౨ৎ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: before Hawkins High crowned him “King Steve,” Steve Harrington was your best friend. the boy you biked home with after school, the boy who knew all your secrets, the boy who swore he’d never change. then freshman year happened. his new friends didn’t like that he hung around someone so “pathetic”, and Steve didn’t defend you when they cornered you. one stupid moment of betrayal was all it took to end years of friendship. You hardened yourself, dropped the girl he once knew, and built a life where Steve Harrington no longer existed. but when Will Byers goes missing and your little brother Dustin starts acting suspicious, Hawkins becomes anything but normal. you start noticing strange lights, weird noises in the woods, and a mysterious girl hiding in the Wheeler's basement, and suddenly, Steve is everywhere again. you don’t want anything to do with him, but the world is falling apart, Dustin is in danger, and Steve keeps proving he isn’t the same coward who let you down years ago. as monsters crawl out of the dark and secrets unravel, old wounds reopen and so does the possibility that maybe Steve Harrington was never meant to stay out of your life.
౨ৎ 𝐓𝐖: bullying, verbal harassment, language, violence, past betrayal, alcohol, parties, drugs, toxic relationships, abuse, manipulation, aggression, trauma, jealousy, possessive behavior, angst, canon character death, smut scenes (18+/skippable), normal stranger things stuff, (lmk if I missed anything!)
summary: Four Times You’re Found Out (And One Time You’re Home) OR: A collection of scenes where people you love find out about your relationship (maybe they already knew)
pairing: steve harrington x fem!(byers)reader
word count: 8.3k
warning(s): some swears, plot inaccuracies, definitely canon divergent (please don't come for me), pretend steve and robin still work at family video....also I have no idea when steve's birthday is supposed to be, but just bear with me for the plot, highly unedited, I still apologize for the poor writing (English is unfortunately my first language)
a/n: I am back with a part two!! I just wanted to say a huge thank you for the love you've given project parenthood; it's surreal and very much humbling. I adore getting to hear from y'all and would more than love for that to continue with this one. As always, feedback and comments are highly appreciated, and my inbox is open for anything you may need <3
If you haven’t already, read part one: project parenthood?
I. The Party
This moment feels intensely like deja vu, sitting in Mike Wheeler’s basement—waiting for the start of what you’re sure will be an eventful evening —except, in the last few weeks, so much has changed. Namely, your relationship with Steve. You still catch yourself staring at him, half in disbelief, half in contentment at the thought that he’s actually your boyfriend.
Boyfriend. What a loaded word, you think, as your mind drifts deeper into the sense of familiarity with your current setting.
The Wheeler house, however, remains unchanged by the shift in your evolving dynamic. It’s warm in that familiar, musty, lived-in way it always is — like old carpet, dusty board games, and the faint, perpetual scent of pizza grease that’s soaked into the fabric of the basement couches. The mismatched Christmas lights Will hung in November still twinkle overhead, softening the space into something cozy and oddly safe. Mike declared just days ago that he never wanted to take them down, and so, they remain…another constant despite the obvious changes.
If you’re being honest, you really shouldn’t be here. Or—okay, fine—you should be here, because it’s movie night and you promised Will you’d show up. But, you probably shouldn’t be pressed against Steve Harrington on the old couch like two magnets with no intention of separating.
The movie hasn’t even started yet, but everyone’s getting settled, which actually means Dustin and Mike are arguing about seating arrangements and snack distributions (Dustin won’t stop gatekeeping the Doritos) and Max is threatening to throw Lucas off the couch if he touches her foot one more time. El simply watches the two of you with curiosity in her gaze, as if she’s stumbled upon something precious—something only she has noticed.
Steve sits beside you, thigh touching yours, shoulder brushing yours, and even though you’re trying to look casual, your pulse clearly didn’t get the memo. You thought once you’d kissed him for the first time, this feeling might go away, that you might not be as nervous around him. Clearly, that had been wrong…because now, you feel everything tenfold.
You suppose nervous might not be the right word to describe it. Steve makes you feel alive, like every nerve in your body has been set alight. And you can’t help the spark that shoots up your spine as his breath drifts along the side of your neck.
He leans in, voice dropping just for you. “I think Mike’s about to challenge Dustin to a Doritos duel.”
You stifle a laugh. “It’s always those two.”
“Yeah well,” he murmurs, nudging your knee with his, dipping his hand into the popcorn bowl, “we have the better seats and the better snacks.”
“Because you got here early and claimed your spot,” you point out. And it’s true, he did. He made sure of it.
“Because,” he corrects softly, “I wanted to sit with you. And I knew if I got here any later, you’d have six teens fighting for your attention. Who am I to compete with that?”
You hate how fast that hits you. You hate even more how warm you feel and how you can’t stop smiling.
It’s been a few weeks now — a few weeks of Steve’s hand on your back in passing, a few weeks of stolen kisses in quiet corners, a few weeks of him picking you up from school or work with that soft look he gets only for you. A few weeks of dating.
And somehow, miraculously, none of the kids have figured it out. At least not officially.
Steve shifts, like he can’t help gravitating toward you. His hand drifts onto your knee, thumb brushing a slow arc just above your jeans, the popcorn bowl now discarded onto the coffee table. Your chest warms at the proximity and you inch closer. It’s subtle, small, but your entire body reacts like he whispered something dirty in your ear.
He looks at your lips and you look at his. You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t—
“—Oh my god.”
The statement detonates in the basement, multiple pairs of eyes shooting toward the source of the noise.
You jolt so hard you nearly fall off the couch, Steve’s hand flying off you like you’re radioactive.
Dustin stands frozen near the bottom of the stairs, clutching his bag of chips to his chest. His eyes are huge. His jaw drops open so wide it might hit the floor. The gears in his mind aren’t just turning…they’re spinning.
Mike appears right behind him, finally done arguing. He sees you and Steve sitting suspiciously close, and immediately recoils like he’s walked in on something he never wanted to see.
“No,” Mike mutters, hands waving in mock disgust. He’s put the pieces together. “Oh no, no, no—this is worse than the mom and dad thing.”
Lucas joins them, squinting at the two of you with the precision of a detective. “Did we interrupt something?”
Max pushes past them. “What the hell is going—”
She stops. She sees Steve sitting close enough to share breath with you. She looks at your face, then at his. Then at the space between you, or rather, the lack of it.
Max throws her hands in the air triumphantly. “Called it!” She announces to the ceiling.
You choke. “Called what—?”
“Nope, no, don’t even try,” Max cuts you off, pointing accusingly, wagging her index finger with gross enthusiasm. “Something’s changed,” she narrows her eyes at you in a smug way, “You two are together.”
The way the word together falls from her lips leaves no room for interpretation. You’ve been caught…all thanks to Steve’s wandering gaze. And hey, maybe you’re a little to blame. Just maybe.
Steve turns pink so fast it’s almost impressive. “We’re— it’s not— I mean we—”
Will slides into your eyeline, blinking in confusion. “Wait. The two of you…?”
He looks between you. Very slowly. Very carefully. He can read you better than anyone on the planet—and it’s clear as day.
His eyes widen with soft, dawning realization.
“Oh,” he breathes. “You are.”
Your stomach twists with something warm and embarrassing and too precious.
Mike shakes his head, looking directly at Steve “Oh man, this is worse than when you dated my sister. (Y/n)’s like, like—” he struggles to find a description he thinks fits.
“–like a better sister?” Lucas supposes.
“Yeah.” Mike affirms, hoping no one will let that little jibe get back to Nancy.
Sure, he loves his sister, she’s great…you’re just much cooler. On any given day, you’re also much nicer to him. You put up with his shit without making him feel like a nuisance, like you actually care about him. His next words hang in the air, “And somehow I can say they’ve both dated Steve Harrington.”
At the accusation, Dustin drops the Doritos, finally picking up on everyone’s deductions. He actually drops them.
“YOU’RE DATING?” Dustin yells so loudly you think you see the Christmas lights flicker. “How long has this been happening?” The onslaught of questions begins. “Why didn’t I know about this the second it happened? Were you ever going to tell us? Or—or were you just going to continue canoodling like you thought we’d be stupid enough not to notice?”
You send Dustin an unimpressed look that says ‘a little late on the uptake kid,’ but you smile nonetheless.
“Canoodling?” Steve sputters, because of course that’s the only thing he’d take away from Dustin’s word vomit. “Who even says canoodling?”
“I DO,” Dustin snaps. “WHEN I CATCH TWO PEOPLE CANOODLING IN THE DARK.”
“We weren’t canoodling,” you protest weakly, barely caring enough to try and stave him off.
“You so were,” Mike argues with a smirk. “Your knees were touching.” You roll your eyes, how scandalous…your knees were touching.
“We’re allowed to sit next to people!” You say, defensive, flustered, and lying horribly.
Max gestures violently. “Your faces were doing that thing.”
“What thing?” Steve asks.
“The thing,” she says, pointing between your eyes. “The gross lovey-dovey face thing.”
“Lovey-dovey face thing?” You repeat it like a question you’ll never know the answer to.
“You’re doing it right now!” She exclaims. This is getting ridiculous.
Lucas confirms, nodding. “I first noticed it last week. I just didn’t say anything because I didn’t want Mike to scream.”
Mike glares at him. “Thanks?” He accepts with contempt. As if Dustin hadn’t been the one to just have a meltdown.
Steve runs a hand through his hair — nervous and sheepish. “Okay. Okay, yes. We’re dating.”
Smiles light up on each of the kids’ faces. El’s grin is the biggest as she steps forward suddenly — quiet, certain — and wraps her arms around you.
“I’m happy for you,” she says simply.
And somehow that hits harder than any of the chaos.
Will beams. “Me too.”
Lucas grins. “Steve’s good. For you.”
Max shrugs, but her smile gives her away. “Yeah, I guess he’s not the worst.”
Mike crosses his arms. “Fine. But if you start making out in here, I’m leaving. And this is my fucking house.”
And as if summoned by the universe—Dustin points at you two dramatically. “Hey! They were about to, if I hadn’t said something.”
“DUSTIN,” you blurt.
He screeches. “Don’t deny it. I have a girlfriend—I know what almost kissing looks like!”
Steve hides his face in his hands. “You’re such an ass Henderson.” He takes a second to glance from teen to teen, mentally sizing each of them up. “And just so you know, I hate all of you.” His voice comes out muffled.
“No he doesn’t,” Will says gently to the group. “He’s really happy.”
Steve peeks at you through his fingers. Softly, shyly. How can this guy be yours? Your heart flips and you take his hand — openly now, boldly now — fingers lacing with his.
“We weren’t really hiding it,” you say.
“Good,” Lucas deadpans. “Because if you were, you're both horrible liars.”
Max nods. “Terrible job, concerning honestly.”
And as the chaos swells again, as Dustin interrogates Steve about how many times you’ve kissed and Mike threatens to cover his ears, Will catches your eye.
He smiles. It’s full of warmth and pride. It’s comfortable. It’s the kind of smile that reaches his eyes, makes the corners crinkle, and somehow feels like a hug without a touch.
In that brief moment, all the noise around you fades. You can see it: the genuine happiness in him, the quiet comfort that comes from knowing you’re with someone who treats you right. He’s not just proud that you’ve found someone; he’s proud of you—for letting yourself be happy, for trusting Steve, for navigating all the messiness of the past years and finding solace, something truly good.
There’s a softness to him now, a subtle shift in posture, like he’s carrying a small, secret joy that he doesn’t need to announce. And even though the teasing continues around you, you know he’s silently cheering both of you on, hoping that this—whatever this is—sticks, hoping it brings you the same kind of peace he feels in that smile.
“I’m glad you’re happy,” he says softly, and dear god, how you love him.
And in that moment, surrounded by noise and teasing and absolute chaos, you realize you don’t mind them knowing at all.
Not if it means Steve’s hand in yours. Not if it means this.
• ж • ж •
II. Nancy & Jonathan
The Byers kitchen feels unusually peaceful tonight.
The overhead light hums softly, spilling warm gold across the counter where half a loaf of bread, an abandoned jar of peanut butter, and one crooked salt shaker sit like relics of someone’s late-night snacking, Will’s definitely. That kid loves peanut butter more than Steve, and that’s saying something.
The house itself is quiet — Joyce is out, Will’s in his room sketching, and the Party won’t descend for at least another hour. As for Jonathan, well, he’s Jonathan. You stopped asking questions about his whereabouts a long time ago. He’s always been too independent for his own good.
Everything just feels…safe.
You lean back against the counter, smiling despite yourself as Steve stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, washing dishes he absolutely created zero of. He insisted. You let him.
There’s music playing on the little radio — soft, gentle, something like Fleetwood Mac if the signal wasn’t so staticky.
He turns slightly toward you, a dish towel in one hand. “So, remind me again how I got tricked into doing your chores?”
“Tricked?” you scoff. “You literally volunteered.”
“I volunteered,” he says, throwing the towel over his shoulder, “because you smiled at me in that please help me, my life is chaos way you like to do.”
“I did not.”
“You did,” he insists, stepping closer. “It works every time.” You know he’s a sucker for you, just as you are for him. One glance from those soft brown eyes…and it’s over.
He’s standing between your knees now, hands braced lightly on the counter beside your hips. The small light over the sink paints him in soft yellows— hair glowing, eyes warm enough to melt something inside you.
You try not to grin like an idiot. You fail.
He leans in a little. “I like being here, you know.”
Your breath catches, a low hum rumbling in your tone, “I’m glad.”
He tilts his head, lips inches from yours—
The front door clicks. You hear two sets of footsteps, and then a voice.
“Mom? You home?” Jonathan’s voice calls.
Steve leaps, bumping the counter.
It’s still strange to see Steve Harrington like this, flustered and wary, like a man who’s stared down monsters without blinking is suddenly at the mercy of your younger brother. And part of you understands why. You’ve always thought of Jonathan as gentle, maybe a little (or a lot) introspective, the kind of person who folds inward rather than takes up space. But that’s only half the truth.
Jonathan is meek with you. He’s always been soft-spoken, careful, the kind of brother who listens more than he talks, who steps in front of you without making it obvious that he’s doing it. With you, his protectiveness is quiet. He shows it through a hand on your shoulder, or a look that asks are you okay? without demanding an answer.
But wiith Steve, it’s different.
With Steve, you know Jonathan remembers everything.
There’s a history of pain there. And maybe some of it has been left in the past, but some of it will never leave him.
You’re well aware how Jonathan feels. He’s told you.
He remembers the hallways at Hawkins High and the way Steve used to move through them like he owned the place. He remembers the laughter that followed him and the distance between the Harrington house and the Byers house, measured not just in streets but in silence, in absence, in the way some people were allowed to be careless because someone else was always there to catch them. Because Steve always had something to fall back on if he failed.
Kids like you and Jonathan, coming from nothing but the blood, sweat, and tears of a struggling single mom — you didn’t have that luxury. And a part of Jonathan has always resented Steve for that.
On top of it all, Jonathan never forgot the things Steve said back then. The way his friends laughed. The way Nancy cried. For a long time, you used to hate Steve too.
And even though Steve isn’t that kid anymore — even though Jonathan knows that, has watched him change, watched him show up again and again — history doesn’t disappear just because time passes. You know that.
So when Jonathan and Nancy appear in the doorway — Jonathan holding a stack of film canisters, Nancy with her coat half-off her shoulders and hair windswept from the cold, you don’t know what to think.
Jonathan opens his mouth to greet you, then notices the scene.
