a low volume. A guitar line drifted through the room, soft enough that you could hear the faint electrical hum beneath it. The candles had burned lower, wax spilling unevenly down the glass holders.

Owen stared at the assessment card in your hand.

Then he said, “I do think it’s relevant.”

“Of course you do.”

“What if that’s what’s going wrong?”

“You think women are rejecting you because of your kissing?”

“I don’t know. No one sends a detailed exit survey.”

“Maybe you should add a link after the next date.”

“I’m being serious.”

That softened you despite your better judgment.

Owen turned towards you, one arm stretched along the back of the sofa. “You said I think too much.”

“You do.”

“So I’m asking.”

“Asking what?”

“Whether you’d let me kiss you.”

The humor left the room so quietly that you almost didn’t notice until it was gone.

Owen’s face had gone very still. His knee had stopped bouncing. Whatever answer he expected, he’d committed himself to hearing it.

You looked at his mouth.

That was your first mistake.

The second was imagining it.

You’d done that before, though never anywhere Owen might see it happening. You’d wondered during late nights when his shoulder pressed against yours, during gigs when the stage lights sharpened every line of him, during conversations that drifted dangerously close to confession before one of you ruined them with a joke.

Wondering had always felt safe because it belonged to you alone.

This didn’t.

“One kiss,” you said.

Owen swallowed.

“For practice.”

“For practice,” he repeated.

“You’re not allowed to make it weird afterwards.”

“I never make things weird.”

“You once apologized to a chair after walking into it.”

“It were someone else’s chair.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

He moved closer.

Not much. Barely the width of your hand. Still, you felt the shift through the sofa before his thigh touched yours.

Owen looked at you as though he was waiting for another rule.

You should’ve given him one.

Instead, you said, “Well?”

His hand rose towards your face, hesitated for a second, then settled lightly beside your jaw. His fingers were warm. The careful touch sent a far stronger reaction through you than it had any right to.

He leaned in slowly enough for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

Owen kissed you.

It was soft. Almost painfully so.

His mouth brushed yours with cautious pressure, lingering for only a few seconds before he pulled away. His fingertips stayed against your skin. He was close enough that his breath warmed your lips, but his eyes had already opened, searching your expression.

“Well?” he whispered.

You hated how unsteady your voice sounded.

“You were too careful.”

Owen blinked. “Too careful?”

“You asked for feedback.”

“I know. I just…” His gaze dropped to your mouth again. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know. More technical language.”

“You barely kissed me.”

“I was being respectful.”

“You looked like you were defusing a bomb.”

His eyebrows lifted. “That bad?”

“I didn’t say bad.”

Owen’s thumb moved once along the edge of your jaw.

“No,” he said quietly. “You didn’t.”

The second kiss was different.

He closed the distance before you could make another joke, one hand sliding behind your neck as his mouth found yours with enough certainty to steal the breath you’d drawn. The caution hadn’t disappeared, but it’d changed into control, his attention sharpened by permission.

Your fingers caught in the front of his shirt.

Owen made a low sound against your mouth.

It broke whatever was left of the exercise.

He kissed you again before the last one had properly ended, mouth still warm and damp against yours as he tilted his head and pulled you in until your knees pressed hard against his thigh. His hand slid around your waist, fingers spreading against the small of your back to hold you there while his tongue traced slowly across your lower lip, teasing once before slipping into your mouth the second you opened for him. The taste of wine lingered on him, sharp and sweet beneath the heat of his breath, and the low sound that caught in his throat seemed to vibrate straight through you when your tongue met his. After that, whatever restraint he’d been clinging to disappeared. He kissed you deeper, wetter, his tongue stroking against yours with a hungry, almost desperate rhythm while his grip tightened at your waist and dragged you closer until there wasn’t any space left between your body and his.

You’d expected awkwardness. Teeth knocking. Nervous laughter.

Instead, Owen kissed the same way he listened to music: completely, intensely, with his whole attention fixed on every tiny change in rhythm.

By the time you pulled back, your grip had wrinkled his shirt.

Owen’s lips were flushed. His eyes stayed on yours.

“Better?”

The hint of smugness should’ve irritated you.

It didn’t.

“You need more practice.”

He laughed once, breathless, and kissed you again.

The assessment card slipped from your lap and disappeared beneath the coffee table.

Owen shifted closer, following the pull of your body until his chest brushed yours. His hand moved along your side, stopping whenever your breathing changed, learning the response before continuing.

“Is this part of the lesson?” he murmured.

“You wanted practical feedback.”

“I’m committed to improving.”

“You’re talking too much.”

“That’s never been one of the categories.”

“It is now.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “And how am I doing?”

You pulled him back by his collar.

“Still under review.”

Owen’s smile disappeared into another kiss.

The worn fabric sofa creaks under the weight of him half-covering you, his mouth hot and wet against your neck. Too hot. Too wet. Too fast. He's kissing you like he's trying to win something, like there's a timer counting down somewhere, and the soft scrape of his barely-there stubble against your skin is the only part of this that actually lands—rough, alive, real. 

His breath comes in quick, uneven bursts against your throat, and the hand that had been moving so carefully along your side is suddenly fisted in the cushion beside your hip, knuckles white beneath the thin skin stretched over them, like he’s pulled it away before it could reach for something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for. No longer on your waist. No longer following the line of your thigh. Not touching you at all.

You let him have a few seconds. Enough to register what’s wrong. The way his lips move too fast, skipping over the skin just below your ear where he could’ve stayed for an hour. The way his body hovers instead of settling, all that earlier confidence tightening into restraint as he braces for you to stop him.

Then you do.

“You’re rushing.”

Your voice comes out steady, almost bored, and the effect is immediate. His mouth freezes against your neck. His whole body goes still, arrested and caught mid-motion, like a record needle lifted mid-track.

He pulls back, and the shift in his breathing is sharp. A caught breath. A recalibration.

"What?" He blinks down at you, blue eyes wide and dark in the dim lamp glow, hair falling across his forehead in that shaggy mess that makes him look younger than twenty-three. "I'm—I thought—"

"You thought faster was better." You hold his gaze. "It's not."

His mouth opens. Closes. A flush crawls up his neck, visible even in the low light, and he lets out a breathless laugh that's half-embarrassment, half-relief. "Right. Yeah. No, you're—you're right. I'm just—" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "I've been thinking about this all night. All week, actually. Since the pasta."

"I know."

"And I got ahead of myself."

"I know that too."

He laughs again, quieter this time, and the sound is warmer now, less frantic. His hand finally moves, uncurling from the cushion and settling on your hip, palm flat, fingers pressing just enough to feel the heat of you through your shirt.

“Okay. Okay, I hear you. Slower.”

“Slower,” you repeat. “Let it build.”

“Build.” He parrots, saying it like he was testing the word's weight on his tongue. “Right. Build-up. I can do build-up.”

You don't smile, but something in your posture shifts—a softening, a permission. "Show me."

His jaw tightens. Not in frustration. In focus. He drops his gaze to your mouth, then to your throat, then back to your eyes, and this time when he leans in, it's different. Slower. Deliberate. His mouth brushes the corner of yours first—barely a kiss, more a question—then drags down your jaw, lips parted, breath warm against your skin.

He pauses at your pulse point. Breathes there. Lets you feel the weight of him waiting. Then his mouth closes over the spot just below your ear—the one he missed before—and stays. No frantic movement. No rushing. Just the wet heat of his lips, the gentle suction, the soft scrape of teeth that makes your breath catch before you can stop it.

"Better?" he murmurs against your skin, and his voice is lower now, rougher, the nervous edge blunted into something almost cocky.

"Getting there."

He huffs a laugh against your throat, and the vibration of it travels down your spine. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, fingers splayed, palm pressing heat through the denim of your jeans. He takes his time—one agonizing inch at a time, his thumb tracing a slow arc along the inside seam, feeling the curve of muscle beneath.

The dust motes float in the lamplight, suspended and golden, and the faint smell of rain on pavement drifts through the cracked window—wet asphalt, ozone, the memory of a storm that passed hours ago. His cologne mixes with it, something clean and slightly sweet, and the combination is so specifically him that it makes your chest ache.

His thumb presses higher. Deliberate. Finding the spot where pressure turns into something else, where the seam of your jeans meets the heat of you. Your hips shift before you can think about it. A small movement. Involuntary. He notices. Of course he notices. His thumb stills, then presses harder, exactly where you need it, the pressure of denim against sensitive flesh making your breath stutter. He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark now, focused, the boyish softness sharpened into something hungrier. "Yeah? Is this better?"

You don’t answer with words, you answer him with a kiss.

Not a gentle one, but not rushed either. Your hand finds the back of his neck and pulls him down, and your mouth meets his with a hunger that surprises you both, all teeth and tongue and the wet slide of lips finally taking the time to feel each other. He makes a sharp, startled sound against your mouth that melts into a groan as the hand on your hip slides down to your thigh, fingers digging into the denim like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

His tongue meets yours, and it’s messy, sloppy in the best way, all heat and spit and the taste of the wine from dinner still lingering at the edges. He kisses like he talks when he’s nervous: too much, everything spilling out at once. But there’s something else underneath it now. Something focused. His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheekbone as he angles your head and kisses you deeper.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, the word half-lost between kisses. “That’s—you’re—”

He breaks off and kisses you again, harder this time. His tongue slides against yours, wet and insistent, and you feel it everywhere: in the ache between your thighs, in the way your toes curl inside your socks, in the heat spreading steadily through your chest.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? The talking thing. When I get nervous, I just—I talk, and I know I should stop, but the words keep coming and—”

You kiss him quiet.

His laugh vibrates against your lips, and this time, when his hand slides from your jaw down your throat, it’s deliberate. Slow. His fingers trace your collarbone, feather-light, and you shiver.

“Better?” he asks, that hint of cockiness slipping through the nerves again.

“Getting there.”

His grin flashes sharp and bright before he dips his head to your neck.

His mouth finds the spot below your ear again, the one he rushed past the first time, and he works it with a patience that makes your hips lift beneath him. Open-mouthed kisses, the wet heat of his tongue, the careful scrape of teeth that pulls a gasp from you. His hand trails lower, palm gliding down your chest, and when his thumb brushes over your nipple through your shirt, you arch into him.

“Yeah?” He breathes the word against your skin as his fingers find the button of your jeans. “Can I—?”

“Yes.”

The word comes out rough, almost a command, and he doesn't waste time. He has your jeans unbuttoned and unzipped in seconds, his hand sliding inside, palm flat against your belly, then lower. His fingers find the heat of you through your underwear, and he groans—a low, desperate sound that sends a pulse of heat straight to your core.

"You're so wet," he murmurs, and there's wonder in his voice, like he can't quite believe this is happening. "I can feel it through—you're soaking, and I've barely even—"

He presses harder, his middle finger finding your clit through the damp fabric, and you bite your lip to keep from making a sound.

"Don't do that," he says, looking up at you, and his eyes are dark and serious. "I want to hear you."

He pushes your underwear aside and slides a finger inside you—slow, deliberate, watching your face the whole time. The stretch of it, the wet slide, the way your breath catches and your head falls back against the sofa cushion—he takes it all in, pupils dilating, mouth falling open.

"Christ," he whispers, and his voice is wrecked. "You feel—you're so tight, and so wet, and I haven't even—" He pushes a second finger in, and you gasp, your hips rolling against his hand. "Is that good? Tell me that's good."

"It's good." The words come out strangled. "Owen—"

He groans at the sound of his name, and his fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. He works you slowly, deliberately, his thumb circling your clit in time with the thrust of his fingers, and you can feel yourself getting closer, the heat building in your belly like a coil winding tight.

"Not yet," you manage, and your hand closes around his wrist, stopping him. "If you make me come like this, I'm going to be useless for the rest of the night."

He laughs, breathless and bright. "That's the goal, though. Isn't it?"

"The goal is mutual."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening, a warmth that cuts through the heat. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He pulls his hand out of your jeans, and you feel the loss of it like a physical ache. He brings his fingers to his mouth, and you watch, transfixed, as he licks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You taste incredible," he says, and there's no shyness in it. No nervous chatter. Just fact. "I want to taste you properly. I want my face between your legs until you can't remember your own name."

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and you're already reaching for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up over his head. He helps you, tossing it aside, and then his hands are on your shirt, tugging it off, and the cool air hits your skin as he unclips your bra and slides the straps down your shoulders.

He stops. Stares.

"Jesus," he breathes, and his voice is reverent. "Your tits are—" He swallows, hard. "Can I—?"

You nod, and his mouth is on you before you finish the movement. He takes your nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, sucking gently, and the sensation arcs through you like electricity. His hand finds your other breast, thumb rolling over the peak, and you moan—a real sound, raw and unguarded.

He groans against your skin, the vibration making you arch into him, and his hand slides down your stomach, back into your jeans. He finds you wet and ready, and he pushes a finger inside you again, then two, fucking you slowly as his mouth works your nipple.

"Owen." His name comes out broken, desperate. "I need—"

He pulls back, looks at you with dark, hungry eyes. "What do you need?"

"I need you to fuck me."

The words hang in the air between them, raw and honest, and something in his expression shifts—a crack in the confidence, a flash of the earnest boy underneath. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He looks around the living room, at the sofa, the lamp, the dust motes still floating in the golden light. Then he looks back at you, and there's a smile playing at the corner of his mouth—nervous and hopeful and so fucking endearing it makes your chest ache.