You’re perched on the counter. Steve’s too close, much too close for his liking. There’s a warm glow, a gentle energy rumbling in the air. Two mugs of hot chocolate rest on the counter. The towel on Steve’s shoulder looks so domestic. And Steve’s entire soul is radiating guilty boyfriend energy, sheepish lopsided grin and all.
Jonathan stops dead. Nancy stops beside him.
The moment hangs in the air like a soap bubble.
Jonathan’s left eye twitches. Something in his chest tightens. Not with anger exactly. With instinct.
He can’t help the feeling that climbs up his throat. You’re his sister. You’ve always been the one thing Jonathan never questioned protecting. Even when he was exhausted, or scared. Even when the world kept asking more of him than he had to give. And now — somehow — Steve Harrington has crossed into that sacred territory.
Jonathan doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t puff out his chest. He just stops. Takes it in. He measures the space between you and Steve with the same careful attention he’s always used when something matters. It’s honestly beginning to unnerve you more than anything else. The silence.
You can almost see the conflict play out behind his eyes — the past colliding with the present. The person Steve was, with the man he’s becoming. The quiet fear that comes with letting someone else take on a role Jonathan’s always filled himself, despite being a year younger than you.
Steve shifts under his gaze, suddenly hyper-aware of his hands, of his posture, of how close he’s standing to you. For once, he doesn’t look like the confident king of Hawkins. He looks like someone who knows this moment matters.
Nancy’s eyebrows rise very, very gently, equally taking in this scene before her. She knows just what Steve looks like when he cares, when he’s in love.
Jonathan notices it too, despite wanting so badly to ignore the glaring signs. And maybe that’s what softens him — not immediately, not fully — but enough.
Because Steve isn’t smirking. He isn’t posturing. He isn’t pretending. He’s nervous.
If anything, Jonathan knows what it looks like when someone cares more than they’re comfortable admitting. He’s spent his whole life being that person.
“Harrington.” The Byers boy nods in apprehension, standing closer to Nancy than he was before.
Steve attempts a casual wave that looks more like a man being held hostage. “Hey guys! Just—uh—helping. With dishes. Love… dishes.”
Jonathan stares. “Do you?”
“For sure man,” Steve says instantly.
You drag a hand down your face. Perfect. Fantastic. This is exactly how you wanted this to go. You’ve just spent about a minute or two in utter silence, the two men before you sizing each other up, and now you’re wrapped up talking about dishes…
Nancy steps forward a bit, gaze sweeping between the two of you with that laser-sharp focus she applies to murder mysteries and English essays. She’s not shocked. She’s… confirming.
Jonathan, however—
“Are you two—?” he starts.
Your face warms painfully. “Jon—”
“—together?” he finishes, voice cracking in three different places. No fucking way…you and Steve? His sister AND Steve?
There’s a small part of Jonathan that always worried Steve still had feelings for Nancy. He can’t help the weird feeling that creeps in his chest — he’s not sure this is any better.
Steve stands up straighter, like someone preparing for execution. “Yes. I mean—if that’s okay. With you.” Steve resorts to something stupid, something like a meaningless joke when he finishes with a firm, “Sir.” He’s not serious. You know he’s not. It feels a little defensive, like a flicker of that history, that tension you know has never fully left flares in the room.
Nancy gives him a bizarrely sympathetic pat on the arm, before sending him a warning gaze. “Steve, you don’t have to call him sir.”
You cringe. “Please don’t call him sir.” You can tell how nervous he is, just how much he cares. How much he wants this to work.
Jonathan just blinks. “Wait… so this isn’t some kind of joke? You’re actually dating?”
Steve glances at you once — quick, soft, like he’s checking if he’s allowed to say it.
You nod.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We are.”
That feels good to admit.
Jonathan processes this in real time — each second visible on his face like a flipbook: first there’s shock, then confusion, then realization, then a slight look of mild horror, then acceptance, and then finally something warm and reluctant and brotherly.
He sets the film canisters on the counter. “Okay.”
Steve sags in relief.
“Okay?” you repeat, uncertain.
Jonathan exhales slowly, bracing his palms on the back of a chair. “Yeah. I mean—look. I want you to be happy. Obviously. Always. And if Steve is… if he’s good to you, then… then I’m good with it.”
You can hear the underlying words he wants to say, reading between the complicated lines. Through everything that’s happened Steve’s a good guy.
You smile, taken aback by how gentle his voice is. This is the Jonathan you’re used to, the one you love more than words can express.
Nancy beams at him like he just passed a test. Because in her mind, this felt very much like that exactly. “That’s very mature of you.” She says.
Jonathan shrugs, cheeks pink. “I’m trying.”
He pauses. Then adds, with brotherly menace “But if he ever hurts you, I own multiple blunt objects and no sense of self-preservation.”
Steve nods rapidly. “Yep. Totally fair. Very understandable. Blunt objects. Got it.”
“I mean it Harrington.” Jonathan smiles, the cadence of his voice rising at the end. “I beat your ass once—I can do it again.”
Steve grimaces lightly, then relaxes his shoulders. “Dude! I thought we agreed never to bring that up again.”
“You agreed.” Your brother clarifies with a smirk. “I reserve the right to bring that up whenever I may need it.”
Nancy snorts. Steve’s gaze turns to her in an instant, suddenly nervous to see how she’s taking this.
She raises a brow at him with a knowing glint in her eyes. “Relax, Steve. I found out about you two weeks ago.”
You and Steve look at her in unison. “You did?”
She lifts one shoulder, amused. “You two act different around each other. Softer.” Her eyes flick to you. “Happier.”
You warm instantly.
Then she gestures at Steve. “Plus you wear her scarf sometimes.”
Steve’s jaw drops. “It’s warm!”
“Mmhm,” Nancy says. “And definitely not because you miss her.”
You elbow him lightly. “You wear my scarf? I thought I’d lost it.”
Steve mutters, “It smells like you,” and immediately regrets saying it within Byers earshot.
Jonathan groans into his hands.
You hide your smile behind your sleeve. “That’s… sweet.”
Before Steve can combust, Nancy steps forward, her expression softening. “I’m really glad,” she says to you quietly. “He’s good. And you deserve good.”
Your throat tightens unexpectedly. “Thank you.”
She nods once, sincere.
Jonathan watches Steve for a long moment — not threatening now, just evaluating him the way only a protective younger brother can.
Finally he says, “I trust you.”
Steve goes still. His breath catches. “Really?”
Jonathan nods. “Yeah. I do.” He means it.
It’s such a simple sentence — but it hits Steve like a punch. And you can see it. The way his shoulders soften. The way he stands a little taller. The way he looks at you like you hung the moon and then put it back in the sky by hand.
Nancy glances between all of you with a small teasing smile. “Okay…well…We’ll leave you to your… dishes.”
She sends you one last wink before she takes Jonathan’s arm, steering him toward his room.
Jonathan stops halfway, pointing two fingers at Steve’s eyes, then at his own. “You know what that means.”
“Yes sir,” Steve blurts again before wincing.
Jonathan disappears down the hall, muttering, “Stop calling me sir.”
The moment the door shuts, Steve blows out a shaky breath. “That wasn’t so bad.”
You laugh, sliding off the counter as you step closer to him. “You almost passed out.”
“I did not almost pass out,” he insists, cheeks pink. “I was just—uh—nervous.”
You wrap your arms around his waist, leaning into him. “You didn’t need to be.”
He melts immediately — hands finding your back like they were made for it. “Still kinda was.”
You tilt your chin up. “You handled it.”
He looks down at you, eyes full and warm and overflowing with something tender. “Yeah. But only because you were here.”
And before you can tease him for being sappy, he kisses you — slow, sweet, lingering — right there in the Byers kitchen, where both your families are starting to figure out the truth: You and Steve aren’t just dating.
You’re building something.
Something real.
• ж • ж •
III. Joyce & Hopper
Your living room smells like lemon cleaner and fresh laundry — Joyce’s doing, obviously — mixed with the faint scent of sawdust drifting in from the open front door. Hopper had insisted, loudly and with great paternal authority, that the loose window frame in the living room “wasn’t safe, damn it,” and he was going to fix it before the “whole house collapses and kills someone.”
Which is why your home currently sounds like someone is fighting a grizzly bear with a hammer.
You’re curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, flipping lazily through a magazine you don’t actually care about. Your head dips sideways, eyes drifting to the kitchen doorway where Steve stands, rummaging through the cabinet like a man who can’t believe other people don’t organize things alphabetically.
He mutters to himself, “Who puts cumin next to paprika? That’s psychotic.”
You bite back a laugh. “Steve, what are you even doing?”
“Making coffee,” he says with the indignant confidence of a husband defending his territory. “Your mom bought the fancy grounds. I’m trying to find the—Aha.”
He pulls down the coffee tin like it’s a trophy. You’re about to tease him when Joyce breezes into the kitchen, humming softly as she folds a dish towel. She doesn’t even look up at first.
“Oh, thank you, Steve,” she says warmly. “Make yourself at home.”
He freezes, absolutely freezes. Like she just pointed a spotlight at him. He straightens, nodding stiffly. “Just… being helpful.”
Joyce smiles knowingly. “I know.”
And somehow that feels suspicious. You sit up straighter.
A loud THUD rattles the house.
“JOYCE, WHERE’S THE DAMN LEVEL?” Hopper booms from the living room.
Joyce cups her hands around her mouth. “Check the toolbox!”
“I DID CHECK THE TOOLBOX!”
“Check again!” She shouts back.
“I SWEAR IT GREW LEGS AND WALKED AWAY—”
Steve leans into the doorway, raising his eyebrows. “Is he okay?”
“No,” you and Joyce say at the same time.
Joyce chuckles and turns back to the counter. “He gets very dramatic about tools.”
Steve snorts softly. And Joyce notices it.
In fact… she’s been noticing a lot.
Her gaze drifts between you and Steve — your soft smile, his pink cheeks, the casual way he stands closer to you than he needs to. Her eyes narrow. Not judgmental. Just… motherly.
Dangerously motherly.
Steve sets two mugs on the counter. “(Y/n), you want cream and sugar?”
Joyce’s eyebrows lift. Steve’s eyes meet hers…he’s made a mistake. He’s let on that maybe he knows a little too much.
He attempts a recovery — poorly. “I mean—not because I know what you like or anything.” He shrugs. “Everyone wants cream and sugar.”
Joyce grins slowly. “Do you?”
Your soul leaves your body.
You scramble up from the couch. “Mom—”
But it’s too late.
Joyce Byers is in full Investigation Mode now. “Cream and one sugar, right? That’s how she likes it.”
Steve’s eyes go wide, oh God, how does she know? And your mother LIVES for this kind of emotional carnage.
You nearly choke on air. “Mom!”
Joyce clasps her hands against her chest. “Oh my God.” She turns to you. “You finally told him?” I mean sure, you’d told your mom about your feelings for Steve, especially when you thought it wasn’t going to go anywhere. But now she’s smiling like she’s won the lottery as she confirms, “You two are dating.”
Steve splutters. “No—we—well—yes—but—actually yes—” He deflates in defeat. It’s not worth it to explain it any further.
“OH MY GOD!” Joyce squeals, hands flying up in excitement.
You cover your face. “Mom, please don’t—”
Joyce ignores you completely, bursting with pure maternal joy. “I knew it! I knew it! I knew there was something happening! The way you look at each other—oh! I should’ve trusted my instincts sooner!”
“JOYCE?” Hopper bellows from the other room. “WHY ARE YOU SCREAMING?”
Joyce cups her hands around her mouth. “THEY’RE DATING!”
A beat of silence. Then—
“WHO?” Hopper stomps into the kitchen, covered in sawdust, eyebrows knitted together beneath his cap. “Who’s dating?” You’d heard that same sense of disgust in his tone when he'd found out about El and Mike…it’s the exact tone he’s using now.
Joyce gestures proudly between you and Steve. “(Y/n) and Steve!”
Hopper stares. It’s long and painfully silent.
Then he lifts one thick eyebrow. “Since when?”
“A few weeks,” Steve answers automatically. He immediately regrets being honest.
Hopper crosses his arms. “And you were gonna tell me… when?”
Steve swallows. “Right now?”
A deep, low rumble vibrates Hopper’s chest, halfway between a growl and a sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re lucky I actually like you, Harrington.”
You snort. “That’s debatable.”
Hopper shoots you a look, then fixes Steve with a suspicious glare. “You being good to her?”
“Yes sir.”
You whip your head around. “Why do you keep calling everyone ‘sir’?”
“It’s a respect thing,” Steve protests weakly.
“It’s a fear thing,” you correct.
Hopper raises a hand. “Let the boy speak.” He enjoys being called sir, it makes him feel like he matters in your life. Like even though he’s not blood, he’s more of a father than you’ve ever had. And he wants to hear what the Harrington kid has to say.
Steve takes a breath — steady, serious. “I care about her. A lot. I’m not going anywhere.”
Your mom melts at that, her eyes full of love for you, and a newfound love for Steve.
Hopper studies him, jaw tight.
Joyce grins. “Jim, stop scaring him. They’re so cute!”
Hopper grumbles into his beard. “Yeah, yeah.”
She can still see the nerves radiating from Steve. The way his index fingers are tapping on the edges of the mug he’d been meaning to give to you, and the way his weight shifts from foot to foot in apprehension.
“Honey,” she says gently to him, “you don’t need to be nervous.”
Steve nods, but it’s obvious he still is. He’s been good at being a guest his whole life — polite, helpful, careful not to take up too much space. It’s a skill you don’t learn unless you’ve spent a lot of time in houses that never really felt like yours.
Joyce moves forward and cups your face in both hands, beaming. “Sweetheart, I’m so happy for you.” She looks between the two of you, eyes flicking from you to him. “You deserve someone kind—both of you.”
You soften, leaning into her palms. “Thanks, Mom.”
“And Steve?” Joyce walks over and pulls him into a hug so sudden and full-force he nearly drops the mug of coffee he’d been holding. “Welcome to the family, honey.”
Steve’s eyes go huge. “Oh. Uh. Wow. Okay. Yep. Hugging. This is happening.”
The mug rattles slightly against his chest as he scrambles to keep it upright, frozen in place like he’s afraid that if he moves, the moment will shatter.
Joyce hugs him like she means it. Like she’s done this a thousand times before. Like she’s not worried about boundaries or awkwardness or whether he deserves it.
Just — arms around him. Solid, and absolutely certain.
And something inside Steve breaks open. He’s not used to this. Not used to being claimed so easily. Not used to adults who don’t keep one eye on the door, who don’t treat affection like something transactional or conditional. At home, birthdays pass quietly. Dinner tables are long and empty. Love arrives in the form of credit cards and apologetic notes, if it arrives at all.
No one has ever welcomed him anywhere. Definitely not like this.
His hands hover awkwardly for a second, unsure — before they settle against Joyce’s back, tentative at first, then firmer. Like he’s testing whether this is real. Whether it’s allowed.
His throat tightens.
You see it — the way his shoulders sag, just a little. The way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years without realizing it. Joyce pulls back, still smiling, hands firm on his arms. “We’re really glad you’re here.” She says.
Steve nods, because he doesn’t trust his voice. His eyes shine, but he blinks quickly, embarrassed by the intensity of it all.
“Thank you,” he manages. “I—yeah. Thank you.” Being loved like this feels strange to him, foreign. It’s heavy on his shoulders, heavy in his hands, like something he’s terrified to drop. And maybe for the first time, this isn’t something Steve has to earn. It’s the kind of love he gets to keep.
Hopper pats him on the back once — hard enough to nearly knock him forward. He snaps the moment in a way only a paternal figure like Jim could, “You break her heart,” he threatens, “and I'll break your legs.”