"We should—" He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "My room. Upstairs. Because if Matt and Freya come home and find us going at it on the sofa, I will actually die. And not in a sexy way. In a 'my brother will never let me live this down' way."

You laugh, and it breaks something open between you, the tension easing into something warmer. "Lead the way."

He stands, offers you his hand, and you take it. He pulls you up, and you're both half-undressed, flushed and breathing hard, and the absurdity of it hits you—standing in his living room, jeans unbuttoned, bra discarded, about to follow him up the stairs like this is the most natural thing in the world.

His hand stays wrapped around yours as he leads you up the narrow staircase, his bare back warm in the dim light. His room is at the end of the hall—small, cluttered, an acoustic guitar propped in the corner and sheets tangled on the bed. He kicks the door shut behind you, and the click of the latch feels like a seal.

He turns to face you, and for a moment, he just looks at you. Takes you in. The flush on your chest, the way your jeans hang loose on your hips, the mark he left on your neck.

"This isn't practice anymore," he says quietly. "I need you to know that. Whatever this is—it's not a lesson. It's not feedback. It's me wanting you so badly I can barely think straight."

Your heart hammers against your ribs. "I know."

"Good." He steps closer, his hands finding your waist, sliding under the waistband of your jeans. "Because I don't think I could fake it if I tried."

He kisses you again, deep and slow, and his hands push your jeans down over your hips. They fall to the floor, and you step out of them, standing in just your underwear as he pulls back to look at you.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're so beautiful."

You reach for his belt, unbuckling it with clumsy fingers, and he helps you push his jeans down. His cock springs free, hard and leaking, and you wrap your hand around it without thinking. He gasps, his head falling back, and you feel the weight of him in your palm, the heat, the throb of his pulse.

"Assessment," you say, and your voice is steadier than you feel. "You're very hard. That's a good sign."

He laughs, breathless, and his hand covers yours on his cock. "Yeah? What else?"

"Good size." You stroke him slowly, watching his face. "Nice shape. Looks like it would feel good inside me."

He groans, his hips thrusting into your hand. "Fuck. You can't just—say things like that. I'll—"

"You'll what?"

He doesn't answer. He pulls you onto the bed, your bodies tangling in the sheets, and his mouth finds yours again, hungry and desperate. His hand slides between your legs, pushing your underwear aside, and he groans when he feels how wet you still are.

"I need to taste you," he says, and it's not a request. "I need my mouth on your pussy. Right now."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He slides down the bed, his mouth trailing down your stomach, and when his tongue finally touches you, you cry out. He eats you like he's starving, like he's been thinking about this for weeks, his tongue finding every sensitive spot, his fingers curling inside you as his mouth works your clit.

You're close again, the heat building, and you feel yourself tightening around his fingers. "Owen—I'm going to—"

He doubles down, his tongue flat against you, his fingers fucking you faster, and you come with a gasp that turns into a moan, your hips bucking against his face as the orgasm rips through you. He works you through it, licking gently as you shudder, and when he finally surfaces, his mouth is slick and his eyes are dark and satisfied.

"Assessment," he says, grinning. "You taste incredible. Ten out of ten. Would enthusiastically eat again."

You laugh, breathless, and pull him up for a kiss. You taste yourself on his lips, and it's intimate in a way that makes your chest tight. Your hand finds his cock again, stroking him slowly, and he groans against your mouth.

"Condom," you murmur. "Do you have—"

"Nightstand. Top drawer."

You reach over, fumbling blindly, and your fingers close around the box. You pull one out, tear it open with your teeth, and he watches you roll it down his length with an intensity that makes you shiver.

He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against you, and he pauses. Looks at you.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

He pushes in, slow, and the stretch of it makes you gasp. He's bigger than you expected, filling you completely, and he pauses when he's fully inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel—I can't—"

He starts to move, slow at first, his hips finding a rhythm that makes your eyes roll back. He kisses you as he fucks you, deep and messy, his tongue sliding against yours in time with his thrusts.

"Harder," you breathe, and he obliges, his pace quickening, the sound of skin slapping skin punctuating the air. His hand finds your clit, rubbing in tight circles, and you feel yourself climbing toward another orgasm.

"Come for me," he says, his voice rough and desperate. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

The words undo you. You shatter, your cunt clenching around him, and he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, his body shuddering as he comes inside you.

He collapses onto you, his weight a warm pressure, his face buried in your neck. You feel his breath, hot and uneven, and your hands find his back, tracing the lines of his shoulder blades.

After a long moment, he pulls out, disposes of the condom, and returns to the bed, pulling you against him. The sheets are tangled, the room smells like sex, the rain having stopped by the time the room went quiet again.

The rain had stopped by the time the room went quiet again, leaving you with the soft whir of Owen’s laptop on the desk and the occasional car moving through the wet street outside. The candles downstairs had probably burned themselves out, the abandoned pasta plates were still beside the sink, and somewhere beneath the coffee table was an assessment card neither of you had finished.

Owen lay on his back with one arm beneath your shoulders, his other hand moving absently along your arm and tracing the same path over and over, as though he needed the reassurance of finding you there each time. His hair was a mess against the pillow, and he looked exhausted, pleased and increasingly troubled.

You watched the concern gather across his face.

“You’re thinking,” you said.

Owen looked at you. “I do that sometimes.”

“You’re doing it loudly.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You don’t need to.”

He stared up at the ceiling again. For the first several minutes after he’d pulled you against him, he hadn’t been able to stop smiling, but then you’d made the mistake of mentioning the date. Not what had happened afterward, but the date itself. Owen’s arm had tightened around you when you jokingly announced that he’d passed and was officially ready to try the real thing with someone else.

You hadn’t expected him to go quiet.

“So,” you said, trying to drag the mood back toward something safer, “final assessment.”

“Right.”

“Conversation was good once you stopped behaving like you’d memorized a list of interview questions.”

“Generous.”

“Table manners need work.”

“That wine glass was unstable.”

“You elbowed it.”

“The table’s too small.”

“General romantic intrigue…”

Owen turned his head toward you, and you stretched the pause out until his mouth twitched.

“Acceptable,” you said.

“Acceptable?”

“You shouldn’t argue with the feedback.”

“After everything I’ve done for this course?”

“You’re getting marked down for attitude.”

“I cooked.”

“You boiled pasta until it turned to mush.”

“I bought a flower.”

“You stole Freya’s.”

“I had permission.”

“It was fake.”

“It’ll last longer.”

The reply was so painfully Owen that something tightened beneath your ribs, and you looked away before he could see it.

“And kissing?” he asked.

“You’re very invested in that category.”

“I value comprehensive results.”

“You passed.”

“Just passed?”

“Owen.”

He smiled, but it faded before it had the chance to settle.

“And that’s it?”

The question was quiet enough to change the air between you.

You pushed yourself onto one elbow. “What d’you mean?”

“We finish the assessment. I’m apparently ready to be inflicted on the general public, and you go home.”

“That was the arrangement.”

“I know.”

Owen’s fingers stopped moving against your arm. It should’ve been easy to tease him after he’d given you enough material to last for weeks, from the handwritten evaluation card to Freya’s immortal fabric flower downstairs, but instead, you studied his face.

“You’re upset.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m thinking.”

“You’ve already admitted that means you’re upset.”

“I admitted nothing of the sort.”

“Owen.”

He let out a long breath and rubbed one hand over his face.

“This was a stupid idea.”

Your stomach dropped. “You’re the one who suggested it.”

“Exactly. Historically, that should’ve warned us.”

“You didn’t seem to think it was stupid an hour ago.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

He gave you a look, and heat climbed into your face, but you refused to back away from the question.

“Owen, it was your rule too. Nothing counted.”

“I never said that.”

“You agreed.”

“I repeated what you said.”

“That’s usually how agreeing works.”

“I didn’t want to argue.”

“You always want to argue.”

“Not when you were offering to go on a date with me.”

The words came out sharper than everything else, and Owen closed his eyes beneath your stare, seeming to realize there was no way to drag the admission back. His hand dropped onto the duvet, fingers curling into the fabric.

“What does that mean?” you asked.

Owen opened his eyes again but didn’t look at you. “It means I wanted the date.”

“You needed practice.”

“No, I didn’t.”

A startled laugh escaped you. “You spent an entire evening listing everything you did wrong.”

“Yeah, well, there’s no shortage of material.”

“So you invented the practice date?”

“I didn’t invent the concept.”

“You tricked me.”

“I didn’t trick you.”

“You made a form.”

“That was for structure.”

“You put kissing on it.”

He finally looked at you, frustration and embarrassment fighting across his face. “Because I wanted to kiss you.”

The room went still.

Owen swallowed, but once the confession had started, it seemed to pull the rest out with it.

“I wanted to take you out,” he said. “I wanted to buy you dinner and sit across from you while you laughed at me. I wanted to know what’d happen if I asked you to kiss me. But I couldn’t ask you on a real date, because if you said no, I’d still have to see you all the time and pretend it didn’t bother me.”

“Owen…”

“And this seemed safer.”

“You thought sleeping with me on a fake date would be safer?”

“I didn’t plan that far ahead.”

“You made an assessment card.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I planned the date. I didn’t plan…” He gestured vaguely between you, the duvet slipping lower across his chest. “Everything.”

You sat up farther, pulling the sheet with you.

“So you didn’t need dating help.”

“I probably do need dating help. Just not for the reason I said.”

“What reason, then?”

Owen’s expression softened into something almost apologetic.

“Because when I like someone, I become a complete nightmare.”

Your irritation cracked. “A nightmare?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“I get ahead of myself. I think about everything all at once, then I try to act normal, but in my head I’m already imagining how they’ll fit into my life, and apparently that’s considered intense.”

“Generally, yeah.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of reassuring me.”

“You lied to me about why we were doing this.”

“I created a controlled romantic environment.”

“You manipulated me with supermarket wine.”

“It wasn’t cheap.”

“The label was peeling off.”

“It tasted fine.”

You tried to stay annoyed, but Owen watched your mouth betray you.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m considering suffocating you with this pillow.”

“That’s still emotional investment.”

You shoved his shoulder, and Owen caught your wrist before you could do it again. His grip was gentle, but he didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the humor disappearing from his voice. “I should’ve just asked you.”

“Yes.”

“I was scared you’d say no.”

“You had no reason to think I’d say yes.”

His face fell so quickly that you nearly laughed again.

“That’s not the same as saying I wouldn’t have,” you clarified.

“Oh.”

Owen’s ears turned red. Despite everything that had happened, despite the confidence he’d found once you touched him, that single syllable contained the same awkward man who’d buttoned his shirt wrong before opening the front door.

You lowered yourself beside him again.

“This was still a terrible plan.”

“I know.”

“The fake flower was unsettling.”

“I’ll give it back to Freya.”

“The pasta was awful.”

“You had two portions.”

“I was hungry.”

“The kissing category was obvious.”

“I panicked while making the form.”

“And you could’ve saved yourself a ridiculous amount of trouble by asking me on a real date.”

Owen’s thumb brushed across the inside of your wrist.

“Would you have said yes?”

You let him wait.

It was cruel, maybe, but after a year of watching Owen build entire romances out of glances and coincidences, it felt fair to leave him without the ending for a few seconds.

“Yes,” you said.

His face changed, relief appearing first, then disbelief, followed by the beginning of a smile so open and boyish that you suddenly understood why he kept risking humiliation for the possibility of feeling exactly this.

“You would?”

“You’re ruining it.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Right. Calm.”

Owen visibly tried to rearrange his expression into something more restrained, but he failed, and you laughed as you leaned down to kiss him. His hand immediately settled behind your neck, keeping you there when you tried to pull back; the kiss stayed soft, but there wasn’t any uncertainty left in it, and Owen smiled against your mouth before following you in for one more quick kiss when you finally drew away.

“Tomorrow,” you said.

“What about it?”

“You can take me on a real date.”

Owen’s eyebrows lifted. “Thought we just had one.”

“This one didn’t count.”

“It counted to me.”

The simple certainty behind it left you quiet for a second, and Owen looked far too pleased with himself, so you recovered by pulling the pillow from behind him and pressing it into his face until his laughter came muffled through the fabric.

“Tomorrow,” you repeated. “Start over. No forms, no false pretenses and preferably edible food.”

He dragged the pillow down far enough to look at you.

“Can there still be kissing?”

“We’ll see how you behave.”

“I think my previous assessment should carry over.”

“You’re assuming you passed.”

“You said I passed.”

“I’ve reconsidered.”

“That’s completely unethical."

“You slept with your dating coach.”

Owen tossed the pillow aside and pulled you against him again. “You let your student kiss you.”

“You asked if you could.”

“And you said yes.”

“Only for educational purposes.”

“Course.”

His grin had become unbearable.

You placed one hand over his mouth, but Owen kissed your palm, then your wrist, his expression softening as he looked at you.

“For the record,” he said, “I’m glad you’re a terrible teacher.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because I haven’t learned a thing.”

You narrowed your eyes, and Owen tightened his arm around your waist before you could reach for the pillow again.

“Except,” he added quickly, “that you’ll go out with me tomorrow.”

You settled back against his chest, listening to the quick beat beneath your ear.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re planning to interrogate me about crisps.”

He pressed a kiss into your hair.

“No promises.”