“Hopper!” Joyce swats him, hissing.
Steve salutes, breaking out of his daze. “Legs remain unbroken, sir.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, laughing despite yourself. This is so unserious, and yet, so so nice.
Joyce pulls you beside Steve, squeezing your hands. “I’m proud of you. Both of you.”
And the warmth that fills your chest is heavy, immediate, and overwhelming. Steve’s hand finds yours instinctively, fingers linking — not hidden, not hesitant.
Just there. Solid.
Hopper grunts. “Alright. Enough mushy crap. Who wants pancakes? I’m making pancakes.”
Joyce groans. “Jim, you cannot cook pancakes.”
“I can TOO cook pancakes.”
“I swear you burned water once.” You tease him jokingly.
He plays along, “Hey, that pot was broken!”
Steve grins at you as your mom and Hopper make their way back into the living room. He squeezes your hand.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, leaning into him. “Better than okay.”
His expression warms. “Me too.”
And as the two of you stand together in the soft kitchen light — hands linked, hearts racing, Joyce humming happily in the background — Steve realizes he’s never felt more like part of a family.
• ж • ж •
IV. Robin
Family Video on a Sunday evening is pretty much dead. There’s no customers, no returns, and thankfully, no Keith. All there is to do is stare at the walls, as dust motes drift lazily through the air like they’re bored too.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead with all the charm of a dying bee, and Steve is leaning on the counter flipping through a magazine that he definitely isn’t reading. He keeps glancing at the door like he’s waiting for you to appear at any second.
Robin watches him. She watches him flip the pages without looking at them. She watches him fix his hair every eight minutes on the dot. She also watches him check the door again.
After the third hair adjustment, she groans loudly.
“Oh my god, just go outside and wait for her like a normal lovesick golden retriever.”
Steve nearly drops the magazine. “I— I’m not lovesick.”
Robin scoffs so dramatically it echoes. “Steve. You’ve checked your reflection in that horror-movie mirror so many times the ghosts are going to file a restraining order.”
He scowls. “I just don’t want to look like a mess.”
“You always look like a mess,” she says sweetly. “It’s your brand.”
He hurls a crumpled popcorn receipt at her. She dodges easily.
Then the bell over the door jingles.
You step inside, cheeks flushed from the wind, hair tucked into Steve’s old Hawkins sweatshirt that you “borrowed” and never returned.
Steve lights up like he’s been plugged into a wall outlet. Robin doesn’t miss it.
“Hey,” you say, smiling at him first, always at him first — before waving at Robin. “Slow day?”
“Painfully,” Robin says. “I’ve reorganized the horror section three times. It still sucks.”
You hop up to sit on the counter, legs swinging lightly. Steve gravitates toward you immediately, leaning his hip against the counter next to your knee, thumb brushing it before he can stop himself.
Robin raises one eyebrow. You call it the eyebrow of doom.
You pretend not to notice. Steve pretends he didn’t do it.
“Oh,” Robin says lightly, “so we’re doing this now.”
Steve freezes. “Doing what?”
“This,” she repeats, gesturing vaguely at the space between you — the space with no actual space. “The whole... heart-eyes, I-want-to-hold-your-hand-but-I’m-too-chicken situation.”
Your face heats. “We’re just hanging out.”
“Uh-huh,” Robin says, stepping closer, eyes narrowing in the affectionate-interrogation way only she can pull off. “Tell me again how you’ve accidentally shown up wearing Steve’s clothes.”
You gasp in mock realization, hand dramatically flying to cover your mouth. Maybe you’re just tired of trying to hide this from her “How did you know—”
Robin points at your chest. “Because last time I checked, you didn’t play on the boys basketball team.”
You look down, smirking. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”
Steve scrubs a hand over his face, mumbling into his palms. “I hate you both.”
“No you don’t,” Robin chirps. “You love me. And you love her.”
Your breath catches. Steve stops breathing.
Robin pauses. Then squints. “Okay, maybe you’re not ready to say it out loud yet, but like... come on.” She drones on. “I’ve known since the day we spent hours together in that Russian elevator. Or when we were hopped up on truth serum, and you said a lot of things you may pretend not to remember but that sounded a hell of a lot like a love confession."
She smiles again, manically, “You spend three minutes just staring into each other’s eyes after that.”
You blink. “Three minutes?”
“Three minutes.” She taps the counter. “I timed it mentally.”
Steve groans. “That’s not a thing people do.”
“It is when they work with their emotional support dumbass every day for two years,” Robin says, pointing directly at Steve’s chest. “I know your patterns. I know your eyebrows. I know your hair. I know when you showered, I know when you didn’t—”
Steve sputters. “ROBIN.”
Robin throws her hands in the air. “Point is: the second she walked into scoops the first time and you got that my sun, my moon, and all my stars look on your face, I knew.”
You choke on air. “I— he— what look—?”
“That look,” Robin says, nodding firmly. “The one he’s doing right now.”
Steve snaps upright. “I’m NOT doing a look.”
Robin folds her arms. “Then stop staring at her like she invented breathing.”
You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god.” This is embarrassing, but also kind of amusing. You’re not sure you should feel so conflicted.
Robin plops down on the counter beside you. “You guys are cute. Annoying. But cute.”
Steve recovers enough to glare. “Have you told anyone—”
“Steve.” She pats his cheek. “Everybody already knows.”
You and Steve exchange a horrified glance. Except, it’s true. Over the past week or so, you kind of have let it slip to almost everyone in your life: the kids, your brothers, your friends, your mom…and Hopper.
Robin continues breezily. “Anyway! While we’re all in this circle of truth, I’m very happy for you both. But if either of you make out in the back room while I’m on shift, I will unplug the VHS rewinder and hide the cable.”
You laugh. “That’s cruel.”
“Yes. And effective.”
Then, gentler, Robin bumps your shoulder. “Seriously… I’m happy for you. He’s stupid, but he’s good-stupid. And you’re… very very good for him. Maybe too good for him.” She eyes her best friend warningly.
Your chest tightens, and you’re unexpectedly emotional.
Steve smiles at her, soft and grateful. “Thanks, Rob.”
She squints at him. “But if you ever make her cry, I will egg your house.”
Steve pales, although he’s not entirely convinced. “You don’t even know how to aim an egg.”
“I’ll learn,” she vows.
You slip off the counter, stepping between them before Steve has a heart attack. “Okay, okay — I think he gets it.”
Robin smirks and throws an arm around your shoulders. “Welcome to the club.”
“What club?” you ask, laughing.
“The Steve-Harrington-Emotional-Support committee.”
Steve squints at her. “That is not a real club.”
“Oh, it’s very real,” Robin says. “It meets weekly. There’s always snacks, and we get to watch you spiral. Dustin’s club president.”
You laugh. “That explains a lot, actually.”
Robin nods solemnly. “It really does.”
Steve points accusingly, with a waggle from his index finger, and it all feels so maternal. “You are both being incredibly rude.”
Robin grins wider. “Correct.” At the same time you say, “Sure thing mom.”
Steve looks between the two of you, betrayed. “Is nothing sacred?”
“No,” Robin and you answer in perfect unison.
And Robin grins, victorious.
• ж • ж •
+1. Candles, Cake, and the Picture That Lasts
Steve Harrington does not like birthdays.
He never says it outright — never announces it, never makes a big deal of it — but you know. You’ve always known, in the way he shrugs when someone asks what he wants, in the way he insists it’s “not a big deal,” in the way he looks faintly uncomfortable when the date comes up at all.
Birthdays, for Steve, have always been quiet things.
Too quiet.
They’re empty houses and echoing rooms. Parents who call late, if they call at all. Cards left on the counter by a housekeeper, signatures neat and impersonal. A cake ordered from a bakery he doesn’t like, eaten alone at the kitchen island while the radio hums in the background for company, or maybe it’s the tv.
He learned a long time ago not to expect much.
So when Dustin, Max, and Lucas insist on dragging him out of the house that afternoon, claiming it’s “very important,” “top secret,” and “Steve you’re not allowed to ask questions” — he goes along with it, suspicious but indulgent in the way he always is with them.
You stay behind.
Steve doesn’t see you slip out of the car with an excuse about forgetting something. He doesn’t see you unlock the door to his house with the spare key he gave you weeks ago, casual, like it didn’t mean anything — even though it did.
The house is quiet when you step inside.
Steve’s house is big in that way that always feels a little too empty, even now. Polished wood floors. Wide rooms. Too much space meant for people who aren’t there. But tonight, it won’t stay that way.
You work quickly and quietly. Streamers line the walls, taped just a little crooked, and a handmade banner is strung across the living room that reads HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEVE in uneven lettering. The kids helped with it earlier, arguing over colours and spacing, Dustin insisting his letters were the best ones.
You set the cake on the counter. It’s chocolate, because it’s his favorite even though he pretends he doesn’t care. Candles are tucked into the frosting, just waiting.
In the time it takes you to set everything up, your guests have arrived. All except Steve and a few of the kids who had dragged him out at your ordering.
But the time you hear the front door, sensing his official arrival, your heart is already racing.
Steve’s melodic laugh carries through the house first — surprised, unguarded — and then the door opens fully.
He walks towards the main room as the kids race past him, taking position. He freezes at the scene before him.
The lights are on. Music hums softly from the living room radio. Everyone is there — the Party, Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin leaning against the wall like she’s been waiting for this exact moment her entire life.
Steve stands in the doorway, stunned, keys still in his hand.
“Oh,” he breathes.
You step forward before he can say anything else.
“Happy birthday,” you say softly.
His eyes find yours immediately. They always do. He almost feels them well up.
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t deflect. He just looks — at the banner, at the cake, at all of them — and something flickers across his face. Surprise, yes. But also something deeper,something fragile.
No one’s ever done this for him before.
“Okay,” Dustin announces loudly. “No crying. Or I will cry and then it’ll be a whole thing.”
Steve huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You guys are such idiots.” But his voice is thick.
He steps inside, and you’re right there, close enough that his arm slides around your back without thinking, palm warm and grounding like he’s anchoring himself to you.
The living room glows under soft light. Streamers flutter faintly when someone moves past them. The house feels… full. Lived in. Warm in a way it never quite does, that it never quite has.
“Okay, everyone shut up!” Dustin yells, climbing onto Steve’s coffee table like it’s a stage. “We need to sing.”
Steve groans immediately. “No we don’t.”
“Yes we do,” Max says, unapologetic. “It’s tradition.”
Mike already looks embarrassed on Steve’s behalf. “This is going to be awful.”
“You’re awful,” Dustin snaps back.
You tilt your head up toward Steve, smiling. “You ready?”
He looks down at you, eyes soft, a little overwhelmed — open in a way he rarely lets himself be. “Not even a little.”
The cake is brought out, candles already lit, flames flickering gently. Lucas holds it like it’s sacred. Hopper stands nearby like he’s supervising a controlled burn.
And then the singing starts. It’s terrible, outrageously loud, and completely off-key.
Steve grimaces through the first line, shoulders tense — and then something breaks. Somewhere between Dustin screaming the lyrics and Will singing quietly but earnestly, Steve laughs.
It’s real laughter. The kind that shakes him, that escapes before he can stop it. The kind that sounds like relief.
You watch it happen like it’s something holy.
When the song ends, the room erupts into cheers. Steve leans down toward you, voice low and fond. “I blame you for this.”
You grin. “You love it.”
“I absolutely do not.”
He makes a wish, quiet and private, and blows out the candles in one breath. The applause that follows feels louder than it should. Fuller.
The night settles into something easy after that.
The cake is eaten. Frosting ends up on Dustin’s nose and Lucas steals the biggest slice. Max threatens him with bodily harm if he doesn’t share (he does). El winds up curling up beside you on the couch, content, leaning against your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Will leans into your other side.
Steve drifts — talking to Mike, laughing with Robin, letting Hopper clap him on the shoulder a little too hard, and finds himself in a serious but extremely loving conversation with your mom — but he always comes back.
To you.
Like gravity.
At some point, Jonathan lifts his camera.
“Hey,” he says, already adjusting the lens. “Before everyone leaves — we should get a picture.”
There’s groaning, half-hearted protests, but no one actually says no.
People shuffle into place, bumping shoulders, arguing about where to stand. Dustin insists on being in front. Max refuses to smile. Mike complains he looks stupid, he’s having a bad hair day.
You don’t think about where to go. You just end up there, with him.
Steve’s arm slides around your waist, easy and instinctive, like it’s always belonged there. His hand rests warm and steady at your side. You lean into him without thinking, your shoulder tucked perfectly beneath his arm, your head tipping just slightly toward his.
No one comments. No one pauses. It’s simply understood.
Will notices, though. He always does.
He watches the way Steve glances down at you before looking at the camera, the way your fingers hook lightly into the belt loop at his hip. There’s no surprise on Will’s face — just quiet satisfaction. This is right. This is how it’s meant to be.
Jonathan steps back, framing the shot. He hesitates for a moment, taking in the room, the laughter, the closeness, the way Steve stands like he finally belongs somewhere.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Ready?”
Steve squeezes you just a little tighter.
The camera clicks.
The moment is caught — imperfect, a little blurry, but real.
People scatter almost immediately afterward, someone complaining they blinked, someone else demanding a redo. But Jonathan knows it’s perfect just the way it is. He can’t wait to get it developed.
And days later, on a night when you have nothing to do, a night where you can just relax with Steve…when your house is quiet and calm, you sit beside your boyfriend on the couch, legs tangled, his shoulder warm beneath your cheek.
Will approaches quietly, holding the photo. A late birthday present for Steve.
He hands it to you.
You look down — at the way everyone’s pressed together, at Steve’s arm unmistakably around you, at the way you’re both smiling without trying.
“You look really happy,” Will says softly.
You don’t hesitate. “I am.”
Steve hears it. His breath catches just a little as he looks at you, something bright and disbelieving in his eyes, like he still can’t quite believe this is real.
He smiles. And for the first time, you think birthdays might finally mean something different to him. Not empty. Not lonely.
౨ৎ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: before Hawkins High crowned him “King Steve,” Steve Harrington was your best friend. the boy you biked home with after school, the boy who knew all your secrets, the boy who swore he’d never change. then freshman year happened. his new friends didn’t like that he hung around someone so “pathetic”, and Steve didn’t defend you when they cornered you. one stupid moment of betrayal was all it took to end years of friendship. You hardened yourself, dropped the girl he once knew, and built a life where Steve Harrington no longer existed. but when Will Byers goes missing and your little brother Dustin starts acting suspicious, Hawkins becomes anything but normal. you start noticing strange lights, weird noises in the woods, and a mysterious girl hiding in the Wheeler's basement, and suddenly, Steve is everywhere again. you don’t want anything to do with him, but the world is falling apart, Dustin is in danger, and Steve keeps proving he isn’t the same coward who let you down years ago. as monsters crawl out of the dark and secrets unravel, old wounds reopen and so does the possibility that maybe Steve Harrington was never meant to stay out of your life.
౨ৎ 𝐓𝐖: bullying, verbal harassment, language, violence, past betrayal, alcohol, parties, drugs, toxic relationships, abuse, manipulation, aggression, trauma, jealousy, possessive behavior, angst, canon character death, smut scenes (18+/skippable), normal stranger things stuff, (lmk if I missed anything!)
PAIRING: thunderbolts!yelena belova x black widow!reader
WARNINGS: 16+!! some violence depicted (fighting, weapons, blood & death tw), cursing, mentions of depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts, spoilers for black widow and thunderbolts!! (would definitely recommend watching both of these movies if for some reason you haven’t), mentions of alchohol, yelena lowkey being a yeaner for a majority of the fic, if i miss anything lmk!