[cinelordi]

PLEASE SUPPORT MY JOE KEERY EDIT ON TIKTOK 🙏

TikTok - Make Your Day

[cherrychilli]

18+ Perv! Steve Harrington x f! reader, rich! reader, established relationship, oral sex(f & m), anal play(f), thigh fucking, implied PIV sex, unprotected sex, cream pie WC:3.5K Summary: Pervy! Steve meets your family for the first time at your father's big celebration dinner and things get a little inappropriate when he pries you away from the party and into an empty room for some much needed privacy.

You'd been waiting for the right moment and it seemed to have finally presented itself. A quiet dinner with your parents in the family dining room where just moments ago, your father had shared news of another successful business takeover. With spirits high and your parents' glasses topped with their drinks of choice, you shared some good news of your own.

Your mother was thrilled. She was won over the instant she'd heard the name 'Harrington' leave your lips. You had a feeling she would be. You didn't like it but you knew that she had a special interest in of all the well to do families in the area, hoping that you would one day pair up with someone who came from a background that matched your own.

Image meant so much to your parents. You knew this even though you didn't view things like status and money the same way they did but admittedly, it did make you feel the slightest bit more reassured when you told them about Steve. Knowing how they thought, you figured they'd have to be pleased with the news that their daughter was dating a boy who met their standards. Someone who came from 'a good, wholesome family' as your mother always put it even though you knew what she really meant was someone who came from wealth.

Your father didn't share your mother's enthusiasm however. He wasn't impressed that Steve had chosen to work at the video store instead of enrolling at a prestigious college like the sons of all his flashy business associates. That made you tense up in your seat until your mother waved off his remark, tutting at him over her glass of wine.

She told him it was only a slight misstep which could be overlooked because, as they all assumed, it would only be a matter of time until Steve would eventually grow out of this 'rebellious phase' and work under his father at his lucrative firm. That he'd realize his mistake and know how good he could have it with the life his parents expect of him.

You didn't enjoy the way your parents were speculating about him but you knew going into this that you would have to bite your tongue sometimes if you wanted them onboard, telling yourself that their shallow comments were best ignored.

Your father didn't attempt to counter your mother's reasoning. He agreed with her that Steve could fall in line and pursue a more fitting position at a respectable establishment like his father's. That much he could admit.

Still, he continued to show his displeasure with a pointed lack of interest that told you that he'd prefer to be anywhere else but your dining table right now as your mother subjected you to a flurry of questions. He didn't engage after that, only cutting at his steak whilst his frown deepened at every mention of Steve's name.

His real qualm with Steve was simple. He just didn't like him. He believed that there were other boys out there who had a leg up on Steve - Ivy League business majors, Law undergraduates, medical residents, who would fare far better at taking care of you and make your family look even better in the eyes of all your parents' pretentious friends. Yet, something more pressing gnawed at him as your mother poured him another whiskey before excitedly turning back to you. A feeling he couldn't shake that there was something... unseemly about Steve.

****

You didn't take your father's reaction, or more specifically, lack thereof to heart. In fact, you were relieved as you readied yourself for the dinner your family was hosting in celebration of the merger. He hadn't done any of the things you were afraid he might like try to convince you that you were making a mistake or arguing that your boyfriend wouldn't fit in with your(their) lifestyle or worse - simply forbidding you.

He didn't even try to push back when your mother nearly jumped out of her seat last night when the idea occurred to her that you should invite Steve to the dinner tonight.

Black tie, obviously.

While not showing any enthusiasm, your father never said no and that told you he had made his peace with your decision. Only when the guests started to arrive you soon realized that wasn't the case.

You felt helpless, unable to do anything but follow along as your father introduced you to his colleagues and their sons (who you weren't even aware were invited). You grit your teeth as he basically offered you up to them, his firm hand on your back over your floor length pale champagne silk dress, the one your mom had picked out for you. Your matching heels clicked on top of the polished marble tiles with every step as he directed you from one imperious boy to the next.

Not wanting to appear rude, you tolerated their vanity, feigning interest and impress at their talks of attending the finest schools (that their parents bought their way into) or landing positions at some of the biggest companies (reserved for them by way of nepotism).

You realized then that this was your father's way of making it known to Steve that you had options. 'Better' options and plenty of them lined up and waiting to be with you. It was obvious the whole thing was intended to make Steve feel jealous or insecure but you noticed that the boy appeared completely unfazed.

It didn't take much for him to charm your mother and he didn't relent at your father's underhanded behavior. When you're finally able to pry yourself away from the clearly intoxicated Braydon Mayhew after resisting the urge to retch at his offer to show you the back seat of his father's new Mercedes, you rush to Steve's side, slipping your hand into his which he squeezes back reassuringly.

"I'm so sorry", you whisper up at him, meaning it more than you could possibly show. "You have every right to be mad", you admit, embarrassed and angered by your father's behavior. He had barely acknowledged Steve when you proudly introduced him earlier, only taking a few moments to nod at him grimly before steering you away towards Kyle Yately who'd returned from the bathroom after a considerable absence. Now noticeably more alert.

Your father greeted Kyle with an exaggerated warmth he had denied Steve, you noticed with growing resentment. Your mood only worsened when your eyes fell to the light dusting of white powder underneath the boy's nose, knowing your father had seen it too but said nothing because Kyle's father was a key partner in his business. This was who he'd rather you be with. Some coke head wipe out with a trust fund.

"I'm not upset", Steve replies, looking like he means it as he smiles down at you in a way that feels so intimate, so handsome in his suit. He understands. You know he does. He's been through the same with his own parents before, having girls picked out for him, each one of them insufferable in their own ways and less compatible than the last. He'd rejected all of them and never looked back, his parents' disappointment and demands never rattling him as he went on to make a life of his own. A steady job, a fine car, an apartment just for him, reliable friends and now, you. He was doing better than they care to admit and you feel encouraged to take a page out of his book when it comes to dealing with your own family.

You melt against Steve as the dinner party continues, sounds of chatter and bursts of pompous laughter at every corner. In a room where everyone else was competing for center of attention, it was easy for the two of you slip away unnoticed when he tugged you towards the hallway, ducking down to whisper against your ear, "How 'bout you give me a tour of the place?"

You smile cheekily at the thought of sneaking him into your bedroom while the party continued downstairs but the thought gets cut short when he points at a nearby door instead. "What's in here?" he asks but he's already turning the knob. You step past him as he holds the door open for you and explain, "this is my father's study".

Your gaze scans the familiar furnishings and features like full grain leather and Brazilian cherry hardwood flooring with newfound contempt. It's only then that you realize that there isn't a single family photo displayed in here. Only college degrees in gaudy gold frames, glinting trophies and awards and photographs of him receiving said trophies and awards, the whole room eerily resembling a shrine to himself.

"We should go. He doesn't like it when people come in here", you roll your eyes, remembering all the times he'd impatiently ushered you out of there whenever you stepped in, not to be disturbed because of the many conference calls with the London office, the Milan office and the New York office.

You go to walk through the door, expecting Steve to hold it open for you once more but you're puzzled when he closes it instead.

"Not yet. I've barely seen you all night and now I've finally got you all to myself"

****

This is so wrong.

So wrong and so fucking exhilarating.

You stomp the shame sprouting inside you down in favor of the tight, gooey warmth building in the base of your stomach.

"Steve..." you whine out breathily, your palms sweating on the polished surface of your father's oak desk, your heels digging into the cashmere rug at your feet as your knees shake and wobble.

You've never been eaten out like this before, bent over with Steve licking you out from behind. The sensation feels all the more dirty with the way your slinky dress has been rucked up so crudely to your waist, your damp thong making a stain in his jacket pocket as you rock your hips back to let his tongue lap at your clit.

It made you feel self conscious at first, having him eat you out from this angle but Steve worked faster than you could shut the idea down entirely. And you're glad he did, your body giving into the wonderful feelings wracking every inch of muscle and bone trembling inside your skin, your legs widening to encourage his tongue inside you.

Gladly dipping the muscle in and out of your greedy hole, Steve sucks down every drop of smooth slick you weep for him like nectar before he gives other parts of you his attention. Pulling his tongue free, he bites playfully at the curve of your ass a few times as he begins to move lower. His broad hands pull your cheeks apart and his tongue then wanders over to your tight rim knowing it would draw an embarrassed whine out of you to know that you liked the sloppy wet drag of his busy tongue licking over it again and again.

You'd talked about it before, having him fuck you there and as much as he'd love for tonight to be the night, he knew he owed you the decency of taking the time to loosen you up first, maybe float the idea of you wearing a plug for a few hours before he would carefully takes it out to replace it with the thick length of his cock.

After all, he wouldn't want to hurt you. Not to mention how much he's defiled you in this room already.

"Poor thing. Can barely stand up after having that circus of pricks out there fawning all over you", his fingers beginning to unbutton his trousers, zipper coming down, the tip of his perfect nose wet with your slick.

Steve eyes your body closely to admire the signs of his work, your folds all swollen and puffy from how much he'd sucked on them, a translucent mix of your slick and his saliva making your pussy glossy. Spreading your lips apart he eyes your hole again, watching it pinch and pulse so pathetically around nothing. So terribly empty. He aims to resolve that.

"What happened, baby? those daddy's boys work you up into a frenzy?"

You nearly snort at the mere idea of it.

"Fucking jokes, all of them. 'Don't mean a damn thing to me", you sigh, wiggling your ass as Steve gets back on his feet, his weighty cock pulled out and ready to be slid between your thighs.

"Can't blame them for trying. Beautiful thing like you is hard to come by", Steve gently guides you forward until your breasts and cheek are pressed up against the desk, his cock pressing between your thighs until his tip nudges your poor worked up clit.

"Mm...I'm yours Stevie. Don't want anyone else", you remind him, pushing your hips back to hump messily at his sticky cock as it slips and slides between your warm thighs.

"Good girl. That's what I like to hear."

You hum with delight, ass bouncing against Steve's pelvis to make the wet slap of skin on skin echo in your ears, the bumps of his veiny shaft and spongy tip heaven against your clit while your folds spread apart and border his dick.

And you could have cum there as is, the pressure between your legs nearing immense.

Until...

There's movement on the other side of the door and you tense up when you see the shadows dancing underneath the gap. Then the handle begins to jiggle and you think your heart might shoot up past your throat and out through the roof of your skull.

Someone's coming inside.

The thought of anyone, maybe your mother who'd raised you to be the epitome of proper, growing faint at the sight of her daughter bent over underneath the boy she'd been boasting to all her friends about makes you shudder. You know she'd forget all about how much money Steve's father made if she saw you like this. Sweaty. sticky. sullied.

Of course she'd be no less severe with you. There was one other thing she held in equal esteem to wealth - appearances. This is how you repay her for all the effort she put into molding you for a life of high society? how she fussed and spared no expense making you the standout debutante in town? though none of it was what you'd wanted for yourself you knew how much it meant to her.

Or worse, your father walking in to see the boy he'd all but dismissed as not good enough for his daughter, fucking her stupid on his desk and her loving it. How Steve would grin back and watch with sick satisfaction as your father's face contorted and bled red with rage.

It's a good thing the hunting rifle displayed on the wall next to the mounted stag's head is only for show, no ammunition to load it with. No way to blow Steve's head off his shoulders in one gory blast, bone and blood spraying the walls. Thankfully.

But Steve didn't need your father to know how good he'd worked up his daughter under his own roof and in his own study to be satisfied.

In a hurry you're pulled under the table, Steve's hand clamped over your mouth, index finger held up to his lips to let you know to keep quiet.

"I know I left it in here", you hear your father's voice when the door swings open, the familiar scent of your mother's Dior perfume wafting in after him.

"Then it must be in here", you mother sighs with clear sass, her perfect nails clinking impatiently against the crystal glass in her hand.

You have no idea what 'it' might be but you hoped whatever 'it' was, that it wouldn't get the two of you caught like this. Not before you've finished at least.

It's a mess between your legs, your dress damp with sweat and wrinkled all over. Though you're in better shape than Steve, his cock still out over his unbuttoned pants, unable to try and get it back in for fear of being heard.

It's so tempting, especially the way it keeps twitching in your face. You stare at it long enough until you just can't help yourself, afraid you might not get another chance tonight. So, you reach for it, rubbing the glistening pink tip with the pad of your index finger, so slippery soft with all the precum that drools from his slit.

You're playing a dangerous game but it's impossible to stop now as Steve's face begins to turn a very similar shade of pink, his lips curling up with a sly little smirk.

"Go on", he mouths to you, gently and quietly pulling you closer. He's able to spread his legs somewhat, his back against one side of the desk while you crouch on your knees between his legs, lips kissing his tip so sweetly.

"It's not in here..." you hear your father growl, admitting it reluctantly.

"Oh what a surprise. It's like I've been saying all along", your mother replies. You can practically hear the way she rolls her eyes.

You block them out, taking the head of Steve's cock into your mouth then, sucking till your cheeks begin to fill with the slippery tang of his precum, sucking it out of him so quickly you almost worry you're taking more than he can give at this pace. Greedy. And all while your eyes remain fixed on each other as you're connected like this, as if you're the only ones in the room.

And soon enough, you are, your father stomping out of the room followed by the click clack of your mother's Versace heels. Neither of them having a clue of the filth taking place just a few feet away.

When the door shuts you tongue the underside of Steve's shaft to catch the little trickle of spit and precum that spilled down out the corner of your lips, pulling off his cock to swallow all that he's made in your mouth. None of it goes to waste with how thorough you've been.

"That was close", you snicker, no longer sweating fear at the thought of getting caught, the thrill of having gotten away with it is so intoxicating.