NOTES: images and border are not mine!! i can't remember where i found the border (credits to the person who made it, so sorry) and all images were found on pinterest. i'm too lazy to use google translate (plus google can suck it), so any russian spoken in this story will be marked in italics. sorry for the long ass preview, chapter one should be out soon!! enjoy <3
YELENA HASN'T SEEN YOU since the Red Room.
You were their greatest weapon after Natasha had graduated, known for your ruthlessness and strength in all areas of training, almost a machine. You were feared by every girl in the Academy, even praised by Dreykov himself.
But Yelena was the only one who knew who you truly were.
Whispered late night discussions about what life was like outside of the hell you were both trapped in. She told you what she could remember about her parents, about Natasha, and you would always listen. After your brutal training lessons, you would come to her for help, for comfort. She was always there, always by your side, and you by hers.
Until one day you weren’t.
It was the day after your final ceremony, as they called it. The last thing a girl needed to do in order to become a guaranteed, and most importantly, a loyal Widow. And ever since, you had been acting strange, and Yelena could tell. Sure, that was to be expected, but you seemed guilty of something, almost paranoid. It it wasn’t till the alarms in the entire building went off, the guards were interrogating everyone, and Yelena realized she couldn’t find you.
You hadn’t even said goodbye.
More than a decade later, Yelena finds herself on another goddamn mission. She didn't exactly want to be stuck in here, trapped in a room filled with the people she was sent to kill holding their guns to her head, but the last one she expects to see is you.
CHAPTER ONE ✶ but i knew you once. (STATUS: COMING SOON)
Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.
Requested by @tobegoodisgood
Note: 18+ only!! Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible. READ THE WARNINGS! SOME OF YOU WON'T LIKE THIS SERIES! YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME. xoxo
Series Warnings: Smut, manipulation, coercion, corruption kink, humiliation, pregnancy, angst, health scare, aggressive behavior, jealousy, misogynistic views, class discrimination, descriptions of poverty, parental death. (may add more to this list as the story progresses)
✨series music inspo✨
🎧 Leonard Cohen | Avalanche
🎧 Tom Petty | It’s Good To be King
Chapter 1 (8.3k)
Chapter 2 (8.7k)
Chapter 3 (8.7k)
Chapter 4 (8.7k)
Chapter 5 (8.4k) [Wedding Chapter]
Chapter 6* (11,631) [Night of the Wedding]
>>> more to come >>>
mean king!harry tags: @matildasatellite @stylesftcher @hinnyrx @eversincehs1 @sunshinemoonsposts
The Recipe for Remembering (Finished)
Part one / Part two / Part three / Part four / Part five / Part six / Part seven / Part eight / Part nine /Part ten / Part eleven /Part twelve / Part thirteen / Part fourteen / Part fifteen / Part sisxteen
- And if you are lost, here is the story's timeline!
The more, the merrier (not finished)
Part one / Part two / Part three / Part four / Part five / Part six / Part seven / Part eight / Part nine / Part ten / Part eleven
The Recipe for Remembering (Finished)
Part one / Part two / Part three / Part four / Part five / Part six / Part seven / Part eight / Part nine /Part ten / Part eleven /Part twelve / Part thirteen / Part fourteen / Part fifteen / Part sisxteen
- And if you are lost, here is the story's timeline!
The more, the merrier (not finished)
Part one / Part two / Part three / Part four / Part five / Part six / Part seven / Part eight / Part nine / Part ten / Part eleven
Synopsis: Professor Harkness takes on so few students. You're determined to become on. A non-magic AU with professor!Agatha.
Words: 7.4k
Warnings: Praise kink, possessiveness, obsessiveness, drinking, teacher/student relationship, age gap (but all over 18+), smut, fingering (R receiving), oral sex (R receiving), biting, Dom!Agatha, sub!R, power imbalance, unhealthy dynamics
You’d heard the whispers around campus about Professor Harkness’s class. The rumours were passed around like a ghost story told under the cover of night at camp. You stored them, collected each one like a gem, richer for every word you were gifted by the rumour mill. Drunk students would try one up one another at house parties, wanting to share the worst of her and win the competition.
You were fascinated with the legend of her before you ever laid eyes on her.
It was at a faculty party, your history professor extending an invitation to all of his most promising students. You’d shown up, expecting nothing but other old men, ruing the day the students grew so rowdy, passing around stories about their own college days when they showed far more respect to their professors than your lot ever did.
Instead, you’d found her, nursing a glass of red wine in the library, a heavy book open in her palm. She glanced up, piercing blue eyes settling on you with disinterest, and yet you felt like you’d been struck by lightning. You took a deep breath as her eyes left you, going back to the book in her hand, and made your way further into the room.
Your finger trailed over the spines of the book, most leather bound and weighty, older than the mess of paperbacks in your dorm room. Scanning the titles, you realised each one was on World War I. You wrinkled your nose, continuing on.
You knew you should have been trying to network with some of the most eminent professors in the history department, but now you were finding it hard to break free from the woman’s gravity. So you stayed, looking over the books, trying to find something that would suggest your professor wasn’t as boring as you suspected he was. And if you kept sneaking glances at the other woman, then it was an added bonus to your evening. Dark hair and pale skin, red lips curling up at the corner, dressed in clothes that must have cost more than your entire wardrobe combined, she was the most wonderful thing to look at in that room.
She did not pay you any attention.
“Ah, there you are.”
You glanced up, your professor swaggering through the door, a glass of scotch dangling from his fingertips. In the corner of your eye, you saw the woman tilt her head in his direction.
“Oh good. I’m so glad the two of you found each other,” he said.
You looked over at the woman, finding her staring down your professor with a look of absolute disdain. Clasping your hands in front of oyur body, you waited for some kind of explanation. Your professor drew closer, the bounce in his step seemingly suggesting he hadn’t noticed the way the woman was looking at him.
“Agatha, let me introduce you to my best student.”
He scooped you up on his way, the hand on the small of your back directing you towards her. You’d done your best to keep your distance from her, not sure she’d appreciate you interrupting her. Now, propelled towards her, a sense of anticipation mixed with anxiety curdled in your stomach into something you didn’t like.
When he said your name, those blue eyes focused on you. You wouldn’t say there was interest there, but it certainly was something more than the disdain she’d shown him.
“Agatha’s interests lie more in historical folklore surrounding witchcraft,” he told you.
“Oh,” you said, “I was hoping to look at that for my senior thesis.”
“Agatha Harkness,” she said, eyebrow raising, holding a hand out to you.
You grasped it in yours, her warm skin soft where it met your palm. It was like an electric shock went through you from her touch while you tried to fit this view of a woman with the figure of legend you’d been collecting stories on for the last few years at college.
“Don’t you go trying to poach my best student, Agatha,” you professor tutted, “I’m still trying to convince her to instead look at something more modern and practical.”
“You believe another World War I scholar is practical?” she asked, the drawl of her voice letting you know exactly what she thought of that opinion.
“I would say there’s more need for them in the workforce than witches,” he replied, still good-naturedly, but his gaze had hardened.
“We should talk,” she said to you, turning her head back to you, blocking your professor out of the conversation.
“I’d like that,” you said, knowing you sounded breathless and probably too eager, but you weren’t about to miss this opportunity.
She finally let your hand go, fingers stroking softly along the length of your palm. Your lips parted and for just a moment her gaze lingered there before looking back to your professor.
“You may go now,” she told him, not bothering to keep it behind the cover of polite respectability.
He sputtered out some argument. She rolled her eye, placing a hand on the small of your back, so different from when his hand had been there, and led you out of the door. Eyes followed the two of you, most focused on her, a ripple of something going through the rest of the party. She pushed the front door open, leading you into the cool air of the night.
“So,” she said, leaning back against the railing of the porch, “you’re interested in witchcraft, are you?”
“Yes,” you replied, softly, almost embarrassed, and yet certain in your conviction.
“You should know that oaf is taking such an interest in you because you’re such a pretty young thing,” she said, “his last favourite is now positioned somewhere nice like Yale or Cambridge and he keeps taking the credit for putting her there.”
“I have no interest in World War I,” you said, hoping that was answer enough.
“Clever girl.”
The thrill of her praise would sustain you long after the party was over.
“If you’re serious about pursuing witchcraft for your senior thesis, come by my office tomorrow morning with a proposal,” she said.
She maintained eye contact as she took a long sip from her wine, her lipstick leaving a mark on the glass. You couldn’t stop yourself watching her, already under her spell. She passed the glass to you, half drunk, and turned to walked down the steps.
“Don’t disappoint me,” she called over her shoulder before disappearing in the night.
You drained the last of the wine from her glass and left it there on the wooden floor of the porch. You returned home without bothering to take your leave of your professor, knowing he wouldn’t matter by that time tomorrow. You were going to give her the best proposal she’d ever seen, of that you were determined.
She agreed to oversee your senior thesis on historical folklore of witchcraft.
You learnt very quickly that Professor Harness’s demanding nature wasn’t an overblown rumour. She expected excellence from you. Late nights and early mornings, you spent so much time with you nose in your books the outside world stopped feeling real. Your fingers had grown ink stained and your eyes ached from the strain of reading such small type.
Every meeting, she sent you home with a new stack of books, expecting you to be there again in a few days having read them all, ready to discuss every little detail in her office for hours on end. She took up most of your waking hours, and when you did manage to snatch some sleep, she haunted your dreams.
You hadn’t gotten over the way lightning had struck at your first meeting.
Her office had turned into a sanctuary for you. You’d rush in, an armful of books almost tumbling to the floor before you threw them down into one of her chairs and curling up on the sofa she kept flush to the wall under the window. Some days you were there from the moment she arrived until long after the sun set, just reading and taking notes.
The office itself was warm, sometimes overly so, the sun coming through the window at just the right angle to heat the air. Her desk was large, imposing, the perfect symbol for the woman who had become legend around campus. Bookshelves were overflowing with all kinds of books. Cheap paperbacks, hardcovers, leather-bound, in pristine condition and falling apart. Some she’d let you pour over but leave behind at the end of the night, others she sent you off with. All you knew was you wanted the chance to read every single one.
Sharing the space with her was just as nerve inducing as it was the first time. You became so aware of yourself, wanting to impress her. When she’d sit beside you, the sofa cushions dipping until you felt yourself slip towards her, you’d grow so still, trying to not touch her, scared of what that would do to you. Sometimes, she lent forward to look at the page you were reading and her dark hair would brush your skin.
There were times when you thought she might know what you were thinking. The way you felt out of control around her. Your need to impress her. Her gaze would linger just a fraction of a moment longer than was appropriate, assessing every inch of you. Sometimes her fingertips would graze over the skin of your cheek, or she’d grasp your chin, or she’d gently move your hair out of your face. Hours spent together, and you could never tell how she felt about you or your work.
It only made you try harder.
It wasn’t until two months in that your friends decided to take matters into their own hands. You’d just returned from a full day studying in her office when a knock sounded on your door. Stifling a yawn, you pulled the door open.
“Oh, so you are still alive,” you friend said, shoving past you into your tiny dorm room.
“Hello to you too,” you said.
“There’s a party tonight. You’re coming. Don’t even bother arguing. No one has seen you since you started studying with the witch,” she said, picking up a banana on your desk that had begun to turn brown, “seriously, does she keep you chained up or something?”
You weren’t about to dignify that with an answer. Not that the thought of being bound by Professor Harkness was one that you hated. It just wasn’t worth the time explaining that.
“I have so much work I still need to do,” you said.
“You’ve been working too hard. Come on, it’ll be fun. You still remember what fun is like, right?”
In the end, you let her drag you to the party after raiding your wardrobe for something more party appropriate. Standing, clutching the red solo cup full of something that burnt as it went down, you watched the game of ping pong going on.
“I’d be terrified if I had to spend all that time with her,” some guy was saying to you.
“She’s not that scary,” you said, already regretting your decision to come.
“Nah. I heard she made some guy piss himself with just a look,” he said, swaying closer to you.
“She’s not like that,” you said, shaking your head, “sounds like that guy just has poor bladder control.”
“Ha, you’re funny,” he said, leaning closer until his sour breath washed over your face, “wanna come upstairs so you can tell me what she’s really like?”
“No thank you,” you said, shoving him away form you.
“Whatever,” he spat, “frigid bitch.”
“So what’s she actually like?” your friend said, taking the drunk guy’s place when he swung away from you.
“Quiet, exacting, demanding,” you replied, “she expects excellence.”
“Sounds exhausting,” she said.
“No, no, it’s great. I love it. She’s… great,” you said, looking down into your cup, swirling the liquid in it, “she’s kind of brilliant.”
“Careful. You sound like you’re in love with her,” your friend laughed.
“Don’t be stupid,” you snapped.
“Maybe she’s done a spell on you. You know everyone says she’s an actual witch? She’s certainly mean enough,” she said.
“She’s not,” you snapped, “seriously, all those rumours are made up by sad little people who feel inferior whenever they see a smart woman because they know they can’t ever live up to her.”
“She growled like a dog at some guy who cut her off as she was walking,” she said.
“People make up such stupid lies,” you said.
“Someone has video of her insulting some students. It went viral on TikTok,” she said.
“They probably deserved it. She has standards,” you said.
“I’m just saying, be careful with her. Maybe she’s trying to recruit you to her coven, or maybe she’s hoping to sacrifice you in some ritual to get more power,” she said.
“Shut up,” you snapped.
Downing the last of your drink, you crumpled the cup and flung it aside.
“I’m going home. I have too much work to be getting on with for this,” you said.
“Hey, no, come on. I’ll stop talking about her,” she said.
You shook her hand off you.
“I’ll see you around.”
You ignored her as she shouted after you, letting yourself out through the back gate. Curling your arms around your body, you strode off down the sidewalk. The night air held a chill to it, the slow drip of autumn beginning to give way to winter. You tipped your head back to look at the night sky, so dark, the moon just beginning to wax.
You let your feet lead you back towards your dorm building, wandering through the night and the shadows. The air was crisp in your lungs and you let yourself breath in deeply. You should have been home, reading up on the intersect of witch trails with gynophobia in the Renaissance, but instead you had wasted time on a bunch of drunk idiots for nothing.
“You’re out late.”
You startled, whirling around, heart thumping in your chest. Stepping out of the shadows, hands in her pockets, Professor Harkness looked like the devil come to collect your soul. You’d give it willingly if only she asked for it.
“I was at a party,” you said.
“You should be careful,” she said, taking slow steps towards you, “pretty young thing like you all alone at night. Anything could happen.”
The way she smiled made you feel as if she was the wolf and you the sheep, the prey to her predator. You were desperate to let her sink her teeth deeply into you.
“Nothing that interesting happens to me,” you said, voice quiet.
“Come, pet,” she said, hand landing on the small of your back, “I’ll walk you home. Can’t have something happen to you. I’ll feel so much guilt.”
You let her lead you back towards campus, the bright lights beckoning you home. You didn’t ask how she knew where to take you, so focused on the feeling of her hand splayed over your back, the warmth of her skin seeping through your thin shirt and into your skin.
“I suppose I’ve forgotten what it is to be young. I assumed you’d be curled up in bed, reading the texts I gave you,” she said, “of course you’d be out on a Friday night at a party.”
“My friend dragged me with her. Apparently I’ve been missing in action since I started working with you. She said I needed to have fun,” you said.
“I thought we were having fun,” she said, voice a low rumbled against your ear.
“We are. I am,” you said, so quick it brought a smirk to her lips when you turned your face towards her, “I shouldn’t have gone tonight. It was a waste of time.”
“Have you been drinking?” she asked. When you didn’t answer, she lent closer, “I won’t tell anyone if you have.”
“I’m over 21,” you whispered.
“Such a grown up girl,” she said, “I can smell the cheap vodka on you.”
She paused in front of your dorm building, warm light spilling out the entrance. Both hands came up to cup your cheeks, calloused skin scraping against yours, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. She lent forward again, right into your personal space. Her fingertips stroked over your soft skin as she pulled them away before her index finger gently tugged on your lower lip.
“Sweet dreams, kitten,” she whispered before disappearing back into the shadows of the night. If not for your racing heart you might have thought you’d hallucinated the entire thing.
She didn’t mention it when you slunk into her office on Monday, passing you a cup of coffee without a single word, but a raised eyebrow. You took it with grace, curling up on her sofa, opening the book in your lap. When she settled beside you, feet kicked up on her coffee table, you didn’t even look at her out of the corner of your eyes.
Her fingers were soft as they brushed your hair over your shoulder, gently tucking it behind your ear. Lingering on the curve of your jaw, you shivered, dragging your gaze over to her. The corner of her lips pulled up for a fleeting moment.
“Tell me your thoughts.”
You did, the words spilling over your words like secrets, softly spoken in the confessional of her office. You lent back, watching you, legs spread, interest in her blue eyes. Her finger ran along the length of her lip, intent as she watched you talk yourself out. Once you were done, her hand came to cradle the back of your head, nails scraping over your scalp.
“It appears as if your weekend wasn’t totally wasted,” she said.
“No,” you said.
“Good.” Her lips pressed together to repress her smile, “keep reading.”
Her long fingers tapped the book in your lap and she left you alone to your reading. You snuck a glance at her before bowing your head and trying not to think about what this meant.
Nor the way you yearned for more.
From that day, you noticed a change. Her hands would linger on you, her touch growing familiar and yet no less exciting. You stayed later and later, curling up on her sofa, growing comfortable as you waded through history with her. She guided you, shaping your research into something you could be proud of as you poured over books and wrote long paragraphs for her to read. Shared meals and shared drinks, you’d sit on the floor of her office, take out containers scattered over the coffee table. You shrunk further away from your friends, finding their conversations inane and childish, drunken antics no longer fun but puerile as you worked on something far more important. You lost yourself in that room, an addict who needed their fix every day or else you were given over to malaise.
She indulged your need for her attention, her open door policy lasting 24 hours a day. She seemed to enjoy how much you wanted to share the same air as her. Every time you said something, your eyes would turn to her, desperate for her approval which she freely gave. You spent time watching the way her fingers traced over words on the page in front of you, trying not to think about how much you wanted her to do the same thing across your bare skin. Her praise became greater, more frequent, each one hard won for, and each one treasured like the most precious of gifts, hoarding them to revisit every night before you fell asleep.
You hadn’t realised how comfortable you’d grown in her presence until the afternoon you realised you’d fallen asleep on the sofa as you tried to craft the perfect sentence. Your eyelashes fluttered and you were slow to blink your eyes open. Draped in a soft blanket, the warm air heated from the small space heater Professor Harkness had dragged into the office, you glanced around the room. It was darker than you’d remembered, the window showing a night sky while the lamps offered a soft refuge against the dark.
Something tightened around your ankle. You turned your attention towards it. Professor Harkness was sitting on the other end of the sofa, your bare feet resting in her lap. The book in her hand was left unattended as she stared down at you, a confusing expression on her face. Her grip on your ankle tightened again and you offered a lazy smile.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to drop off,” you said, voice rough with sleep.
“I’ve been wearing you out,” she said.
With the softness of sleep making it difficult to school your features, your cheeks heated at the implication. Not that you would have minded. In fact, you wished that was the reason you were so tired.
Her finger trailed along the arch of your foot. You shifted, the touch a tickle. She did it again, smiling down at you before she let you go.
“Sleep, if you have to. You’re no use to me if you’re too tired to function,” she said.
“No, no, I’m okay,” you said, sitting up, the blanket pooling around you.
The thought that she’d placed it over you for your comfort made your head spin. To then sit by you, to welcome any part of you into her personal space as you slept was even worse. Your chest ached and your heart clenched and you wanted to crawl into her lap.
“Perhaps you’re right. We should take a break. I’ve been working you too hard,” she said.
You would let her work you harder if it meant more moments like this.
“Come, pet. I’m taking you to dinner.”
You were helpless as you followed her. She drove, the car feeling so close with the dark night pressing in against the windows. You tried not to watch her, the hands you’d been fantasising about controlling the machine with such power.
The restaurant was nice. Intimate. Small tables and soft lamps offering pools of light, plenty of shadows to hide in. The maître d' seemed to recognise her, leading her to a table at the back. You lowered into your seat, taking note of the candle on the table between the two of you. The entire thing felt like a dream.
“Um, I’m not sure I can afford this place,” you said.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, waving off your worry, “I’m paying.”
“Oh.” You clasped your hands in your lap, “thank you, Professor.”
“Why do you always call me that?” she asked.
“Call you what?” you asked.
“Professor,” she replied, “I have a name.”
“Sorry. Do you not like it? I was trying to be respectful,” you said, anxiety taking hold of you.
“Agatha is fine,” she said.
“Okay,” you replied, “Agatha.”
Her smile was self satisfied and she lent back in her chair, eyes sweeping over you. You let her drink her fill of you, not sure what she was looking for, but wanting to give it to her. You’d give her anything she asked for.
“I must admit, I wasn’t sure about taking on a student. I usually don’t. But I’m glad I did. You’ve been quite the diligent student,” she said.
“I’m glad you did too,” you said.
“Of course you are, pet,” she said.
Before you could say anything else, the waiter paused by the side of the table. She ordered for you, glancing over as she did so as if ensure you didn’t argue. You weren’t about to. You’d do whatever she wanted as long as it pleased her.
The wine was expensive, full bodied, better than any other you’d had. It stained her lips and you wanted to lick it free from where it clung to her skin. The discussion over dinner was about the things you’d read that day, listening to the way she so easily connected one story to another. Her mastery was awe inspiring. It was easy to ignore the romantic setting and the wine that kept being poured for you as she spoke, her husky voice doing something delicious to you.
It wasn’t until dessert that it all came crashing back into you. The creme brûlée in front of her was beautiful. The spoon cracked the top and she took a bite, slowly pulling the spoon from between her lips. Her eyelids fluttered shut and a low moan reverberated through her chest. Your cheeks heated, thighs pressing together, turning breathless. A slow smile spread over her face and when her eyes opened again they were smouldering.
“You must try this. No other place does one as good,” she said.
“Oh, uh…” You looked down at the tiramisu in front of you.
“Come here, pet.”
She held out a spoon of the creme brûlée towards you. You lent forward, not quite able to believe what was happening. She placed it in your mouth, blue eyes holding yours over the top of the candle’s flame. It felt as if everything was moving in slow motion as she drew the spoon back.
The small noise of pleasure that came from you had her gaze lowering to your lips. Your tongue darted out, chasing the sugar on your lips. Her eyes darkened and she lent closer over the table.
“How’s that, pet?” she asked, husky, a rasp of a voice.
“It’s delicious,” you said, breathless and high pitched, a perfect opposite to her.
“It is, isn’t it?”
You watched in fascination as she scooped up some more, her tongue licking the spoon clean. Your breath hitched. Under the table, her foot gently brushed against your shin. Her blue eyes twinkled with something you wanted to drown in.
“Eat your dessert, kitten,” she said, “then I’ll take you home.”
You did as you were told, not even tasting coffee and cream of your own dessert. You were so focused on watching her devour her’s, indecent in how much pleasure she took from it. You were squirming in your seat as she finished, feeling on fire.
It wasn’t fair. Nothing about this was fair. You wanted her so much and she was just… making it worse.
She seemed not to realise the exact effect she was having on you as she led you out of the restaurant and back into her car. You stared out the window, not needing to be caught staring any more than you already had. It wasn’t until the rumble of the engine cut off that you realised something.
“This isn’t my home,” you said, staring up at the large two story house in front of you.
“No, it’s mine,” she said.
“What?”
You whipped around to stare at her. She wasn’t even looking back, the door open as she stepped out of the car.
“Are you coming or what?” she asked.
You scrambled to follow her, almost tripping over yourself in your haste. You weren’t sure what you expected, reproach for following her into her house or to be welcomed in with warmth. What you weren’t expecting was to follow her into the back where the kitchen was.
“Do you want tea?” she asked.
“Sure,” you replied, “what am I doing here?”
“Having tea,” she said, glancing at you over her shoulder.
“And then?” you asked.
“Going to sleep. I can’t trust you to do that on your own,” she replied, “clearly.”
“I really am sorry about that,” you said.
“Stop apologising,” she snapped.
Your lips formed the word sorry again before you stopped yourself. Instead, you watched her boil the water for the tea. Your confusion was mixing with your yearning, leaving you unable to do anything but wait for her to tell you what was going on. Pouring the water into two mugs, the strings from the teabags resting against the sides, she looked over her shoulder at you again.
“Come on then.”
You followed her with the two mugs of tea into her living room. It was comfortable, almost like a more lived in version of her office. Sitting beside her on the couch, comfortable and well loved, you watched her lean forward and place one mug on the coffee table. She passed the other to you, fingers brushing together, looking at you from under her eyelashes.
“There you go, kitten,” she murmured.
“Thanks.”
You looked down into the cup, steam rising from the surface of the steeping tea. Your fingers fiddled with the string of the teabag. Her hand landed on your thigh, startling you.
“You’re being awfully quiet,” she said.
“I don’t know what I’m going here,” you said, dragging your eyes up to her.
“Do you not want to be here?” she asked.
“No, no I do,” you said, rushing through the words, “it’s just…”
Her hands were gentle as they took the cup from your hands, placing it down beside hers. You could only watch as she swung her leg over yours, settling herself in your lap. Both hands cupped your cheeks, thumb stroking along your cheekbone.
“Agatha,” you whispered.
“Yes, pet?” she asked.
“I want you,” you confessed.
“I know.”
Her lips pressed against yours, scorching as she consumed your very soul. Your hands hovered above her waist, scared that to touch her was to break the moment, that it would make her come to her senses. She kissed you deeper, nails digging into the skin of your cheeks as she tipped your head back. Her tongue swept into your mouth. She was so warm when your hands made contact with her body.
She moaned into your mouth, filthy and hot, making you claw at her. She tasted of the burnt sugar of the creme brûlée and the wine you’d split with her. She kissed deeper still, stealing your breath. You tugged at her shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of her pants. Shoving your hands up, you felt the soft skin of her bare back against your palms, your fingertips, wanting to feel every inch of her.
Her hands slipped into your hair, shoving it out of the way, tugging on it in a way that had you mewling into her mouth. You felt her grin against your lips before she lent back, staring down at you. Her eyes had darkened, her lips kiss swollen, cheeks flushed.
“Do you want to stop?” she asked.
You shook your head before surging up to capture her lips in another kiss. Her fingers tightened in your hair and she made a small noise as your nails ran down her spine. You felt out of control, wanting more from her, the way you always did. There was something about her that drove you crazy, that had always driven you crazy. Even before you’d met her she’d consumed you.
She sat back again, hands slipping from your hair. You watched as her hands crossed over her body, slowly peeling her shirt off her body. You were dumbstruck, watching her with wide eyes and heaving breath. She flung the shirt aside, shaking her hair back from her face.
“Are you going to touch me, pet?” she asked.
“Yeah,” you breathed out.
Your hands slid around her ribcage, feeling the way her skin moved as she inhaled. She was so warm against your palms, real and there with you. You were slow as you trailed your fingers up, brushing the underside of one cloth covered breast. Your eyes darted up to her face, finding her watching you instead of your hands.
“Go on,” she encouraged.
You cupped them, feeling the weight of them in your hands. Leaning forward, your lips brushed over the curve of one then the other, vulnerable skin soft. Your tongue dragged over it, tasting her. She made a small noise, a rumbling in her chest, hands coming up to curl around the back your neck. She pressed you closer.
Reaching around, you released her from her bra, tugging the straps down her arm. Your mouth was on her again, exploring, until your lips wrapped around a nipple. The noise she made was one of approval, back arching towards your mouth. When you sucked, gentle at first, testing the waters, she pressed you closer again. You wanted to please her so badly.
With your hand, you rolled the other nipple between thumb and forefinger. Your name sounded so sweet on her lips, urging you to continue. Her soft sighs and the way her hips rolled against you only made you want more. You wanted to worship at the alter of her body, to take communion from between her legs, to whisper your confessions into her skin. You wanted to drown in her.
Fingers tilted your chin up, your mouth popping free with an indecent noise. She chuckled, pressing her lips to yours again, teeth sinking in to your lower lip until you tasted the coppery tang of blood. You whined, surprised at how much you enjoyed the sensation of the pain mixed with the pleasure.
You made a pained noise as she climbed off your lap, standing half naked in front of you. Your fingertips skated over her skin. Without a word, she pulled you up off the couch and tugged you towards the stairs. You followed, willing to go wherever she wanted, as long as you could keep touching her.
She paused halfway up, turning to grasp your face in her hands, kissing you again like she couldn’t stop herself. You whimpered into her mouth, hands on her bare waist. She dragged you the rest of the way up, pinning you to the wall at the top of the stairs. You groaned, pressing her closer, wanting her everywhere. One leg slotted between yours and the noise you made would have been embarrassing if you weren’t so lost in her. Her thigh pressed against you, just enough pressure to have you grinding down, seeking out more.
“So needy, pet,” she murmured against your lips.
“Want you,” you managed to choke out before her tongue was in your mouth again and you were rolling your hips against her thigh.
“When I fuck you, it won’t be against the wall,” she said.
She tugged you further down the hall, slamming open a door to what you hoped would be your final destination. Her lips were on yours again, possessing you, guiding you where she wanted you. She paused, just long enough to tear your t-shirt from your body, flinging it aside.
Her lips trailed down your neck, latching on at your pulse point. You whined, tipping your head back to give her more access. You felt on fire. Her hands were skating over your bare skin, nails dragging in a delicious way, making you gasp out her name in a plea for more.
Rather than give in and give you instant gratification, she took her time with you. Her hands were slow but sure as she peeled your clothes from your body. It was the same level of precision she used in her work, getting exactly what she wanted. Only this time, you were the thing she wanted.
When she lowered you onto the bed, you were bare before her. Your usual self consciousness was washed away in the tide of your longing for her. Her eyes swept over you, lingering, taking their time to drink you in in your entirety. Her fingers played with your nipples, watching with an academic interest as you arched up, your small whines doing nothing to spur her on.
Holding your eyes, she pressed kisses to your skin, soft and slow, making her way down your body, lingering the closer she got to the apex of your thighs. You trembled, fingers clenching in the comforter.
“You keep your hands right there, pet,” she said, staring up your body.
You nodded, willing to agree to anything she asked of you in that moment.
“Good girl,” she said before her lips pressed to the crease where your hip met your thigh. You inhaled sharply and she grinned. Her teeth sunk in, leaving a dark bruise on your skin as she sucked on it.
She hovered for a moment, her breath ghosting over where you wanted her the most. You pulsed, suspended in the moment before her mouth made contact with you. Her hands curled around your thighs, holding you open for her as her tongue ran through your folds. You cried out, hips bucking up into her mouth.