"Yeah. In more ways that one", he jokes back and you know what he means. You've drawn him to the edge as he did to you, both of you throbbing between your legs, aching for the orgasms that are yet to burst within you.

"Why don't we finish up and join the others for dinner?", he cradles your jaw, pressing a kiss at the corner of your lips which carries the special scent of both him and you. "It'd be rude to keep them waiting too long."

****

By the time the both of you are done fucking the others have already been seated, your mother quietly aghast and your father simmering with fury when they get a look at you, neither of them saying a word and you know they wont until every guest has left.

Disheveled is a kind way of putting it.

Braydon coughs and chokes into his sixth whisky when you enter and the sight of you is enough to make Kyle stop sniffing and twitching his fingers. The rest of the boys hand picked by your father as potential suitors react similarly, so very silent and scandalized in their seats.

Steve's hair is a mess, no longer neatly combed and swooped back like it had been when he's showed up. His bow tie is crooked and his suit is unkempt. As is your makeup, lipstick smudged and dress unruly while a hickey blooms on your neck.

No one says a word.

You wouldn't have cared if they did.

Returning to the dining table like this doesn't worry you, and neither does whatever is yet to come with your parents.

They hadn't known it but tonight had been a test. You decided a while back that if they couldn't truly welcome Steve then they would have to say goodbye to you too.

Your mother's approval of Steve wouldn't have lasted past learning that your boyfriend had no plans whatsoever to work under his father and by how things went tonight, you knew your father's approval could not be won either.

It's because of this that you'd been careful enough to save your money, knowing sooner or later that you would no longer be able to turn to them for any kind of help. Not that you'd want to.

This was no spur of the moment thing. You had a plan. A college acceptance letter sat in your suitcase along with all the other things you'd be taking with you to move into Steve's apartment. Sure, it wasn't going to be easy.

Secretly, you'd been going in for job interviews during the past few weeks, eventually landing a spot as a receptionist. You're going to work to put yourself through college while Steve insisted on covering the rent and it's what you both want. To be with each other, the people who love and nurture you unconditionally, not the families on the very verge of shunning you both.

This was just one final fuck you to your family before your departure.

And it felt all that much better sitting there, having your last few bites of caviar for the foreseeable future and having Steve dripping out of you in thick dollops. If there's one thing you're leaving behind in your soon to be former home, it's the stain currently growing on the vicuña seat.

[allaboutlew]

atta boy via juliehubs

[cinelordi]

PLEASE SUPPORT MY JOE KEERY EDIT ON TIKTOK

TikTok - Make Your Day

[jinxispunk]

the family he found

Steve Harrington x reader

Summary: Steve expects just another birthday. Instead, he discovers he's spent years building himself the family he'd always dreamed of.

Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of a neglectful childhood (steve's), found family, angst, everyone loves steve harrington (lmk if i missed anything)

A/N: pls blame jess (@holawdw) for the emotional damage 😭😭 thank you SO much for giving me this idea and then spending several days screaming about it with me in dms because i genuinely don't think i would've written this without you. i knew the second you said it that this had to become a fic. i really hope i did your beautiful idea justice. thank you for trusting me with it, and thank you for emotionally ruining both me and steve 🫶

W/C: 8k

Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]

If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!

You wake before Steve does.

The curtains are still only half-lit, the early morning sun filtering through the gaps in soft bands of gold that stretch lazily across the bedroom floor. Outside, Hawkins hasn't quite decided to wake up yet. Somewhere in the distance a lawnmower coughs into life before giving up again, birds chatter noisily from the oak tree outside the window, and the whole house sits in that strange, peaceful quiet that only exists before the rest of the world remembers itself.

Steve is still asleep beside you, one arm escaped from beneath the duvet during the night, stretched lazily across the mattress until his fingertips brush yours, as though even unconscious he has some quiet need to know you're still there. His hair sticks up in every possible direction, flattened on one side and hopelessly unruly on the other, his face softer in sleep than it ever is when he's awake.

You smile to yourself.

Twenty-three.

It feels impossible somehow - not because twenty-three is particularly old, but because you've spent long enough loving Steve to remember nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Every version of him that existed between those birthdays and this one. Each year he'd grown a little gentler, a little quieter in himself, as though life had slowly been teaching him that he no longer had to carry everything alone.

Carefully, so as not to wake him too suddenly, you lean across and press a kiss against the centre of his forehead.

His nose wrinkles immediately. A low, sleepy groan rumbles somewhere beneath the blankets before one eye cracks open just enough to find you. "...Morning."

"Morning, birthday boy."

His expression falls with almost theatrical disappointment. "...Do I have to get older?"

You laugh quietly. "I'm afraid you don't have much choice."

"I was hoping we could skip this one."

"I'll write to the calendar."

"You think it'd listen?"

"Probably not."

He sighs dramatically before rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with the sort of resignation usually reserved for tax returns and dentist appointments. "...Worth asking."

You reach over to smooth an impossibly stubborn piece of hair away from his forehead. "You know," you say, "most people get excited about their birthday."

Steve hums. "I know."

"You don't."

Another small shrug. "I've just never really been bothered."

He says it so casually that anyone else might have believed him.

But you've known him long enough to understand the difference between someone who doesn't care and someone who learned, very early on, not to expect much in the first place.

Steve never disliked birthdays. That wasn't it. He'd simply stopped allowing himself to build them into something worth looking forward to.

Growing up, they were... fine.

There'd usually be a couple of presents, carefully chosen by parents who knew roughly what an eight-year-old boy ought to like but never quite what their eight-year-old boy actually did. His mother insisted on the same dense, healthy carrot cake every year because she preferred it to chocolate, somehow never stopping to consider that perhaps the birthday boy himself might have had other opinions.

Sometimes his parents were away entirely, leaving him with grandparents or a childminder and promising they'd celebrate properly when they got back. Sometimes they were there, though never really present. A birthday dinner if everyone happened to be home. A quick "happy birthday" over breakfast before somebody rushed off to a meeting. There was never anything cruel about it.

Just... distance.

Nothing bad enough to complain about.

Nothing good enough to miss.

By the time you'd met him, birthdays had become something he accepted with the same quiet indifference he accepted rainy Tuesdays or running out of milk. Nice enough if somebody remembered. Easily forgotten if they didn't.

He catches you looking at him. "What?"

You realise you've been absent-mindedly tracing your thumb across the back of his hand. "Nothing."

"Your face tells me it isn't nothing."

You smile. "I was just thinking."

"Dangerous."

"Oh, absolutely."

He grins, the corners of his eyes creasing in that familiar way that still makes something inside your chest soften. Then, just as quickly, he stretches with another sleepy groan and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.

"So..." He pushes them onto his nose. "...What's the plan today?"

The question is completely innocent.

There's no expectation behind it. No hopeful curiosity. No excitement. Just the quiet assumption that whatever happened would be perfectly nice, and perfectly ordinary.

You hold his gaze for a moment before leaning across to steal one more kiss.

"Oh," you murmur, smiling against his cheek. "I think you're going to have a very different birthday this year."

Robin is the first to arrive.

You hear her before you see her.

The front door flies open without so much as a knock, followed almost immediately by, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS."

Steve has barely managed to look up from the mug of coffee in his hands before something rectangular bounces unceremoniously off the side of his head.

"...Ow."

"You're welcome."

He picks the envelope up from the floor, turning it over suspiciously.

Across the front, written entirely in thick black marker, are the words:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS.

Beneath them, in much smaller handwriting:

Don't let this inflate your ego.

Steve laughs quietly through his nose. "I haven't even opened it yet."

"I know." Robin folds her arms with exaggerated satisfaction. "I just wanted to establish the tone."

You disappear into the kitchen under the pretence of making more coffee, partly because somebody has to rescue breakfast before it burns, and partly because you've known Robin long enough to recognise the expression she's trying very hard to hide.

She's nervous.

Steve, blissfully unaware, slides a finger beneath the flap and unfolds the card.

Silence.

Then another page unfolds.

And another.

Steve blinks. "...Robin."

"What?"

"It's..." He flips another page over. "...Really long."

She shrugs with studied indifference. "I got carried away."

"What did you write?"

"I don't know."

"You wrote it."

"I wasn't paying attention."

He gives her a look.

She refuses to meet it.

You watch him begin reading.

The smile appears immediately, tugging at one corner of his mouth as he reaches the first insult.

Happy Birthday to Hawkins' second-biggest idiot.

Congratulations on somehow surviving another year despite making some of the dumbest decisions I've ever witnessed.

He snorts.

Robin looks insufferably pleased with herself.

Then the smile begins to change.

It softens almost imperceptibly, his eyes moving more slowly across the page now.

You can't read the words from where you're standing, but you know Robin well enough to know exactly what she'll have hidden between the jokes.

She'll have thanked him for making Family Video bearable, for never making her feel like she had to be anyone other than herself, for listening when she came out without making it weird, without asking questions she didn't want to answer, without changing the way he looked at her afterwards. She'll have written about Starcourt. About Russian secret bases and demobats and everything in between. About the fact that, somehow, Steve Harrington had quietly become the safest place she'd ever known.

By the time he reaches the final page, the kitchen has gone strangely quiet. Robin is studying a loose thread on her sleeve with almost academic concentration.

Steve clears his throat before reading the last line aloud, his voice noticeably softer than before. "'Don't get emotional.'" He smiles to himself. "'I'm only saying this once.'"

Robin points at him immediately. "Exactly."

"You literally wrote three pages."

"I know."

"You called me your favourite person."

"I was clearly concussed."

"You said you'd trust me with your life."

"I mean..." She sighs dramatically. "I would."

His smile grows impossibly soft. "You know..." He glances down at the card again. "...Thank you."

Robin groans so loudly you almost laugh. "Ugh."

"What?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're about to hug me."

Steve doesn't even pretend to think about it. He simply walks around the table and wraps his arms around her.

Robin lets out the most exaggerated sigh you've ever heard. "This is disgusting."

"You started it."

"I wrote a card."

"You wrote three pages."

"I regret everything."

"No, you don't."

"...No."

She hugs him back anyway. Only for a second. Only because nobody's looking.

Except you absolutely are.

When they finally pull apart, Robin immediately pokes him in the shoulder.

"If you tell anybody I have feelings, I'll deny the whole thing."

Steve laughs. "My lips are sealed."

"They'd better be." She narrows her eyes. "And if you cry..."

"I'm not going to cry."

"You looked dangerously close."

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"I definitely wasn't."

Robin glances towards you. "He was, wasn't he?"

You smile over the rim of your coffee mug. "A little."

"I wasn't."

"You've still got watery eyes."

"It's allergies."

"In February?"

"...Shut up."

The conversation drifts naturally onto something else after that.

Dustin is apparently running late. Robin immediately starts complaining about his inability to tell the time while Steve joins in as though nothing unusual has happened, the two of them slipping back into familiar bickering before Nancy wanders in from the hallway carrying an armful of paper plates, looking between them with a knowing smile. "He's late again?"

Robin throws her hands into the air. "When isn't he?"

The room fills with laughter, and before long the conversation has moved on entirely.

Later, while everyone else is distracted in the kitchen and Robin is attempting to convince Joyce that frozen chips absolutely count as a vegetable, you catch Steve standing alone in the hallway.

The card is open again.

He's reading the third page for a second time, his thumb lingering over the final paragraph before he quietly folds it closed with surprising care. The smile on his face is small, thoughtful, the sort that only ever appears when someone has managed to tell him something he didn't realise he'd needed to hear.

He slips the card carefully back into its envelope.

Not tossed onto the side. Not left amongst the wrapping paper.

Carefully. Like something he already knows he'll keep forever.

Dustin arrives nearly forty minutes late.

He bursts through the front door carrying three different bags, a box of doughnuts, and what appears to be a screwdriver for reasons known only to himself.

"Sorry!" he announces before anybody has the chance to say hello. "The bus was late, the car wouldn't start, and then I had to help my mum move a bookshelf because apparently I'm 'the man of the house now.'"

Robin raises an eyebrow. "...You brought a screwdriver."

"I know."

"Why?"

Dustin looks down at it as though only just noticing it in his own hand. "...Huh."

Steve laughs. "There he is."

Dustin grins, dropping everything onto the kitchen table with considerably more force than necessary. "Happy birthday, old man."

"Thanks."

"You look ancient."

"I'm twenty-three."

"Exactly."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You'll understand one day."

"I'll never be twenty-three."

"You literally will."

"I refuse."

The conversation dissolves into laughter almost immediately.

Nancy is still trying to work out where everyone's coats are supposed to go. Joyce keeps disappearing back to the kitchen because she insists she's forgotten something. Holly trails after Steve, carrying a balloon almost as big as she is, asking if she can help despite clearly having no idea how. Derek is outside trying to light the barbecue with considerably less success than he'd predicted.

After everything that's happened over the last few years, days like this have become strangely precious. Nothing extraordinary. Nobody saving the world. Just everyone existing in the same place at the same time, talking over one another, stealing chips from each other's plates, and interrupting conversations with terrible jokes as though they haven't spent the better part of adolescence fighting monsters together.

More than once, you catch Steve quietly looking around the room.

Not at anything in particular.

Just... everyone.

It makes something warm settle gently inside your chest.

Eventually, as plates begin disappearing into the kitchen, Dustin freezes mid-conversation. "...Oh."

Steve glances up. "What?"

Dustin slaps a hand dramatically against his forehead. "...I forgot your present."

Robin doesn't even look up from her drink. "No, you didn't."

"I did."

"You absolutely didn't."

"I absolutely-" He stops, sighing with theatrical defeat. "...Fine."

Steve laughs. "I knew it."

"You were supposed to believe me."

"I've known you too long."

Dustin disappears into the hallway before returning a moment later, carrying something wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper. It's awkwardly shaped, too large to be a book and too flat to be anything else. Without meeting Steve's eyes, he thrusts it into his hands. "There."

Steve turns it over carefully. "...What's this?"

"I said don't ask questions."

"You literally handed it to me."

"I know."

"Can I open it?"

Dustin rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. "...Yeah."

The room gradually quietens. Even Mike abandons the card game long enough to look over.

Steve peels the paper back with surprising care, trying not to tear it.

Inside is a thick scrapbook.

The cover is slightly crooked, one corner clearly glued back into place after an unfortunate accident, and across the front, in unmistakably Dustin Henderson handwriting, is written a single word.

STEVE.

Nothing else. Just... Steve.

His smile falters almost immediately.

Slowly, he opens it.

The first page is covered in old cinema tickets from Family Video movie nights.

The second is photographs.

Robin asleep against his shoulder. Lucas laughing so hard at something Steve had said that he's almost falling over. Max pulling a face behind Steve's back while he remains blissfully oblivious. A much younger Dustin wearing Steve's sunglasses, the frames so oversized they practically swallow his face.

Then come the things Steve doesn't even remember keeping.

Campaign maps from old Dungeons & Dragons sessions. Drawings Holly had made years ago that somehow ended up forgotten in his glove compartment. Polaroids. County fair wristbands. Birthday invitations. Receipts. Little scraps of paper everyone else would have thrown away.

One page is filled entirely with handwriting.

Robin's. Nancy's. Lucas's. Mike's. Will's.

Even Erica's, squeezed into one corner with the words:

"Don't let it go to your head, Harrington."

Beneath each name is a tiny memory.

"Steve bought me fries because I forgot my wallet."

"He waited outside my maths exam because he knew I'd panic afterwards."

"Drove us home in a thunderstorm even though he hates driving in the rain."

"He always says yes."

"Best babysitter ever."

Steve turns the next page much more slowly.

His fingertips linger against the edges as though he's frightened of damaging something.

"...Dude." His voice is barely above a whisper.

Dustin shrugs without looking up. "I know."

"You..." Steve lets out one quiet, disbelieving laugh. "...You made this?"

"...Shut up."

"No, seriously."

"It wasn't a big deal."

Robin snorts immediately. "He spent three weeks chasing us for photos."

"I did not."

"You literally made Joyce search her loft."

"That," Dustin points accusingly, "was research."

"And you bullied me into writing two pages."

"You wrote three because you got emotional."

"I did not."

"You absolutely-"

"Shut up, Henderson."

Laughter ripples around the room.

Steve doesn't join in.

He's still turning the pages. Slowly. As though every photograph contains a memory he'd forgotten belonged to him.

Then he stops. Halfway through the book.

You can't see the page from where you're standing.

You only notice the way his expression changes.

His shoulders soften. His eyes linger. His thumb brushes gently across whatever Dustin has glued onto the paper. "...You kept that?"

Dustin finally looks up. "...Yeah."

Steve swallows. "I didn't even know anybody still had it."

Dustin shrugs as though the answer should be obvious. "You don't throw away stuff that matters."

The words are so matter-of-fact that Dustin probably doesn't even realise what he's said.

But the room falls quiet anyway.

Because Steve is looking down at years of little moments he'd long since forgotten.

Movie tickets. Drawings. Receipts. Photographs. Inside jokes. Evidence. Proof that people had been quietly collecting pieces of him long before he'd ever thought to collect pieces of himself.

You watch him blink rapidly once. Then again.

Very carefully, he closes the scrapbook, resting one hand against its cover. "...Thank you."

Dustin clears his throat. "Yeah." A beat. "...Don't cry, dude."

Steve laughs softly, rubbing quickly beneath one eye. "I'm not crying."

Robin doesn't even glance up from her drink. "Third lie of the day."

Another ripple of laughter breaks the silence, the conversation slowly picking back up around him. But you notice something Steve doesn't seem aware he's doing.

He never lets go of the scrapbook.

Every time somebody shifts it to make room on the table, his hand finds it again almost instinctively, fingertips resting lightly against the cover as though he's quietly reassuring himself that it's still there.

The presents continue throughout the afternoon, though calling them presents hardly feels accurate anymore. Some are wrapped carefully, others arrive in supermarket carrier bags or with the price stickers hastily scratched away, and none of them are particularly expensive. None of them need to be. Somewhere between Robin's card and Dustin's scrapbook, the day has quietly stopped being about gifts at all; instead, it becomes a long series of people finding their own ways to tell Steve Harrington that they love him.

Lucas is next. He hands Steve a neatly wrapped box with a shrug that tries very hard to look casual, though he watches far too closely as Steve begins peeling back the paper. "It's not a big deal."

Steve smiles. "It didn't have to be."

Inside is a new baseball glove, the leather still stiff and untouched. Steve hadn't asked for one, but Lucas had noticed weeks ago that the stitching was beginning to unravel on the old glove he used whenever he played with the kids.

"You remembered," Steve says, turning it carefully in his hands.

Lucas looks almost confused. "Well... yeah."

"You noticed that?"

"You use it every week."

A quiet laugh escapes Steve. "I didn't think anybody was paying attention."

"Steve." Lucas shakes his head as though the answer should be obvious. "We notice everything."

Steve looks down again, his thumb moving slowly across the smooth leather before he thanks him with one of those small, genuine smiles that always reaches his eyes. Across the garden, Erica loudly informs Derek that the new glove still won't make Steve any less terrible at baseball, prompting Lucas to shout something defensive on his behalf while Steve laughs and calls them both ungrateful.

Max wanders over a few minutes later carrying nothing but a dog-eared paperback she'd spent the last month insisting he needed to read.

"You keep stealing mine," she says, pushing it into his hands. "Now you have your own."

Steve turns the book over. "I thought you liked lending them to me."

"I don't. I like getting them back eventually."

"I always return them."

"After six months."

"They're long books."

"They're four hundred pages."

"I'm a slow reader."

"I know." Her mouth twitches despite herself, but the amusement fades as she hesitates, scuffing the toe of her trainer against the grass. "...Thanks, though."

Steve blinks. "For what?"

"For always treating me like..." She pauses, searching for something precise enough. "...Just me. You never acted like I was broken."

His smile softens immediately. "You aren't."

"I know." Max shrugs one shoulder, suddenly fascinated by the book in his hands. "You just made it easier to remember."

She bumps her shoulder against his before walking away, leaving Steve watching after her for a moment before his attention drops back to the paperback. Nearby, Will quietly makes room for her beside him on the patio steps, neither of them saying anything as she steals a crisp from his plate.

Nancy catches Steve later while he's helping Joyce carry a tray of drinks into the garden. She slips a small envelope into his pocket so discreetly that nobody else notices. "Open it later."

He raises an eyebrow. "Secret?"

"I'd rather Robin didn't make fun of me."

"Fair."

When you find him reading it alone in the hallway a little while later, you discover it isn't really a birthday card at all. It's a letter, short enough to fit on half a page but written with the sort of care that makes every sentence feel deliberate. Nancy thanks him for always showing up, for never once asking whether somebody deserved saving before trying anyway, and for reminding her that kindness and courage were never mutually exclusive.

She ends simply:

The world is better because you're in it.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Jonathan doesn't write anything. That wouldn't be him.

Instead, while everyone mills around the garden balancing paper plates and cups of lemonade, he quietly hands Steve a photograph he'd developed himself. It was taken the previous summer, though nobody had realised Jonathan was holding a camera that afternoon. Steve is sitting on the grass with Holly asleep against one shoulder while Joyce is topping up everybody's drinks without asking. Will is showing Max one of his sketches, Mike is laughing at something beyond the frame, and El is lying flat on the grass looking at clouds.

You aren't looking at the camera either.

You're looking at Steve, smiling in that completely unconscious way people only ever do when they don't know they're being watched.

On the back, Jonathan has written a single sentence.

You always make it feel like home.

Steve stares at it for a long time. "...You took this?"

Jonathan nods. "You looked happy."

"I was."

"I know."

A quiet, bewildered laugh leaves Steve as he looks around the garden. Nancy is collecting empty plates; meanwhile, Robin is stealing chips off them before they can be picked up and taken into the kitchen. Everyone is talking over everyone else. Nobody is paying Steve any particular attention anymore.

The celebration has simply become itself.

"...You all remembered," he says, his voice nearly lost beneath the noise.

Jonathan studies him for a moment before giving the smallest shake of his head. "No."

Steve frowns. "What?"

"We didn't just remember." Jonathan glances towards the garden. "We wanted to."

It's such an ordinary sentence, spoken so quietly it almost disappears beneath the laughter drifting through the open door, but you watch something shift inside Steve anyway.

All day, some part of him has been waiting for somebody to admit they felt obligated; that birthdays are merely something decent people acknowledge because convention tells them to. Instead, every person keeps offering him the same truth in a different form.

Not simply happy birthday, but:

I'm glad you're here.

You make things better.

Life would look different without you.

And, perhaps for the first time in his life, Steve doesn't quite know what to do with the possibility that every one of them genuinely means it.

By the time the sun begins dipping behind the trees, the garden has dissolved into the sort of comfortable chaos that always seems to follow this particular group of people. Dustin and Erica have started teaching Holly a card game that she keeps accidentally cheating at. Mike and Lucas are throwing around a football, while El keeps spectacularly missing the catches and laughing anyway. Hopper has claimed the garden chair furthest from the noise with the determination of a man pretending not to enjoy himself, and Jonathan wanders quietly between them with his camera, capturing moments nobody else seems to notice.

Joyce, meanwhile, has somehow produced enough food to cater for an entire wedding.

Steve stands in the kitchen doorway, staring at the dining table. "...Joyce."

She looks up from the casserole she's carrying. "Hm?"

"There's enough food here to feed about thirty people."

"I know."

"There are, like, twelve of us."

"I know."

He gestures helplessly towards the mountain of dishes covering every available surface. "How did you even make all this?"

Joyce shrugs as though she'd thrown together a sandwich rather than enough food to sustain Hawkins through the winter. "I got carried away."

Robin wanders past and steals a roast potato straight from the tray. "She always gets carried away."

"I heard that."

"I wanted you to."

Steve laughs, shaking his head. "This is ridiculous."

Joyce smiles without looking up. "I know."

Nobody goes hungry when Joyce Byers is involved. Plates are filled faster than they're emptied, second helpings appear before anyone has the chance to refuse them, and every attempt to help clear away is met with a gentle but immovable, "Sit down. I've got it."

Steve tries anyway. Of course he does.

He appears beside Joyce with an armful of empty plates before she's even reached the sink. "I can help."

"I know." She takes them from him. "But today's your birthday."

"I don't mind."

"I know." She smiles at him over the top of the washing-up bowl. "So let somebody look after you for once."

The words are spoken so casually they almost disappear beneath the rush of running water, but you see Steve pause.

Only for a second.

Later, after dinner has dissolved into coffee, cake and half a dozen conversations happening at once, you wander back into the kitchen in search of more plates and find Joyce standing at the counter surrounded by plastic containers. She fills one, then another, then another: pasta, roast potatoes, slices of pie, enough leftovers to feed two people for the better part of a week.

Steve wanders in behind you just as she's clipping the lid onto the final container. "...Joyce?"

"Hm?"

"What's all this?"

She looks at him as though the answer is obvious. "Your dinners."

"My..."

"You work long shifts." She stacks another container neatly on top. "And I know you'll forget to cook for yourself if I don't send you home with something."

Steve laughs softly. "You don't have to do that."

"I know."

"You've already fed all of us."

"I know."

"This is too much."

Joyce finally stops what she's doing, placing both hands on the lid of the last container before sliding the entire stack towards him. "You'll take these."

He hesitates. "I don't need-"

"I wasn't asking."

There's no sharpness to it, no irritation, only the gentle certainty of someone who has spent years making sure the people she loves never leave her house hungry.

Steve looks down at the containers, then back at Joyce, and something shifts across his face so quickly that, had you not been watching for it all day, you might have missed it.

Recognition.

Not of the food.

Of the feeling.

Joyce has done this before: when he'd arrived after a shift looking exhausted, when he'd spent too many evenings helping the kids instead of himself, when she'd quietly wrapped slices of lasagne in foil because she'd "made too much again," despite everyone knowing perfectly well she'd cooked extra on purpose.

You realise, with a sudden ache beneath your ribs, that she has been mothering Steve for years. Neither of them has ever said it aloud. Neither of them has needed to.

Joyce notices his silence. "What?"

Steve blinks, almost startled back into the room. "...Nothing."

"You've got that look where you're thinking too hard."

A small smile finds him. "I was just..." He glances down at the containers again. "...Nobody's ever packed me leftovers before."

The kitchen falls unexpectedly quiet.

Joyce's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Oh, sweetheart." She reaches out without hesitation, smoothing an affectionate hand over his shoulder as though she's done it a hundred times before. "Well." Another gentle squeeze. "They do now."

Steve doesn't answer. He only nods once, swallowing a little too hard before carefully carrying the stack across the kitchen and opening the fridge. He rearranges half the shelves to make room, setting each container inside with absurd precision before closing the door as though he's placing something valuable somewhere safe.