She chuckled, the vibrations going through you in a way that made you feel like you were being undone. Her tongue teased you again before pressing against your bundle of nerves. You whined, fingers clenching, her name a prayer on your lips. She pinned your hips to the bed, giving your clit a harsh suck. The feeling ricocheted through you, fire curling in your veins, your muscles tightening.
She feasted on you. Relentless, unforgiving, refusing to give you a chance to breathe. She was like a woman possessed, singular in her intent, putting everything into her goal. She was taking you apart, slowly and surely, and all you could hope was that she’d put you back together again when she was done.
Her fingers slid inside of you, so easily it would be embarrassing under other circumstances. They were slow at first, teasing and never giving you quite enough. But then she curled them, pressing into the special place no one but you had managed to find. Your legs trembled.
“I’m so close,” you whimpered.
“No you don’t, pet,” she said, “you don’t come until I say so.”
“But-“ you tried to argue.
“You want to be a good girl for me, don’t you?” she asked, cutting you off, thumb running in slow circles over your clit.
“Yes,” you replied, whiney and desperate.
“Then don’t you dare come without my permission,” she said, face lowering back to your throbbing core.
Her tongue was back on your clit as her fingers continued to stroke inside of you. You trembled, shaking, trying so hard to stave off your oncoming orgasm. Tears pricked in your eyes, fingers clenching tightly on the hold you had on the sheets until it hurt. She kept going, ruthless in what she wanted. She had complete control over you.
It was so close, you could practically taste it. You were straining, doing everything you could not to tip over the edge. She was a master of your body, able to play it to perfection. Her tongue kept dragging over your clit, sucking on it, fingers twisting and curling, dragging out every iota of pleasure your body held.
“Agatha,” you sobbed, “please.”
Blue eyes stared up at you, dark and dangerous.
“Please,” you begged.
Her fingers gave another slow stroke. You whimpered, your entire body on fire, wound tight as you did what you were told. You always did what she told you to do.
“Go on, pet,” she said, “keep your eyes on me and you can come.”
You let out a relieved breath. When you let yourself go, the wave of pleasure crashed into you, wave after wave. She held your gaze the entire time, drinking in the way pleasure contorted your body. The way you cried out her name felt holy, a cry of worship as you stared into her eyes.
When she drew back, she held her hand up, tongue running up her fingers. You reached out, grasping her wrist. She let you pull her hand towards you, your lips sliding down her fingers, lapping your arousal from her skin. Her eyes smouldered as she watched you, a pleased smirk on her lips.
“You are a good girl, aren’t you pet,” she murmured, gently stroking you hair with her other hand. The pulse of pleasure that went through you was bright and intense. You liked being her good girl.
Your tongue swirled over each digit, cleaning her up as best you could. A flicker of fondness passed over her face before she pulled it away from you. Leaning forward, her lips pressed against yours, rough and intense, passionate in ways you hadn’t experienced with anyone else. It made you feel wanted, desired, the way you always felt wanted with her. After all, she’d agreed to take you on for your senior thesis when she so rarely took people on.
“Alright, kitten,” she whispered against your lips, “let’s see how many times I can make you come tonight before you beg me to stop.”
When you awoke in the morning, deliciously sore and definitely sated, you rolled over in the large bed, hands reaching for the warm body you were expecting to find beside you. All you found was cool sheets. Squinting your eyes open, the light was still kept at bay from the drawn curtains, but the room was empty of another person. You sat up, rumpled and unsure.
You slipped out of the bed, tugging your clothes back on but your feet bare. You were slow as you eased the door open, padding out onto the landing you’d paid no attention to the night before. On silent feet, you descended to the lower level of the house, following the sound you could just hear.
Agatha was in the kitchen, her back to you, encased in a flowing silk robe. You blinked, pausing as you drank her in. Her hair, wild and out of control, long fingers tapping on the counter, legs bare where they peeked out the bottom of the robe. She was breathtaking in the morning light.
“You’re staring, kitten,” she said, voice still rough from sleep.
“Sorry,” you said, slipping into the kitchen proper.
She turned her head, glancing at you over her shoulder. Her eyebrows drew together and the corner of her lips turned down.
“Why are you dressed?” she asked, stepping away from the counter, “were you planning on sneaking out in the morning?”
“No, I… I wasn’t sure what was appropriate,” you said.
“Please tell me this wasn’t your first time,” she said.
“Of course not,” you said, “although I suppose it is my first time with my professor,”
She hummed but didn’t give you more of an answer. Anxiety was seeping into your body now.
“I thought you might want me to leave.”
Her eyes snapped back to you, displeasure painting her features.
“Come here.”
You didn’t move.
“I’m not going to ask again, pet,” she said, voice hardened, “come. Here.”
On soft feet you approached her. With sure hands she caught you, fingers pressing into your hips as she held you tightly. Your eyes darted around her face before dragging down. Bare skin met your eyes until the shadow of the robe obscured her from your vision. She was naked under the robe and there was still a part of you that wanted to unwrap her like a present.
“Do you want to leave?” she asked, gaining your attention again.
Your eyes snapped up to hers and you shook your head.
“I thought I’d made it obvious that the only place I want you is with me,” she said, “the only person I want you thinking about is me. The only person I want touching you is me.”
You trembled.
“Do you want that too, kitten?” she asked, drawing closer.
“Yes,” you breathed out.
“Then you’re mine, pet,” she said, her nose skimming along the curve of your jaw.
Her hand squeezed your hips and her lips pressed to the vulnerable skin behind your jaw before she pulled away. Your breath caught and you felt lightheaded. You ached to pull her back to you, to lose yourself in the feeling of her body and her skin and her mouth. Would you ever stop feeling this way with her? You didn’t think so.
“Now, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been pushing you too hard lately. You can have the weekend off,” she said.
“Oh.” You were still trembling from the brush of her lips and her words, “thanks.”
“So you won’t be needing those clothes,” she said, flippant and dismissive, “you certainly won’t be in them long.”
You flushed, cheeks heating. There was a twist to her lips, amusement twinkling in her eyes. You slipped closer to her again, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
Summary: Harry is given the wrong number when he goes out to a bar but oddly enough he’s not that upset about it because the number he’s given belongs to you. He quickly learns you’re southern and from then on he finds himself coming up with excuses to talk to you because you not only have no clue he’s Harry Styles you also just bring him a sense of comfort that he can’t seem to find with anyone else. Will you ever learn who he really is? And if you do will it change anything? Let’s find out shall we?✨
Pairing: Harry Styles x southern!reader
CW: Language
Tag List: Open
A/N: this series started off from a request I got for Harry to text someone southern and the idea just took off in my brain from there so I hope y’all enjoy💖
Conversations: here
Extras: here
*this is a texting story but you’ll find everything in the correct order down below*
Part 1: Happens All The Time
Part 2: Wonky
Part 3: Smooth as Sandpaper
Part 4: Fiddlesticks
Part 5: Church it Up
Part 6: After A While
Part 7: King George
Part 8: How in Tarnation
Part 9: Don’t be Ugly
Part 10: As All Get Out bonus convo between Harry and Niall here
Part 11: Odd Little Duck
Part 12: Beat it With a Stick bookstore with Harry here
Part 13: Till the Cows Come Home bonus convo between Harry and Niall here
Part 14: Oh My Days
Part 15: Full As a Tick Harry picking you up here
Part 16: Like A Fiddle
Part 17: Tall Order To Fill
Part 18: Borrowing Trouble how your date ended with Harry here
Part 19: A Little About A Lot you meet Jeff here
Part 20.1: You Thought
Part 20.2: Saddle Up
Part 21: Rub Some Dirt On It Harry’s convo with Jeff here
Summary: Sequel of Boundless Devotion Series.
MedievalAU. With her coronation over, Natasha is now the queen of the Romanov Kingdom. However, the position comes with challenges from both old and new enemies as Natasha tries to maintain the peace while also navigating her relationship with you.
a/n : This is the sequel series of Boundless Devotion. If you have not read the first series yet, please read that first since there are spoilers in this first chapter.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6
Warnings: light angst, mentions of past abuse, fluff, hints of sexual tension
Words: 3257
Leaning against the doorway of the royal library in the castle, the newly crowned queen of the Romanov kingdom gazes quietly at the scene before her, a soft and fond expression on her face.
After months spent rekindling friendships, pretending to be a couple, foiling attempted coups, and uncovering hidden identities, such peaceful moments are a rare and cherished occurrence for the red-haired royal.
“I can feel you watching me,” you state plainly to your guest, your eyes never leaving the book in your hand as you casually flip the page.
Natasha Romanov’s lips curl up fondly at your words, pushing herself off from her position against the door frame and making her way over to you.
She had decided to drop by briefly before her first meeting with the council of high-ranking nobles began, but seeing you standing and reading by the window, your form bathed in sunlight and an ethereal glow, she couldn’t help but be distracted.
“Can you blame me?” Natasha asks as she stops in front of you.
Her finger gently hooks under your chin in a silent request, and you lift your head from your book to meet her eyes, tilting your head curiously.
Natasha leans in slowly until her face is a short distance from yours.
She whispers in a low, intimate tone, "You're breathtakingly beautiful when you read."
A tiny, amused smile forms on your face, unable to hide your reaction to her words as a familiar warmth spreads across your cheeks.
Natasha’s grin widens at the sight of your blush, causing you to roll your eyes slightly with an exasperated huff and playfully push her away with your book.
“Calling me beautiful anytime I do anything is going to lose its charm one day,” you warn teasingly.
"If that ever happens, I'm sure I could think of other ways to make you blush," Natasha teases back with a smirk.
You shake your head fondly at her usual confidence and teasing, a smile remaining on your face.
“Shouldn’t you be heading to the council meeting soon?” you chastise, moving to take a seat on a nearby cushioned settee.
Natasha follows closely, settling beside you and resting her head against her hand on the back of the seat in a relaxed position. Her eyes soften into a fond and adoring look as she gazes at you, her other hand falling atop yours and caressing it gently.
“I wanted to see you,” she answers, her voice soft and earnest.
The intensity of her gaze makes you duck your head slightly, choosing instead to focus on your connected hands between your bodies.
“You see me every day now,” you point out, your tone light and teasing.
“And yet it never seems to be enough,” Natasha quips back smoothly.
You let out a small laugh at her charming words, not disagreeing with her statement.
While your manor undergoes repairs from the damage caused by Dreykov’s explosive powders, and as your previous staff members gradually return and reacquaint themselves with their roles, you’ve been staying in one of the castle’s guest rooms at Natasha and her family’s insistence.
Despite her new responsibilities as queen, the constant time at the castle has given you and Natasha plenty of opportunities to be together, allowing you two to explore and enjoy this new level of intimacy in your relationship.
And even though you know Natasha honestly meant what she just said, you have a guess as to the other underlying reason she decided to check on you.
It’s been a couple of weeks since you recovered from your life-threatening injury from the fight with Dreykov, and although she tries to hide it, you sometimes catch Natasha giving you subtle looks of concern, likely haunted by the memory of how close you came to dying in her arms.
Looking back up at her, you easily recognize the slight pinch of worry in her expression.
You readjust your hand in hers, interlocking your fingers and giving it a gentle tug.
“What’s wrong?” you inquire.
Natasha shakes her head slightly, offering a reassuring smile, “It’s nothing.”
You give her a doubtful look, raising your brow expectantly.
She chuckles lightly at your stubborn expression before relenting with a slight shake of her head.
“I just wanted to see you…” Natasha admits, placing her other hand atop your clasp one and giving you a tiny smile. “…to remind myself that, if anything, I still have you by my side. Seeing you makes me feel stronger — like I can actually do this.”
"You can do this, Natasha," you reassure her. "Everyone knows it. Why else would your mother step down and let you reign if she didn't believe you would succeed?"
Natasha rolls her eyes exasperatedly at the mention of her mother.
"Maybe because she just wants to spend more time in that new, fancy lab of hers," she remarks, pointing a finger in suspicion. "I still believe she blew up the previous one on purpose during the ambush so that she could build this new one."
“It is a really nice lab,” you admit, recalling the countless hours spent assisting the previous Queen in setting up her new research and experiments wing in the castle.
Natasha chuckles knowingly at your comment in support of her mother, but then she releases a heavy sigh, her expression falling slightly.
“Is it wrong that sometimes…I wish we could go back to the simpler times when all I had to worry about was completing my studies so that I could spend more time with you?” she wonders wistfully.
“When we were just friends?” you ask teasingly with a raise of your brow.
“With the addition of our current relationship, of course,” Natasha corrects with an amused smile.
You give her a similar smile in return as you ponder her words and reminisce about your shared past and years of friendship.
A sudden idea comes to mind, prompting you to release Natasha's hand and gesture for her to turn around in her seat.
Curious, Natasha raises a brow but fulfills your request, moving around so that her back now faces you.
She realizes your intention when your hands begin to run through her red hair, untangling it gently with your fingers.
It’s been a long time since you’ve braided her hair.
This simple yet cherished action has always brought her calm and comfort. After you had avoided her for the past year, she had forgotten how much she loved this sensation whenever you did it.
Instinctively, her body leans back, seeking your reassuring touch. Closing her eyes, she relaxes and releases the tension weighing on her.
After a moment, you finally break the silence, wondering the reason for Natasha’s previous wistful question.
“What are you worried about?” you question softly, your fingers deftly moving through her hair.
Natasha frowns lightly, her thoughts reemerging about her main concern over the past weeks.
Dreykov’s words to her during their last conversation in his jail cell still linger in the back of her mind, hinting at the possibility of an impending threat or trouble that she isn’t yet aware of.
Your touch brings her back from her thoughts, reminding her of what she nearly lost.
“I just need to be prepared for anything and not be blindsided like before,” she confesses vaguely, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need to be able to protect everyone I care about.”
Her words cause you to furrow your brows, sensing there’s something more she’s not sharing with you but you’re more concerned about the weight she’s placing on herself.
“You shouldn’t feel like you have to handle everything alone,” you tell her. “Whatever you need, I’ll always be here for you, Natasha.”
Briefly, Natasha’s mind flashes to the memory of your pale and almost lifeless body lying in her bed as she anxiously waited helplessly to see if you would survive and wake up.
She was unprepared and failed to protect you last time. She won’t make the same mistakes again.
“Natasha?” you call, snapping her out of her thoughts.
"I'm finished," you declare, lightly pressing her back to request her to turn around.
Turning back in the seat, she touches her newly braided hair in appreciation.
Focused on admiring your work, Natasha is surprised when your lips press against her cheek in a chaste kiss.
You linger for a moment before pulling away.
Natasha turns to you, slightly stunned. Her hand raises to her cheek where you kissed her, touching the area delicately.
“You’re going to be an amazing queen, Natasha,” you say confidently, echoing the same firm conviction and trust you've expressed every time before.
Natasha feels the pressure and worries momentarily dissipate at your words. Because, in that moment, nothing else matters.
As long as you believe in her, that’s all she truly needs.
With a soft smile, Natasha’s hand tenderly cups your face, and she leans forward to press a gentle kiss against your lips.
Instinctively, your hands find her shoulders as she leans in further, guiding you to recline on the cushioned arm of the seat, deepening the kiss.
Lost in the sensation of her passionate lips meeting yours, you moved your hands to the back of her neck, drawing her closer, feeling the heat emanating from her body, mirroring your own.
When Natasha pulls back slightly, her eyes are darkened with desire, and you're left flushed and breathless at the familiar, intense sight.
You become distinctly aware of her position above you: her chest hovering just above yours, her hand beside your head on the arm of the seat, and the other against the back frame, supporting herself up, with her leg between yours, not quite touching.