They're only leftovers. A few plastic tubs that will probably become lunch before work tomorrow.

But as you watch his hand linger briefly on the fridge handle, you realise they were never really about food at all. They were proof that somebody had been thinking about tomorrow on his behalf.

For someone who'd spent most of his life quietly taking care of everyone else, that might just have been the greatest gift he'd received all day.

When he finally wanders back outside, the evening has settled into that soft golden hour where everything seems to slow down. Fairy lights strung between the fence posts have begun to glow faintly against the darkening sky, somebody has started another pot of coffee, and the birthday cake sits half-demolished in the middle of the table, one candle still stubbornly refusing to go out despite Robin's repeated attempts to blow it over with exaggerated determination.

You lean against the kitchen doorway for a moment, simply watching.

Steve barely makes it back onto the patio before Dustin catches him again, insisting he absolutely has to see the scrapbook page he'd forgotten to point out earlier. Mike throws a crisp at him. Lucas joins in without even asking what they're arguing about. Max rolls her eyes so dramatically you're surprised they don't disappear entirely.

And through it all...

Steve laughs.

Not the polite laugh he gives customers. Not the awkward one he used to force whenever his parents invited colleagues over for dinner.

This one is different.

Loose. Easy. It belongs here.

You don't think he'd even realised the difference.

Not until today.

Hopper chooses his moment carefully.

He waits until Steve wanders away from the noise with another cup of coffee, escaping towards the edge of the garden where the old oak tree throws long shadows across the grass. It's the sort of place Steve always drifts towards when everything gets a little too loud - not because he dislikes the company, but because he's always needed a minute to breathe between moments.

Hopper follows a few seconds later.

Not obviously.

You watch from the patio without saying anything.

Steve hears the footsteps and glances over his shoulder. "Oh. Hey."

Hopper grunts something that could generously be interpreted as a greeting before stopping beside him.

For a while, neither of them says anything.

They simply stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out across the garden while laughter drifts faintly behind them. Joyce is gathering empty mugs onto a tray. Nancy is folding paper napkins that don't really need folding. Robin has somehow persuaded Holly to help blow bubbles across the garden while Dustin insists bubbles are scientifically impossible to catch.

Steve smiles into his coffee. "...Nice day."

Hopper nods once. "Yeah."

Silence settles again.

Not uncomfortable. Just... Hopper.

Eventually, he clears his throat. "Happy birthday."

Steve looks faintly surprised. "Oh." A small smile appears. "...Thanks."

Another long pause passes, and you almost wonder whether that's going to be the entire conversation.

Then Hopper speaks again, his eyes still fixed somewhere out across the garden. "You've done good."

Steve frowns. "What?"

"The kids."

A shrug. "They're good kids."

"They are." Hopper nods slowly. "They're better because you're around."

Steve's expression changes almost imperceptibly.

Hopper keeps talking before he has the chance to interrupt. "I've seen the way they look at you." Only then does he turn his head. "They trust you."

Steve opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

"You didn't have to keep showing up." Hopper's voice is as gruff as ever. "Nobody asked you to." Another pause. "But you did."

Steve looks down at the coffee cup in his hands. "I just..." A quiet laugh escapes him. "...They needed somebody."

"They did." Hopper nods once. "They got you."

For a moment, neither of them moves.

The sounds of the party carry on behind them as though nothing extraordinary is happening. Someone starts another round of Happy Birthday purely to annoy Steve. Robin groans loudly enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear.

Steve laughs automatically.

His eyes, however, have become suspiciously bright.

Hopper notices.

Naturally.

He pretends not to.

Instead, he reaches out, giving Steve's shoulder one firm, awkward squeeze before offering his hand.

Steve blinks. "...Really?"

"What?"

"The handshake."

"I'm trying."

Steve laughs through the thickness in his throat. "I know."

He takes Hopper's hand.

The handshake lasts barely two seconds.

It's probably the closest Hopper has ever come to saying I'm proud of you.

When he lets go, he clears his throat. "Don't make it weird."

"I wasn't gonna."

"You were thinkin' about it."

"...Maybe."

Hopper points back towards the house. "Go enjoy your party."

Steve smiles. "...Yeah."

He watches Hopper wander back towards the others before letting his gaze drift across the garden.

Robin has somehow ended up with Holly asleep against her shoulder despite loudly insisting children "smell weird". Joyce is packing slices of cake into foil while Nancy labels the containers before anyone can forget whose is whose. Lucas and Mike have wandered to the end of the garden with a football, Jonathan is crouched beside the flowerbed trying to photograph a butterfly Holly spotted, and Erica is shamelessly raiding the snack table one last time before anybody notices.

You catch Steve's eye from across the lawn.

He smiles at you.

Not because anything funny has happened. Not because he's trying to.

Simply because, for perhaps the first time all day, he's beginning to understand what every single person has been trying to tell him.

He hadn't just been thrown a birthday party.

He was home.

By the time the last of the washing up has been stacked beside the sink, the house has settled into a gentler kind of noise.

The loud laughter has softened into quieter conversations, and the music drifting from the old radio has become little more than background static. Through the kitchen doorway you can still see everyone scattered comfortably around the house, no longer celebrating in any organised sense of the word, simply... staying.

Robin has somehow ended up half-curled across one end of the sofa, arguing lazily with Max over what film everyone should watch before they eventually leave. El sits cross-legged on the rug with Mike, the two of them still passionately debating something that nobody else is listening to anymore, while Will quietly contributes the occasional comment that neither of them acknowledges. Joyce is wrapping the last slices of birthday cake in foil, Hopper pretending not to help while hovering close enough to hand her the tape every few minutes without ever admitting that's exactly what he's doing. Holly has fallen asleep against Nancy's side, Jonathan is carefully packing away his camera, and Erica is wandering through the living room helping herself to whatever snacks everyone else has forgotten about.

Nobody seems in any hurry to go home. Nobody seems to want the day to end.

Steve stands beside you at the sink, drying the final plate with considerably more concentration than the task really requires.

He's been quieter ever since Hopper wandered back inside. Not unhappy. Just... Thoughtful.

You hand him another plate, and he dries it automatically before speaking into the comfortable silence. "...I don't get it."

You glance sideways. "What don't you get?"

A quiet laugh escapes him, though it carries none of its usual ease. "Today." He runs the tea towel slowly around the edge of the plate. "They all..." He trails off, searching for words. "...They actually wanted to come."

The sentence settles heavily between you. Not because of what he's saying. Because of what he's accidentally revealing.

You wait.

He keeps looking down at the plate in his hands. "I know birthdays are..." He shrugs awkwardly. "People feel like they have to come, right? You buy a present. You sing. You eat cake." Another small shrug. "It's just... what people do."

You lean your hip against the counter. "Is that what you think today was?"

"I don't know." His smile is almost embarrassed. "It didn't feel like that."

"No."

"They weren't just doing birthday stuff."

"No."

He looks through the doorway towards the living room, where Robin has thrown another cushion at Dustin, Lucas catches it before it reaches him, and Joyce laughs so hard she has to steady herself against the arm of the sofa. "...They were celebrating me."

You smile. "They were."

He looks back at you, his brow creasing slightly. "I've never..." The sentence never reaches the end. Instead, he laughs quietly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "...I don't think I've ever had that before."

Your heart aches. Not because he's upset. Because he says it with such genuine surprise, as though the possibility had never once occurred to him.

You reach for his hand. "C'mere."

He follows without question.

You lead him slowly through the house without saying anything, simply letting him look.

Nancy is gently lifting Holly so she doesn't wake her. Hopper is quietly locking the back door, while Joyce wraps up slices of cake in individual napkins. Jonathan is wiping down camera lenses, Mike has drifted asleep in the armchair, and El gently covers him with a blanket. Robin is trying to convince Max that one more film won't kill anyone, despite half the room already falling asleep, while Erica is counting how much birthday cake she's managed to smuggle home.

Nobody's performing anymore. The party is over. This is simply what remains. People comfortable enough to exist in one another's spaces without needing a reason.

Steve watches them quietly. "They're still here."

"Mhm."

"They don't have to be."

"No."

"They've all got homes."

"They do."

He looks around again, confusion softening into something quieter. "So why..."

You squeeze his hand gently. "They are home."

He frowns. "What?"

"They're home." You smile. "And so are you."

This time he really looks.

Robin. Dustin. Lucas. Max. Mike. Will. El. Joyce. Hopper. Nancy. Jonathan. Erica. Holly. Derek.

People who had arrived separately, from entirely different corners of his life, and somehow fit together now. People who, before him, had never all belonged in the same room.

"You spent years looking after everyone because you thought that's what made you useful."

His eyes meet yours.

"You drove them everywhere. You showed up. You fixed things. You carried everyone else's worries until they stopped feeling so heavy."

He nods slowly. "I thought..."

"I know." You step closer, your thumb brushing gently across his knuckles. "But somewhere along the way... they stopped needing you because of what you did."

His brow furrows.

"They stayed because of who you are."

The words seem to settle somewhere deep inside him.

"You became loved long before you even noticed."

For a long moment he simply looks at you.

Then his eyes begin to shine again.

You smile softly. "I've still got one more present."

He blinks. "You do?"

"Mhm."

You disappear upstairs for barely a minute before returning with something wrapped carefully in plain brown paper and tied with twine.

Steve laughs quietly. "I thought we'd finished."

"We had." You place it gently into his hands. "This one's different."

He unwraps it slowly.

Inside is a dark leather-bound photo album.

No title. No ribbon.

Just his name, pressed carefully into the cover in tiny gold letters.

Steve.

He opens it.

The first page isn't a photograph.

Just a single sentence:

You spend so much of your life looking after everybody else.

He turns the page.

Steve teaching Dustin how to drive. Steve asleep on the sofa with Holly curled against his chest. Robin laughing so hard she's crying while Steve looks completely bewildered. Max stealing chips from his plate. Lucas teaching him a ridiculous handshake. Jonathan catching him mid-laugh behind the camera. Joyce handing him another plate of food. Hopper clapping him awkwardly on the shoulder.

You.

All of them.

Beneath each photograph you've written a single line.

Not describing the picture.

Describing what it meant:

The day Dustin stopped needing a babysitter and started needing a brother.

The first time Robin laughed like she wasn't afraid anymore.

The afternoon you accidentally became Holly's favourite person.

He keeps turning the pages until he reaches the last one.

There are only six words:

Home isn't always somewhere you arrive.

He turns one final page:

Sometimes it's something you build.

Nothing else.

Steve doesn't realise he's crying until a tear lands quietly on the paper.

He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, shaking his head. "...Honey."

Very gently, you close the album beneath his hands.

"So..." You smile. "Happy birthday."

He looks at you for a long moment.

Then, without saying a single word, he wraps both arms around you.

Not because he doesn't know what to say.

Because, for perhaps the first time in his life... being loved has left Steve Harrington completely speechless.

By the time the two of you finally climb into bed, the house has fallen completely silent.

The fairy lights outside the bedroom window still glow faintly against the darkness, casting soft pools of amber across the ceiling, and somewhere downstairs the dishwasher hums steadily through the last traces of the evening. Steve's birthday cards are stacked neatly on the dresser, Robin's sitting proudly on top, still slightly bent where she'd thrown it at his head that morning.

The leather photo album rests beside them.

Closed now, but not put away.

You curl instinctively beneath the duvet, expecting exhaustion to pull you under almost immediately after such a long day.

It doesn't.

Some time later, you wake to find Steve still lying beside you, exactly where he'd been when you fell asleep. Only now his eyes are open, fixed quietly on the ceiling, his hands folded loosely across his stomach as though he's trying to untangle a thought that's been sitting with him for hours.

"...Hey."

He turns his head. "Oh." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologise for existing."

A tired smile appears. "I know."

You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. "What're you thinking about?"

For a while, he doesn't answer. The silence between the two of you has never needed filling.

Eventually, he lets out a quiet breath. "...When I was little..." He laughs softly to himself. "...I always wished I'd grown up with a big family."

The confession catches you off guard. He keeps looking at the ceiling.

"I used to imagine one of those really noisy houses. People everywhere. Dinner all squashed around one table. Too many birthdays. Too many Christmas presents." He smiles faintly at the thought before it fades again. "I don't know... I just thought it'd be nice."

You reach across the mattress until your fingers find his. He threads them through yours automatically.

"I thought..." He swallows. "...I thought I'd missed my chance."

You shake your head. "No."

For the first time since he started talking, he turns to look at you. "No?"

"You didn't miss it."

His brow furrows.

"You built it."

A quiet, disbelieving laugh escapes him. "I don't..."

"You've got Robin. Dustin. Lucas. Max. Mike. Will. El. Erica." You smile gently. "Nancy. Jonathan. Joyce. Hopper. Holly." You pause. "And me."

His eyes soften.

"They're your family, Steve."

He looks away again. "They..."

"They are."

"I know they care about me, but-"

"No." You squeeze his hand before he can disappear back into old habits. "They don't love you because you drove them everywhere. They don't love you because you babysat them. They don't love you because you fixed every problem before anyone else even noticed it."

You think back over the day.

Robin's card. Dustin's scrapbook. Jonathan's photograph. Joyce quietly packing tomorrow's dinner before Steve had even thought about feeding himself. Hopper, standing beneath the oak tree, trying to say I'm proud of you without ever using the words.

"They love you because you're Steve."

The room falls quiet again.

"You spent years believing people only stayed because you made yourself useful."

His eyes glisten.

"But somewhere along the way..." You smile. "...they stayed anyway."

He lets out one small, disbelieving laugh. "...When did that happen?"

"I honestly don't think anybody knows."

You think about Dustin, twelve years old, following Steve everywhere. Robin slowly deciding she could trust him. Joyce wrapping leftovers in foil because she'd quietly started expecting him for dinner. Holly climbing into his lap without asking.

None of it had happened all at once.

There wasn't a single moment where strangers became family.

It happened on ordinary Tuesdays. On lifts home from school. Movie nights. Late-night phone calls. Shared meals. Inside jokes.

One quiet act of kindness after another until, somehow, nobody could remember a version of life that didn't include Steve Harrington standing somewhere in the middle of it.

"It just..." Your thumb brushes gently across his knuckles. "...Kept happening."

His breathing catches.

You nod gently towards the bedroom door, beyond which the cards, photographs and carefully stacked leftovers still wait downstairs.

"If every single person chose to spend today celebrating you..." Your voice is barely louder than the rain-soft silence outside. "...it's because every single one of them can't imagine their life without you in it."

For a long time, he doesn't speak.

His breathing catches once. Then again.

He laughs quietly through the tears gathering in his eyes. "...You're really laying it on thick for a birthday."

"I know."

"You trying to make me cry?"

You smile, brushing the same stubborn strand of hair away from his forehead that you'd smoothed back that morning. "No." A gentle kiss against his temple. "I'm just telling you the truth."

Something inside him finally gives way.

Not dramatically. There are no great sobs. No speeches.

Just one quiet exhale that seems to carry years of loneliness away with it.

A tear slips silently down his cheek. Then another.

Without saying a word, he turns towards you and buries his face against your neck exactly as though that's where he'd always belonged.

You wrap your arms around him instinctively, your fingers disappearing into his hair as he lets himself be held. Completely.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Steve Harrington doesn't apologise for crying.

He doesn't explain it away. He simply allows someone else to carry the weight for a little while.

You press one last kiss into his hair. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

His reply is almost lost against your shoulder. "...Best one I've ever had."

You close your eyes, holding him a little tighter as the fairy lights continue glowing softly beyond the bedroom window.

This morning he'd asked if he could skip his birthday.

Now, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing against your chest, you realise birthdays were never really supposed to celebrate surviving another year.

Sometimes they're simply an excuse for everybody who loves you to remind you how very glad they are that you did.

dividers: saradika-graphics

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[cinelordi]

PLEASE SUPPORT MY JOE KEERY EDIT ON TIKTOK 🙏

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[snoopyharrington]

tied

au: 90s hockey!steve x college student!reader content warnings: angst/hurt comfort, hopeful ending, a bit of fluff, talks of casual hookups/sleeping together, alcohol, reader has self-esteem issues, not proofread (sorry), this is a little sadder than my usual stuff </3 word count: 1.7k a/n: can you guys actually believe i wrote something

based on this original hockey!steve blurb! (this will definitely make more sense if you read it first)

You're not quite sure what time it is, but based on the dwindling sounds of the party going on inside the expansive hockey house, you guess it's nearing some obscene early morning hour.

Lately, you've been unsure of a lot of things. More than usual, you suppose. Why Steve Harrington is trying to sleep with you, for one, though you guess your reputation precedes you, and not in a way that feels particularly flattering.

A pang of self-hatred rattles through your chest and you swallow harshly, squeezing your eyes shut, as if the actions will physically remove the feeling from your body.

You wish it were that easy.

Currently, you're most unsure of why you're still at the hockey house. They won their game tonight. Another easy accomplishment for the university's team, unsurprisingly led by Steve, their superstar player and shoo-in for captain next year. You've heard that he's already getting scouted by NHL teams, but his golden boy repute means that he'll finish his degree before heading off to a fruitful career as a professional hockey player.

You scoff at the thought. You try not to let the jealousy build in your body, but you can't help it — Steve's gotten everything he's wanted since the beginning of time. You don't need to know him to prove your point; he just radiates that very fact.

So, again. Why are you laying on a lounge chair in the backyard of the hockey house, fully knowing the party is dead and there's nothing left for you to do but go home?

You know you could go inside, make eye contact, and flirt with any one of the remaining players who are sober enough to make a conscious decision, and find enough warmth for the night to get by.

But you don't want to do that.

For some stupid, pathetic reason, you're holding out for him, and you have no idea why.

You sigh and pull the cigarette from behind your ear, then grab the lighter from your bra. You feel like you've made an idiot of yourself over the past few weeks. Ever since Steve initially propositioned you, you've slept with three of his teammates, for no reason other than wanting him to know what it feels like to want something. But each time you fucked them, it was boring, wearisome, and you thought about Steve the entire time.

You hate it.

You think you hate Steve, too, but you know that's not true, either.

You're taking a drag and staring at your shoes when the man who's been haunting your thoughts finally makes an appearance in the dark backyard. There's still a string of lights up, a pitiful attempt at college students making their outdoor space look presentable, not to mention the litter of empty, crushed beer cans and solo cups.

Steve furrows his eyebrows when he recognizes you, immediately worrying that you're passed out with a lit cigarette in your hand, or too drunk to get home. When he approaches you, you smirk lazily at him. He swallows.

"Harrington," you greet, your throat dry from its lack of use. You don't know how long ago you came out here, but you do know that at some point, you decided you'd had enough of the loud speakers and beer pong, and the guy on the basketball team who kept pawing at your short skirt was getting seriously old.

"Are you alright?" Steve asks, gesturing to your sluggish profile. You shrug your shoulders before taking another drag from your cigarette, then wordlessly offer it to Steve. He shakes his head.

"Fine," you murmur, sitting up so your back is against the length of the chair, "You?"

"Just doing a sweep before heading to bed. Making sure there's no one lingering from the party."

"Am I a lingerer?" you ask, tossing your cigarette in the grass and crushing it with your shoe.

Steve lifts a hand to run it through his messy hair. He's exhausted. You can see it in the bags beneath his eyes.

"You don't live here, so by definition, you're lingering, yeah."

You hum. You can take a hint. You know when you're not wanted somewhere.

"I'll get out of here, then." you say, preparing to stand. Steve reaches out and clasps a hand around your wrist — gently, like you could still pull yourself away if you wanted to.

"Why are you still here?"

Your tongue pokes out to lick your lips. Steve watches, unabashedly, and feels his pants tighten at the sight of it. You want to smirk, because he's one of the easier and more enjoyable men you've played with.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" you purr, leaning towards him, batting your eyelashes. "You were begging to fuck me just a few weeks ago."

Steve laughs, all breathy and without the humor. It's an immediate shot to your ego.

"Are you drunk?" he asks, and you shake your head too quickly. You're not; the shots you had when you got here had worn off hours ago. "Then why are you... I think I'm just a little... confused."

You snort. Try not to roll your eyes. Maybe the golden boy nickname isn't so far anyway.

"You're gonna turn down fucking me when you were all but ready to pay me for it, like, a month ago?"

"I'm not that desperate," Steve mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face, "You were so uninterested then, I don't understand what changed."

You shrug. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Steve says stubbornly, "It does. It matters a lot, actually."

You sigh loudly, then shake your head.

"This is stupid," you mutter, standing up. He doesn't stop you this time. "Don't come to me for that shit ever again."

When you start to walk away, Steve's right behind you, and you wish you're strong enough to push him.

"C'mon, don't do this," you hear him say as you're approaching the sliding glass door. "It's late. Just stay here for the night."

You stop, then turn to look at him with a quirked brow.

He shakes his head. "We're not doing anything though. Not tonight, anyway."

"I don't understand what your problem is, Harrington."

He laughs, tilting his head back to expose his neck. You want to lean forward and mouth at his skin, pressing messy kisses to the length of it all the way down to his chest.

"I don't have a problem."

"Most guys would never shut me down," you say, crossing your arms. "I could go in there and ask any one of your teammates to pound me into their mattress and—"

Suddenly, Steve's hand is on your mouth, a warning look in his eyes. You grin. Even if he can't see it, you know he can feel it from behind his palm.

"Lower your voice," he mumbles. "Will you please just stay? You can take my bed, I'll sleep on the floor, I'll send you off with some breakfast in the morning and everyone will think that we fucked, and it'll be fine and dandy. Yeah? That good enough for you?"

You dart your tongue out to lick his hand. He flinches and instantly retreats, making you laugh.

"God, you're such a baby. Afraid you're gonna get cooties?"

"No."

"Take me upstairs," you say, and Steve's eyes brighten. He must really have some kind of white knight complex and it makes you sigh. "But you're not sleeping on the floor, because we're not 12 years old, and just for the record, I'm not doing this for some kind of reputation maintenance thing."

Steve hums as his hand politely finds the small of your back, guiding you up the stairs and to his bedroom.

"We can sleep in the same bed as long as you promise not to make a move." he murmurs. You stop in front of a wooden door in the middle of the long hallway, waiting as Steve pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks it.

"I would never do that," you whisper. "Seriously, do you think I'm a monster?"

Steve doesn't say anything to that, and instead just leads you into his room. He locks the door behind you and you glance at him. He's already moved on to emptying his pockets onto his desk, getting rid of his wallet and keys. There's not much to Steve's bedroom, just a bed, a dresser, and a desk, but it's clean enough for a college athlete. Your eyes glaze over the small collection of pictures tacked up on the wall over his desk, then some of the hockey paraphernalia throughout the room.

"You want something to wear to bed?"

You look to Steve and nod, and he tosses you a large, worn tee-shirt. You bite your lip as you start to strip your clothes off and you hear Steve curse to himself, making you smirk.

"You could've gone to the bathroom for that, you know," he borderline whines. You grin at him in your bra. He groans and turns around.

When you've shed the rest of your clothing and slipped his shirt on, you tell him he's in the clear. He rolls his eyes and quickly puts his own sweats on, then joins you in the bed.

It's not quite awkward, but you're not exactly going straight for cuddling, not that you had anticipated Steve to be the type. He clicks the light off and lays down next to you, both of you silent as the late hour finally catches up to you.

A few minutes later, Steve breaks the silence.

"Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me tonight?" he whispers.

You blink your eyes open and think for a moment.

You don't have the courage to be honest with yourself, which means you most definitely don't have the courage to be honest with Steve.

You roll onto your side to face him. He does the same, and you lick your lips.

"No," you murmur, hands resting between your cheek and the pillow. "Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me the night of that party?"

Steve closes his eyes and scooches closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. You're a little surprised by the contact, but you tell yourself you let it happen because you're tired and it feels nice.

"Night, trouble."

[sunshinereaderx]

Ahem.

1. That man would never be a single dad

2. That was the cutest thing ever

3. May I suggest he meets a single mom at the park or something?

ɴᴇᴡ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅꜱ

ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴅᴀᴅ ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴍ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ

Steve longed for his weekends with his baby girl, always cramming them full of things to do to make up for lost time. He hated that he’d only been granted the weekends until she was one, counting down the days until they could split custody 50/50.

Today’s adventure was something simple, the park.

“Swings? You like the swings don’t you?” Steve asked placing her down on her feet, holding onto both of her hands above her head to steady her as she wobbled towards them. Still not walking, but close.

“Up!” It was her favourite and one of her only words, Steve’s heart melted every time she said it. It had multiple meanings, hugs, wanting help, wanting something passed to her. It filled him with joy trying to work out which one she wanted.

"Up in daddies arms?" She looked at him, Thinking for a moment before pointing towards the empty swing.

"Up!"

Steve smiled lifting her up into the baby seat of the swing, Pushing her softly as she giggled little fingers gripping onto the bar.

"How old is she?"

Steve turned his head towards you, Looking down at the toddler in your arms before back up at you.

"Oh, She's uhh.." His mind went blank for a moment, Staring at you as you raised your eyebrows at him "Eleven months!" Steve said enthusiastically as his brain started to work again.

"Same as mine" You smiled softly down at the toddler in your arms "They're so sweet when they're this age aren't they?"

"Y-yeah" Steve smiled, turning back towards his daughter to continue pushing her. Steve was usually really sociable but this time it felt different, no one usually bothers him when he's out with his daughter. Nights out? Sure but when he was locked into dad mode? Nothing.

"What's her name?" Steves chest tightened as he looked back over at you, The warm smile on your face making him feel kind of nervous?

"Rosie" Steve spoke softly, almost like he didn't want to tell you. A feeling of guilt washing over him that he definitely shouldn't be talking to another woman even though Rosies mom had made it very clear things between her and Steve were completely over. "What, er, What about yours" He gestured over to your toddler who was now in the swing next to Rosie.

"Daisy" you smiled “Floral names seem to be quite popular”

“I guess” Steve laughed making Rosie start to giggle “That funny baby?” You smiled at the baby voice he used to talk to her, the way her little legs kicked around in excitement from the attention he was giving her.

“Momomom” she babbled hands reaching out towards him, Steve quickly stops the swing pulling her out kissing her cheek before turning towards you with an awkward expression on his face.

"Whys it always mom first?" Steve scoffs as he runs a hand over his face realising how bad that sounds to say to a mom, Heat rushing to his face.

"Well, she's always a 'dadada' girl and she's never even met him" You shrug exhaling, Fuck, Now he really wished he could stop talking.

"Im a single parent too..assuming you're single?" Steve groaned as the words left his mouth, Looking down at Rosie in his arms to try hide the blush creeping across his cheeks AGAIN "Sorry, I shouldn't have assumed that"

"Since I was pregnant" You smiled "But we don't mind do we" You tickle daisy as she swings towards you "Do you..is her mom still in her life?" You ask as you lift daisy from the swing.