The two of you have shared many close moments over the past week, but nothing more than passionate kisses and innocent touches.
Right now, there’s an unspoken question in her longing gaze, and you find yourself nodding in silent agreement, your pulse quickening with anticipation.
At your permission, her hands instantly move to your waist, bringing your bodies together, her lips seeking yours again in a hungry kiss.
Once again, you feel yourself slowly getting lost in the dizzying whirl of her touch.
But then you remember the time.
“Natasha…”
She hums against you distractedly, trailing kisses down the column of your throat, lightly sucking at a sensitive spot on your collarbone, causing you to gasp in surprise.
“…y-your meeting,” you remind her, biting your lip to stifle the sounds she was coaxing from you.
Natasha pauses, her lips hovering over your skin, her warm breath teasing you, her hand lightly brushing against the exposed skin where your dress had ridden up.
For a fleeting moment, you wonder if she might disregard her responsibilities and continue. And if she did, you’re not sure if you could muster the willpower to remind her again.
Finally, after a silent deliberation, Natasha pulls back with reluctance, meeting your gaze with a mixture of disappointment and frustration, her fingers tracing lightly along your waist.
“If only we had gotten together when I was still just the princess,” she sighs wistfully. “Then I wouldn’t have to trade your presence for a bunch of pretentious, power-hungry nobles.”
Your expression softens with a sympathetic smile.
"Would you like to meet up by the lake after your meeting then?" you ask, trying to console her.
Natasha’s face brightens at the suggestion, a wide smile spreading across her lips as she nods eagerly.
“I’d love that.”
You gently brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear, your fingertips lingering on her cheek as you tease her gently.
“For the record, even if you are the queen now, I can still call you my princess,” you remark playfully.
Natasha chuckles softly, leaning into your touch with a contented sigh. Her eyes close briefly as she savors the tender moment.
“Yours,” she murmurs affectionately. “In everything.”
After a lingering moment, you both stand up, composing yourselves. You watch as Natasha smooths out her clothes and takes a deep breath, a determined expression settling on her face as she turns to you.
"Thank you," she says sincerely before a slight smirk graces her lips. "I told you seeing you makes me feel stronger."
You roll your eyes in disbelief, chuckling as you gather the scattered books.
"I should head back to your mom’s lab. She’s probably waiting for me to return with these books," you say.
Natasha’s hands are already reaching for some of the books from the table before you finish speaking.
“I can help you carry them,” she offers.
You place a hand on her shoulder, stopping her, and give her a pointed look.
“No, you need to go to your meeting,” you insist firmly.
Natasha considers the time she has remaining before reluctantly relenting with a sigh.
"At least don’t let her work you too hard," she adds protectively.
“I’ll be fine, Natasha,” you reassure her, shooing her away with your hands. “Now, go before you’re late.”
Natasha catches one of your hands in hers, and with a graceful bow, she brings it to her lips, pressing a tender kiss on your knuckles. Remaining in her bowed position, her eyes lock onto yours with a deep intensity that makes your breath catch.
“I love you,” she murmurs softly, her voice filled with adoration.
The sincerity of her tone wraps around your heart, and a fond smile grows on your face as you respond just as softly, “I love you too.”
Your voice had a slight tremor, echoing the depth of your feelings for her.
Natasha straightens, her gaze unwavering as she presses one last fleeting kiss to your lips before turning to leave.
You watch her go with a mixture of disappointment and longing, wishing for just a few more moments with her.
Shaking off your reverie, you refocus on your original task. Gathering the books in your arms, you make your way through the halls to return to the lab.
Just as you turn the corner, another figure emerges from that direction, startling you.
You step back abruptly, causing one of the books to tumble from your arms and hit the ground with a soft thud.
The older lord bends down, retrieving the fallen book before handing it back to you with a slight nod of acknowledgment.
“Here you go, Lady Y/n,” he greets you formally.
You nod appreciatively, accepting the book from him.
“Thank you, Chancellor Ross.”
The man standing before you is Chancellor Thaddeus Ross, one of the kingdom’s highest-ranking nobles. His prominence rivals that of Dreykov, and his position as Queen Melina’s advisor grants him considerable influence over matters affecting the kingdom and the royal family.
Despite his absence for treatment overseas, he returned just in time for Natasha's coronation.
So far, your encounters with him have been polite but brief, lacking any substantial conversation.
"I'm glad to hear that your recovery is progressing well," you say warmly, genuinely concerned for his well-being.
"Thank you," he replies formally, his gaze steady. He assesses you critically, slightly unsettling you.
Glancing in the direction he had come from, you assume, "Are you heading to the council meeting?"
"Indeed, I am," he confirms curtly, his demeanor remaining impassive.
An awkward silence follows as you fail to come up with anything further to say. You offer him a polite smile and nod, moving to step to the side.
“Well, I should let you continue on your way,” you say. “It was nice speaking with you, Chancellor.”
As you walk past him, his following words stop you in your tracks.
“How long do you anticipate your relationship with the young queen will last?”
Turning back to face him, you furrow your brows in confusion at the unexpected question. The silence hangs heavy in the air, leaving you momentarily stunned as you struggle to comprehend his meaning.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," you finally respond, your voice betraying your bewilderment.
He inclines his head slightly, fixing you with a scrutinizing gaze.
"My apologies for the directness, Lady Y/n. I'm merely trying to understand why such a match was approved during my absence."
His tone was measured, almost clinical, as if he was analyzing a political strategy rather than discussing personal relationships.
"I care deeply for Queen Natasha," you defend firmly, conviction lacing your voice despite the discomfort of the conversation.
"I have no doubt of that," he acknowledges. "You've always been a steadfast friend to Her Majesty, and it's clear to everyone just how much she adores you..."
Usually, comments of Natasha's affection towards you fill you with warmth and joy whenever mentioned by others, but for some reason, the chancellor's words now cast an unexpected shadow of shame and unease around you at the thought.
“...my question is — what more do you have to offer?” he concludes pointedly.
His words cut deep, challenging your value to Natasha beyond companionship.
“I…” you falter, searching for a response.
Involuntarily, his words trigger memories of Dreykov’s reprimands throughout your childhood in your mind, his voice echoing painfully in your ears.
“Pathetic…Disappointing…Worthless…”
Though you know now that Dreykov is not your real father, his cutting remarks to a young child have already left lasting scars on your self-worth and confidence.
Despite your efforts to move past them, the memories of his harsh and relentless belittling resurfaces, causing you to question yourself anew.
What more could you possibly offer Natasha?
Pressing on at your hesitation, Ross adds with a grave tone, "Are you confident that your love alone is sufficient to navigate the challenges and responsibilities she will face as queen?"
You clutch the books tighter against your chest, struggling to reply.
The warmth you felt from Natasha earlier has long vanished since the conversation began, leaving you reeling with doubt and hesitation.
You had always assured Natasha of your unwavering support, but had you ever considered whether your actions ever genuinely helped her?
Maybe that’s why she chose not to share everything that was troubling her earlier.
Because she doesn’t believe you can.
He’s right. You realize.
Loving her might not be enough.
Your silence prompts him to continue, his questioning relentless.
"Can you honestly say you are the right person to stand beside her?"
Still shaken from his intense scrutiny, your honest answer unconsciously escapes you in a soft whisper.
“I don’t know.”
Stepping back, Chancellor Ross regards you with a somber and grim expression, nodding curtly as he bids you farewell.
“Then I suggest you find out soon, Lady Y/n,” he advises with a sigh, turning to depart. His parting words echo faintly in the corridor, "For the sake of the kingdom's future. And the queen's."
You stand there, rooted to the spot, his words repeating in your mind.
Doubts swirl within you, intertwining with your love for Natasha and creating a storm of uncertainty.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, you return to your previous path, one step at a time, gathering your resolve until you are able to walk with some semblance of confidence again.
Though his words were harsh, they serve as a stark reminder of lessons ingrained in you during your upbringing in the home of Lord Dreykov. Lessons that had helped you endure and survive his torment and abuse through the years.
Lessons you had perhaps forgotten in the comfort and love you found by Natasha's side.
To strive harder. To be better. No matter the cost.
After all, that is the only way you could truly be of any worth to anyone.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6
a/n: Thank you for reading and for choosing to continue with this series. It’s exciting to be able to write in this universe once more. Again, updates may not be a frequent as before but I’ll try my best to not let the period in between chapters be too long. I did decide to split the first chapter into 2 parts, so luckily the next part will come out sooner than later.
Also, if I missed your request to be tagged in this series, please let me know.
Summary: MedievalAU. Natasha is the eldest princess of the Romanov Kingdom. As the time of her coronation approaches, she is suddenly forced to make a decision – either find herself a partner or her parents will choose one for her.
Warnings: This series does contain mentions of violence, abuse, blood, panic attacks, mind control, and deaths.
A/N: Just a quick little something for @harry-on-broadway ‘s Short n' Sweet Fic Challenge. Enjoy! Xx
•••
It had been over five years since you saw him last. The end of May in 2019, to be exact.
Back then he was dressed in all white with pale pink glasses covering his eyes and a lazy smirk that could’ve either wrecked you or cured you, in the moment you couldn’t be sure.
A bumped arm, a spilled drink and an introduction… his hand lingering in yours a beat longer than all the others while you offered your name.
“Hello m’Harry.”
His words, slightly slurred, hit your senses with an intoxicating mix of mint and tequila. But it was his intense eye contact that made you go weak in the knees, zeroing in on you like you were the only one in the room. And for the next five minutes, you were convinced maybe somehow, magically, you were.
“Do we know each other?” He hummed inquisitively, not-so-subtly leaning into you, the shaded swallows etched into his skin practically begging to be let out from the deep cut of his tank.
With a smile you shook your head no, figuring that would be easier than trying to find words in the midst of your heartbeat pounding in your throat.
“Oh…” He was blushing, probably from the liquor in his glass, with that same smirk dug into the corner of his lips.
That smirk. Definitely wreck me.
He asked where you were from next, which turned out to be merely a ten minute walk from his home’s doorstep. You asked him if he was enjoying Rome, and he asked you the same in return. And when he paused, his pink lips pressing together and then tilting to the side, you couldn’t help but wonder what he was about to ask you next.
But that’s when someone approached him from behind. Then another. And another until he got pulled away to the opposite side of the room. Then to the stage. Then through the backdoor and out of your world completely. A world you had once believed to be small, but was in fact the opposite when you never saw each other again.
Until today.
Alessandro’s very first Valentino runway show at Paris Fashion Week had brought out a crowd, everyone eager to support his debut. In the weeks prior, you had heard rumblings here and there about a possible appearance from his infamous long time close friend. But you brushed the gossip and your high hopes away.
The world was far too big.
Until it wasn’t.
You could feel his energy when he walked in the room, the same magnetic draw you had felt five years before. Every single gaze noticed the burnt orange sweater with the delicate blue ruffle around his neck and wrists that fit him like art. He was effortlessly gorgeous, grown in a way only life and time passing could explain. Not a single camera, phone or eye in the room was focused on anything else.
But you, in the midst of your anxious, elevated pulse and your gradually rising body heat, caught something not many others did… the eager shuffle of his feet and the forward slump of his shoulders had you certain he didn’t want any of the attention to begin with, assuming if he could be wearing an invisibility cloak he would.
And suddenly, all at once, it was you who wished you could flex invisibility when you realized every one of his steps was bringing him closer to where you were standing. And closer. And so close that he nearly walked straight into you before his lowered head snapped up to stop himself.
He paused, biting his lip for a moment before his mouth parted.
“It’s you…”
And then he breathed your name, assuring you he was not mistaking you for someone else.
Heat flooded to your cheeks and your fingertips went numb, certain you now knew what a heart attack felt like.
“Uh— It’s.. me!” You blurted, chaotic flailing of your hands out to your sides, and then immediately wishing you could stuff the embarrassing response straight back where it came from.
But his grin grew into a genuine toothy smile and his arms lifted as he closed the gap between your bodies in a gentle hug.
You were immediately flustered. He was… so warm, and soft… and… his torso solid as a rock while pressed against yours. You stepped back quickly, hoping he couldn’t feel the thundering drum of your heart. But you didn’t get far when his hand lingered on your waistline.
“How’re you? You look well.” His eyes were shaded by brown sunglasses, which helped soothe the intensity of his eye contact. At least that's what you begged yourself to believe.
“Thank you.” You weren’t sure if you were shouting or whispering. “You look… phenomenal as well. I mean! I don’t— you do. Just you…”
Your cheeks were on fire, his amused giggle that slipped through his parted lips only fanning the flame.
“Thank you.” He paused, his adam’s apple visibly bobbing in his throat. “Um, you know, I’ve always regretted not being able to talk to you more at that last thing.”
Were you even breathing anymore? Were those stars floating around his head normal? You couldn’t be sure.
“Wh— oh!” You blurted with a nervous laugh. “Why’s that?”
He shrugged then, a coy dimple dipping so deep into his cheek. But he left it at that and moved on.
“Do you still live in Highgate?”
He remembered.
You nodded. He remembered.
He shifted his weight on his feet, one loafer to the next and his hand finally left your waist, feeling a chill run through your body when it did.
“Um, how long are you in Paris?” You mustered up the courage to ask and then begged the universe that his answer wouldn’t be only till tonight.
“Till Wednesday.” He swallowed again, his tongue poking out to quickly wet his lips. “You?”
You knew your smile was going to give you away.
“Wednesday…”
But then he matched your smile with a breathtaking one of his own.
“We should—“
Harry. Hey Harry. Harry!
The chorus of requests harshly interrupted and your bubble popped. You watched him step away, politely answering one person. And then another. And another. History was about to repeat itself until…
He quickly spun on his heel, turning back in your direction, his movement so fast your head went dizzy. And when he pressed his mouth to your ear, his lips grazing against your most sensitive skin, shivers tumbled down your back and settled deep, deep in your belly.
“I, uh, don’t have my phone,” he breathed.
Your brow furrowed in confusion when he slowly leaned back.
“Sorry?” You tilted your head in response.
“My— my friend has my phone.” He leaned back into you while also pointing to a man with short black hair standing off to the side of the crowd. “Can I, um, can you give him your number?”
Somehow your brows managed to furrow deeper.
“No—shit…“ He huffed a laugh and just like that his mouth was at your ear again. “It’s for me, to be clear, so I can call you. If that’s… okay?”
When he stepped back it was you who was grinning, grateful for the change in fate this time around.
“Yeah, um yes! It’s okay.”
And then he was whisked off, just like five years prior. But this time…
With a glance over his shoulder, his gaze found yours, watching as you stepped toward his person holding a phone in their hand. And there it was again, just like before, radiating from across the room. That soft, havoc wrecking smirk looking your way.
Sophie worked with Carmy Berzatto in New York City at the start of her career. Years later, she finds herself in Chicago and decides to visit The Beef, not expecting to find Carmy running the place. After learning about the year he has had, she wants to help him. To return some of the support he gave her in NYC when she was dealing with her own grief. Old feelings resurface and she struggles to rebuild their friendship as Carmen lashes out at those closest to him.
Then she meets Chef Luca. And he shows her not all connection needs to be so hot and cold, colored by grief and loss. Some things are warm and easy.
Warnings: explicit smut in later chapters, mentions of death/suicide, abusive mother figures, discussion of disordered eating, smoking, lots of yelling and swearing because this is The Bear.