"Oh yeah, I only get to spend weekends with her until she's one" Steve half smiles, Kissing the top of Rosies head as he feels a twinge in his chest.

"Must be hard"

"Like you wouldn't believe" Steve sighed "But only three weekends to go!" He grinned squeezing her cheeks softly making her giggle.

"Well, I hope those three weeks go quickly for you.."

"Steve" He holds his spare hand out towards you, You smile shaking his hand softly.

"Maybe ill see you again sometime, Steve"

“Here every weekend, well most anyway.. kids love the park” he replied as he wiped some stray drool off Rosie’s chin “wait what’s your name?” Steve turned to look at you, realising you were already gone.

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Tags: @wishfulhappiness @louisbelongstome28 @Nerdyphantomlady @bellastone @maemeru @kurtsw7rld96 @drlangdonapologist @keerygirlie98 @beainabottle2 @cycloneperson @puertoricanmami87

[sunshinereaderx]

Can I please request dad Steve taking his baby girl to the beach for the first time he’s all flustered that she doesn’t like it or maybe that she’s burning in the sun? I’m not sure if you write for dad Steve so ignore this if you don’t much love

Sorry I ignored this for so long, Thank u for requesting🤍 You didnt mention anything about reader so I made him single dad Steve hope that's okay.

ʙᴇᴀᴄʜ ʙᴀʙʏ

Steve stood barefoot in the sand, chunky baby just turned 11 months old balancing on his hip as he exhaled. Doing his own risk assessment in his head as he looked at how crowded it was, the sun blaring down onto her precious skin, the risk of the water even though she couldn’t walk yet so she couldn’t escape him.

“Hmm” Steve hummed as he looked down at her, grinning up at him showing all of her two teeth. “Wanna give sand a go?” Steve smiled straightening the hat on her head, the biggest sun hat he could find matching her pink swim suit and pink little sunglasses. He didn’t even know they made sunglasses this small, the baby babbled back to him before her chunky hand rips the hat from her head making Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh honey, no” he gently takes the hat from her hand placing it back onto her head “you’ll burn”

Settling against the sand baby still attached to his hip before repositioning her on his lap, letting her little toes gently rest against the sand.

“Feel okay?” Steve asks pressing a kiss to the top of her hat, smiling as her legs raise off the floor and hands turn into little fists “oh you don’t like the sand, that’s okay baby. Daddy doesn’t really like it either, gets in all sorts of places” she turned her head round to face him like she could actually understand what he was saying to her, that’s the thing with Steve. He knew she couldn’t talk back, but he still talked to her like she could in hopes that when she did start talking it would help her. Not at all because since he'd separated from her mom he'd been lonely with no one to talk to.

Steve’s hand scooped up some sand holding it out in front of her face, little hand instantly reaching for it.

“Hey! Good job!” Steve praised, feeling proud. “Here, try this” Steve tipped some of the sand from his into her hand as he smiled, smile dropping off his face as her bottom lip pouted out and she turned her hand over to drop it. “Oh baby” Steve spoke softly making her bottom lip pout out more before she started to cry. “No more sand, daddy promises” Steve says as he lifts her into an embrace, hand soothingly patting against her back “hmm, you feel warm, are you burning?” Steve sighed wondering why he ever thought the beach would be a good idea. “Maybe we should head home, would you like that?” Steve asked looking down at her, big eyes filled with tears gazing up at him making him sigh “we’re fine, nothings gonna happen to us” Steve mumbled to himself before standing up, moving her onto his hip again “let’s try something else, sand a bit..” he shook his head as he started walking towards the water hoping it would be warm from the sun.

“Okay baby, just like a bath” he grinned down at her, earning himself a toothy grin back as he stepped into the warm water. Crouching down a little so her feet were submerged in the water, Heart fluttering in his chest at the smile on her face as she kicked her legs around splashing. "Oh, So you're a water baby!" Steve laughs happy to finally see a smile on her face.

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[sunshinereaderx]

Single dad stevie is so cute! I just wanted to ask what you think might happen if one day Steve and Robin take Rosie somewhere (maybe a walk in the park or perhaps she needs some new clothes at the shop- baby’s grow very quickly) and you happen to be there and Robin starts to tease stevie saying he has a crush on you. Maybe Robin could ask you about daisy’s dad and we explore him a bit? I kinda want them to get to know each other better. This is a jumbled mess I’m so sorry 😅

P.s your writing is amazing thank you for sharing it with us all 💛

ᴛᴏᴍᴀᴛᴏ

ʀᴏʙɪɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴛꜱ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ & ɪꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴠɪɴᴄᴇᴅ ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ

"Cant you just get her any colour?" Robin asked as she held onto both of Rosies hands helping her walk through the isles.

"No, She- She likes pink" Steve shrugs looking down at Rosie like he was waiting for her to back him up "Hey! Make sure you're holding her hands so she doesn't fall!" Steve said raising his eyebrows at Robin making her roll her eyes.

"She doesn't even know her colours yet" Robin shot back scooping the toddler up into her arms, Grabbing a blue onesie off the shelf "Rosie? What do you think about this?" She beamed down at her, Steve stood with his hands on his hips as Rosie squealed clapping her hands together at Robin "See?" She smirked at Steve.

"Yeah but her mom wouldn't wa.."

"Steve you know you don't have to do everything she says right?" Robin rolled her eyes again making Steve shake his head before reaching out pulling Rosie from her arms.

"I know" He replied barely above a whisper, Resting his head on top of Rosie's as he looked at the mountain of pink clothes already stacked in the basket.

"Are you stalking me?" You smirk as you walk towards Steve, Noticing the awkward expression on his face before he opened his mouth to talk. Robins eyes flickering between the two of you noticing the blush creeping across Steves face.

"N- no of course not" Steve stuttered making Robin scoff, You turned to face her eyebrows raised "Uh, This is Robin" Steve muttered pointing towards her.

"Hey Robin" You smiled softly before turning your attention to Rosie who was beaming at you from Steve's arms "Rosie girl" You cooed stepping closer to squidgy her chubby cheeks. Robins eyes instantly moving to Steve who was sporting a flustered look,Robin turned her attention back to you.

"Oh! You must be the single mom!" Robin all but shouted as it all clicked into place "Steves told me all about you!"

"Oh my god" Steve exhaled rubbing a hand over his face.

"Oh, That's me" You smile, Repositioning Daisy on your hip whose hands were reaching out towards Rosie.

"Robin stop" Steve groaned shooting her a warning look but he already knew once she started, There was no stopping the shit show from unfolding.

"No dad? That sounds HARD" You stared at her, You could basically feel the embarrassment burning off Steve as you stood next to him.

"He left before she was born" You shrug "He didnt want kids and I guess I did" You half smile, Turning back towards Steve who was peppering the top of Rosies head with kisses to try and stop her fussing.

"So he's not in the picture?" Robin asked with wide eyes, Body filled with excitement that Steve might finally be able to move on.

"No" You sigh looking down at Daisy "We like it like that" You kissed the top of Daisy's head, Steves chest tightened as he looked at you. Not being able to imagine doing this all alone, You look up from Daisy meeting his eyes "Are you going swimming next week?" You asked quickly trying to change the heavy feeling now hanging in the air between the three of you.

"Uh, I think so" Steve smiled softly at Daisy who was reaching out towards him, Leaning forward so she could grab at his face like she wanted.

"Good, Ill see you on Saturday then" You grinned "Also, That's a lot of pink" You giggled gesturing to the basket making Steve laugh, Robins eyebrows raising as she watched how bashful he was.

"Cant wait" Steve grinned at you making Robin scoff once again "I mean I cant wait to go swimming" Steve closed his eyes as the words left his mouth.

“Real smooth” Robin mumbled under her breath.

"Shit" Steve muttered making you smile.

"Bye Rosie" You smiled holding Daisy close to her as they babbled as if they were saying there own little goodbyes "Nice to meet you Robin" You smiled before you walked away leaving an embarrassed Steve and a laughing Robin behind.

"Yeah, you too!" Robin grinned, turning back towards Steve who was covering his face with his hand sighing.

"I cant wait to go swimming" Robin mocked, smirking at the blush still present against Steves cheeks as he moved his hand to look down at her.

"Shut up"

"You totally have the hots for her" Robin teased "This is good! This is progress!"

"I dont need to make progress also, I dont have the hots for her" Steve sighed looking down at Rosie "She just..She's in the same situation y'know?"

"Shared trauma" Robin winked "You need to tell her"

"I dont have the hots for her" Steve mumbled tossing another pink dress into the basket.

"So why were you tomato red the whole conversation?" Robin teased stepping closer to Rosie who was still babbling away "Your daddy has a crush"

"I was red?" Steve groaned again, Looking at Robin who was enjoying every second of his suffering.

Thank you my love, I hope this is okay? 🤭

I love getting requests for single dad Steve so if you have any ideas pls dont be shy to send them in!

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[burgundysnow]

Steve gets a Boner around Robin, but he’s so lovesick in the head that he doesn’t even notice. Word count: 0.7k

Steve might have had the best night of his life yesterday. 

That sounds dramatic but it’s really true. 

Taking any pretty girl home from an amazing date, filled with laughing and soft touches? It has his mind filling with comfortable thoughts. 

As if someone took a syringe of boiling love potion and injected it into his head. Now Steve rides the repeated memory of you last night like a broken record. Sunshine and Lolly pops or whatever they call being in love now days.  

Yes he got invited in, and yes there was kissing involved. But it didn’t go beyond that. And somehow Steve wasn’t disappointed. 

Steve’s lips crashed against yours like water against a bridge. Other times they molded onto your skin like when waves flow against the beach. 

And now you’ve got him all sappy thinking about your kisses in stupid beach metaphors. Next he’s going to go onto your touch and then your voice. Maybe about how you even looked at him like the sunset. 

Steve genuinely can’t stop thinking about you. Or the date. Or when he gets to take you out again. Hopefully tonight because anything beyond that sounds too painful. 

“Hey dingus! You still with me?” 

Robin waves a hand in-front of Steve’s face, he’s been staring out the windows of the video store for too long, lost in his own head. 

Steve doesn’t want to be here right now. He wants to be at home maybe getting you roses or thinking about how he could draft a poem about your laugh. Oh gosh that sounded too whipped. 

“Yeah… yeah I’m here.” 

Steve straightens his back with a sigh, putting the dvds on top of each other. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

Robin crosses her arms; she doesn’t like being ignored when they’re the only two people in the store.

“Nobody, I mean-- nothing.” 

Steve sighs again already watching robins eyebrows raise in question. 

“Oh yeah? So it has nothing to do with that?” 

She points down. Steve was so much in his own lover boy head that he didn’t even realize he was straining against his jeans. Dick hard and pushed up against the zipper. 

“Robin what the fuck.”

His hand comes down to palm himself and he scoots the chair more under the counter for less peering eyes. 

“Don’t what the fuck me. Did you have a good time last night?” 

He had the greatest time. Turns out you liked all of Steve’s lame ass jokes and hesitant touches. You paired so well together and Steve could say something about how you were practically made to fit into his hands and mold against him but that sounds corny. 

It’s also not what Robin is insinuating. 

“No i—“ Steve’s dick twitches as he tries to make it go down. He has to start thinking about something else. “I don’t know why this is happening.” 

Robin stays silent so Steve looks up. She already has both her eyebrows raised like she’s unimpressed he’s lying to her. 

“I don’t!” 

Steve hisses and rubs at his forehead. His mind didn’t even wonder to anything that sexual, just your sweet kisses. And how maybe someday he will buy a house with the intent to make a family with you in it. He’s already decided that if you want a dog then he’ll get a dog. There could be flowers— or a heated pool in the back yard. Is it too soon to say he wants kids with you? What the hell, that is way too fast. And also his hard dick is not backing down.

“Uh huh. Look just don’t get a Bonner around me. It’s fucking weird.” 

He scoffs, as if it’s just that easy.

“You’re just jealous I have a pretty girl to think about and you don’t.” 

“Ooo… You’re just jealous that you don’t have a pretty girl— shut up.” 

Robin does a bad mimicking of his voice and it’s hard not to crack a smile. Amongst other hard things, the smile was actually easy to hide. 

“Look— can you just, run the shop for a while?” 

“So you can go jerk off? No.” 

“I’m not going to—“ Steve sighs and runs another hand down his face. He’s already picking up the phone. 

“I need to make a call.” 

Another date reservation. With you. 

[cinelordi]

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[yesbothways]

To me, the most compelling scene in the new Supergirl was when Kara speaks with her father after seeing that he is making her an escape pod. The dialogue is in Kryptonian. And that is the most poignant and elegant dialogue in the film to me. Kara's lines and the emotion put into her saying to him, "I am only one tiny life," and her calm, clear articulation of her vision of herself being allowed to die beside her people and her mother and father was so profound and existential. And when he explains why they need to her live, you know she would agree. The price, the sheer weight, the endless gravity of that is so obvious. I am honestly not used to that depth in these superhero films. Both her desire and that of her parents felt so authentic. That conveyed tragedy and profound love. An impossible situation. A critical, defining experience. That was the heart of her character to me. When she flew up into space to scream in silence, that was a compelling image. That dialogue, though, hit me deep in my soul. This film would have been worth it for that exchange alone for me. I just can't think of anything I've seen that was like that before.