I'm doing something inadvisable with this one. My Ao3 story will have the Carmy ending, as I originally planned. I'm posting my Luca ending here on Tumblr. The first 7 chapters will be exactly the same for both stories so if you want to read both endings, you can skip to chapter 8 in the second version you read.
Warnings/Contains: reader is AFAB with fem pronouns, swearing, pining and yearning, syd's general disdain towards reader at first, alcohol, carmy and richie are also (cluelessly) into reader, mentions of knives, mention of alcohol (syd drinks but reader doesn't), stripping, face sitting, fingering, finger sucking, body worship, syd's breaking into her dirty talk game (she also calls reader a slut (endearing) once in her head).
Word Count: 4.9k
Working title was "Notes on being Sydney's Lacy." This is loosely based off of Olivia Rodrigo's song 'Lacy' and the concept of thinking you hate a girl but you actually just want her to [REDACTED].
You.
It was as if everywhere Sydney looked, all she could find was you.
The glow in your eyes, the curl of your smile, the rise and fall of your shoulders every time you so much as laughed or ran a knife through a fresh vegetable.
From the moment Sydney rose in the morning, her slow routine to get her even halfway ready for the day ahead of her, to the train ride to the restaurant, to the cool walk up to the front doors. All she could think of was…
You.
Your voice was the first thing to catch Sydney’s ear when she walked into the locker room. Hanging up bags and fixing on an apron, the only sound she could even register was you.
Captivating Richie with just the way you sounded your words, you could’ve been reading him the phone book and it would’ve garnered the same reaction.
That was just the way you were. Richie hung on your every word, Carmy’s eyes followed you as you swept through the kitchen, even Fak found himself more distracted than usual when you breezed past.
Sydney, on the other hand, was less mystified by your “charms.”
She tried to sneak into the kitchen unnoticed, get to her station and get her prep done quickly and painlessly. As usual, Sydney had little say in what would actually occur.
The hand that holds the cards was always you.
“Sydney,” The way you said it was almost like a sigh, a sigh of relief, a breath that was held.
Your smile, wide eyed and pretty. You looked utterly sweet, like spun sugar, like something to break your teeth on, like stuck to your fingers and not going anywhere.
“How are you this morning?”
Sydney had to fight not to roll her eyes, undoing her knife bag as she shrugged her shoulders. “You know, same shit, different day.”
It didn’t deter you, if anything you nodded with a knowing smile. Your shoulder worked over time, spatula in hand as you folded in whatever was in your bowl. You dipped your eyes for only a moment before you fixed back on Syd.
“Are you coming tonight?”
It had almost escaped her, Sydney had almost forgot the drinks that the rest of the team had organised for tonight. Team building, strengthening the relationship of the kitchen.
Sugar was actually the first to suggest it, Carmy wasn’t too sure until he’d heard your excitement. You’d clapped your hands together, exclamations of how fun it’d be. You even tried to get Syd in agreement but it wasn’t that easy. Suddenly, Carmy was a lot more onboard with the idea.
Go figure.
Sydney had tried to feign other responsibilities, that she wouldn’t be able to make it. Now it was down to the day and there was nowhere for her to hide. She also knew that if she didn’t show up, Carmy would make her life hell about it.
Snapping back into focus, Sydney realised that there were expectant eyes on her. Your expectant eyes, never wavering, still the kindness and sticky sweetness behind them.
Sydney had also realised that, when she walked in, Richie had been in the middle of chewing your ear off. She also realised that you’d completely stalled his conversation for the chance to have this meaningless back and forth with her.
She felt her shoulders tense at the idea of it. Just what were you getting at?
“Uh, yeah- sure, I’ll be there.”
Your eyes lit up like you were staring into the sun. Your cheeks rose high and your eyes squinted just a little as you nodded your head.
“Good, looks like I will be too then.”
Sydney couldn’t take it, she took a knife from the fold and dropped her head to focus on her prep. Thankfully, she could hear Richie’s voice pick back up and do his best to get the discarded conversation back on track.
That made it easier, she found herself running right through her prep without having to deal with the thought of you. It made things a breeze, her technique was better, things were more aligned.
Of course, the moment she lifted her gaze across the bench, you were already looking at her as Richie’s words went in one ear and out the other.
Lord give her strength.
-
Sydney did not want to be in a bar, that was one thing for sure.
A second thing, she did not want to be here with the team.
Sure, she loved these people, but after a long day on her feet she actually wanted to be in bed watching another aimless show about luxury real estate.
She’d fall asleep to the dulcet tones of a turn key cliffside mansion with marble counter tops and she’d dream of rolling dough against them. She’d imagine the flour falling from her fingertips and stopping the mixture from sticking.
Sydney would feel the cool breeze of her dream drifting through the sliding doors from the infinity pool area, and she’d hear the creak of the glass as someone pushed it open. Like always, her dreams would betray her and there you would be.
You’d walk towards her like you owned the place, the towel would be draped around you and slowly starting to fall when Sydney would wake up with a start, quickly turning off the television.
Thankfully, she’d be saved from that nightmare.
Anyway, that’s where she wants to be. Not here, not in this dimly lit bar where the music is a bit too loud and definitely not her taste.
Not here where Carmy is buying you a drink and trying to ask you questions with his lips just mere moments from your ear.
She imagined his breath was sweaty, that it’d tickle the side of your neck and you’d shiver a bit and wish that he’d stop and just let you thank him for the drink.
Her thoughts were confirmed, in a way, when she saw you nod politely and give him a half hearted cheers with your glasses. She watched the way your head rolled around the bar, eyes scanning until they fell on what you were looking for.
You found her. She watched you watch her and immediately you were walking her way.
For fucks sake.
Sydney tried to pretend she couldn’t see you coming. She tried to focus on the way Richie was angrily gesturing from you to Carmy. She thought she could hear something about “I told you I was buying her drinks!”
It was hard to ignore you when you came up right beside her, giving her a quick wave along with your smile. “You having fun?”
What a question. Sydney had been standing on the wall since you all arrived, nursing just one drink that was now melted ice cubes. Her stupid little paper straw was disintegrating and her hand was wet with the condensation of the glass.
Was she having fun?
“Yeah, course I am.”
She watched the way your eyebrows raised, nodding like you almost believed her. You leaned in just a little bit as you spoke.
“Then act like it.”
Sydney was about to argue when she felt your hand close around the glass she’d been protecting. You slid it out her grasp and spoke up again.
“Can’t be having much fun with an empty glass, I’ll get you another.”
Sydney tried to stop you.
“You don’t have to-“
“I want to.”
“You don’t know what I’m drinking-“
You stopped, your head turning over your shoulder and she thought you might’ve even looked a little bit happy that she was following you to the bar.
“Yes I do.”
You placed her glass down and signaled to the bartender. Unsurprisingly, he dropped everything and made his way straight towards you. His eyes almost sparkled as he listened to exactly what you had to say.
“Tom Collins, please.” As you spoke, you tapped two fingers on the rim of Sydney’s glass.
Within an instant he was turning around to prepare the cocktail and Syd took her chance to speak up.
“That’s not what I was drinking, I had a vodka soda.”
You leaned against the bar as you smiled at her. “I know, but it’s what you wished you were drinking.”
Sydney’s face scrunched in confusion. You weren’t exactly wrong, if anything, you were absolutely correct. But how did you know that-
“Family dinner, can’t remember which one, you said it was your favourite cocktail and the first one you learnt to make.”
She didn’t get it, her face shook a little as she struggled with the words. “How could you remember that?”
“How could I forget?”
Thankfully the bartender reappeared with a tall Tom Collins and eyes that were only for you. “Anything else, sweetheart?”
Your face never changed a shade until you turned towards Sydney, looking to her expectantly. “Anything else?”
She felt herself shooting a gaze of disapproval towards the bartender, for reasons she couldn't place. She shook her head with a quick “no thanks.”
“No thanks.” You echoed, picking up your own drink and leaving the bar.
You didn’t even need to turn and check to know that Sydney was following you. She may not have wanted to, but she wasn’t really sure she could go anywhere else.
Finding the least sticky booth in the place, you let her slide in first before you followed her in. She took a quiet sip of the cocktail, enjoying the taste of lemon and pushing down the taste of being remembered.
You ran your finger around the rim of your glass, you didn’t say anything, didn’t look her way. Instead, you watched the rest of the room. You watched everyone milling about and chatting with each other.
Sydney wondered if you wished you were out there. If you wanted Carmy to keep trying to charm your pants off? If you wished Richie would get a little handsy by the pool table? Her eyes watched you as you tilted your head back towards her.
She thinks she saw contentment.
Very suddenly, you happened to turn your head the rest of the way and catch her staring. She felt caught, but she couldn’t find it in herself to look away.
You had been the thorn in her side since she’d met you, grating on her at your every move. The way you couldn’t leave her alone, always needing to know if she’s having a good day, always needing to know if she’d read any good books lately, always needing to work in the space next to her.
She thought about you endlessly. Everything you did, she found herself building it up just to tear it right down in her mind. Every word you said to her, every compliment that you threw her way was a coded message that only you both shared the solution to.
“God, Sydney, your plating is beautiful.”
Why were you scrutinising her work so intently?
“Can you show me how you do that one time? You’re so good at it.”
Why do you need to know? So you can do it better?
“Your hands, I can’t stop staring, they’re so steady.”
Why are you even looking at her hands? So you can be the first to tell when they shake?
“Syd, your bandana is so sweet. Where do you get those?”
That one, the way you’d listened intently with that look of endearment across your face. Only a week later for you to show up with a small parcel, delicately wrapped and in your outstretched hands. She’d peeled back the paper to see an ornate silk scarf, with the tiniest intricate detail around the borders.
You’d been the only person in the kitchen to remember her birthday. When the others had asked why you’d brought her a gift you’d answered like it was obvious. Sydney couldn’t even remember telling you when her birthday was. She sure as hell couldn’t understand why you’d care enough to bring her a gift.
Every waking (and even sleeping) moment of Sydney’s life, she found you there. At the very centre, burrowing your way in and refusing to give up your space. She couldn’t win. When you were around, she could barely breathe.
And when you weren’t there?
Total loss. Sydney knew from the moment she walked through the doors that something was off, the kitchen almost felt cold. It was quieter, it didn’t have that usual buzz that drew her in. She gave it at least an hour before she had to ask.
“Oh, she wasn’t feeling well so she’s taken the day.”
Carmy had said it so flippantly, like he couldn’t care less. He didn’t care that you were alone in your apartment. He didn’t care that you were having to look after yourself, when you really should’ve been resting.
You’d called him, your voice probably a little bit off and he hadn’t dropped everything to make sure you were alright. He hadn’t fired up the burner to make you an easy soup, one that would surely make you feel loved.
Sydney’s head felt like it was swelling that day. She’d managed to work through it but her last hour, she kept an ear out as the stock pot simmered behind her and the bread crusted nicely in the oven.
When you’d returned to work with the Tupperware, she’d silently watched you thank Carmy with a broad smile. His look of confusion irritated Sydney to no end as he stared back blankly.
“Oh, the note said it was from the whole team.”
Carmy was no help but it wasn’t like you’d needed it. Your eyes found Sydney’s for just a moment before she lowered her head back to the chopping board she was stationed at.
“Thank you, it was exactly what I needed.” You’d told her later, when you had the chance.
Sydney was going to play at not knowing what you were talking about, brush it off as someone else’s doing. That was until you placed your hand on her upper arm and squeezed once as you refused to break eye contact.
Instead, Sydney didn’t say anything at all.
So here you were, doing the exact same thing in this dark little corner of this dark little bar. Refusing to break eye contact as you shuffled a little closer to her in the booth.
You were everything that pissed Sydney off.
Finger swirling the rim of the glass again, like you knew she couldn’t take her eyes off it.
You were everything that kept her up at night.
Lips pursing around your straw, you took your last long sip.
You were everything that she wanted and needed.
Pushing both your glasses away, you turned until only your back was visible to the rest of the bar. Caging her in, locking her down. Keeping this between you two.
You were everything.
“Sydney?”
All the air had been sucked out of the room as your left arm rested on the booth behind her and your right hand lay against her knee.
“Mhmm?”
Your thumb ran back and forth across her knee, even through her jeans you could feel the way her skin was burning under your touch.
“Is this okay?”
Sydney felt like she might fucking die. Everything that she’d ever thought about you, every idea, every dream, it was all turning from a murky wash into full screaming colour.
“Well-“
All this time, every furious little fight she’d internalised against you, all those fits of frustration she’d found herself in. It was never actually anger.
“What’s up, Syd?”
Your fingers moved a little higher on her thigh as her heart fought to break out of her chest. It had all come down to this, her chance to stop living in her head and finally acknowledge what it really was.
Complete and utter worship.
Sydney sucked in a breath and shook it out, letting the little confidence she had take over. Her hand moved to rest against your waist, using it to pull you just a little bit closer so she could whisper her question.
“Can I take you home?”
She didn’t miss the way the corners of your lips quirked up at her question. You lent in just a little bit till she could feel your breath just beneath her ear.
“You can do whatever you want.”
-
Sydney couldn't believe she was crossing the threshold of your apartment, the concept was nearly overwhelming. She took in your furniture, your decorating, and for a small place it was so unequivocally you.
As she moved closer into your home her eyes flickered to your kitchen. She could imagine you there, against the kitchen bench, drinking the soup she'd made you and smiling as it warmed your chest.
She'd thought about what it might've looked like. Did you have a blanket draped around your shoulders? Were you just wearing a t-shirt that fell mid-thigh? When you took that first spoonful, did her creation make you moan?
Thankfully, you snapped her out of her own thoughts by placing her hand in your own and nearly dragging her through the place. She felt like your living room was whipping past her head at a great rate of knots and nothing could prepare her for what came next.
Stepping into your bedroom, all the blood rushed around her head and thumped in her ears. There was so much going on tonight.
Sydney thought back to the bar, the way your hand had squeezed her knee as you slid back out the booth. The way she'd held your hand as you led her away from the night. The disgruntled protests from Richie and Carmy as they watched her steal you away.
None of that mattered. Everything had come down to the fact that you had her at the end of your bed and your hands were sliding over her shoulders to push her jacket off.
You gently placed your hands on her hips to nudge her back until she was sat on the bed, looking up at you like you'd hung the moon. Stepping back, you couldn't miss the way Sydney's hands twitched against her thighs, like she was saying "don't go too far."
Smiling for her, you stayed put, hands reaching for the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. Her eyes moved from your face, down your chest (staying for a beat), and across to the waistband of your jeans. But you did notice the way they trailed right back to your face and her own smile grew.
Sydney spent every day looking at your face and even with her world at her fingertips, she'd look a little longer.
You were able to draw her attention back to your figure when you began to unbutton your jeans. Her breath caught in her throat and her wide eyes widened just that bit more as you began to shimmy them over your thighs and let them pool at your feet.
She watched you step out of them, kicking the discarded clothes aside and taking a couple of deliberate steps until you were stood between her thighs. Sydney's hands ran up the sides of your legs until they rested on your hips, touching you like you might break.
Moving them to your belly, she coasted them up and over the delicate lace of your bra. Steady hands curved around your breasts, just gently enough to map the lines of your body.
"This set is nice." She remarked, eyes quickly flickering to your matching panties before they moved back up to your eyes.
You giggled quietly as you nodded. "Thank you, I was hoping you'd like them."
Sydney had to take the moment to come to terms with this fact. That you'd woken up that morning and made the decision of which underwear to put on, with her in mind.
As she moved her hands again, you gently picked up one of them and brought them up to your face. Ever so carefully, you pressed the smallest of kisses to each pad of her finger.
Quickly as her heart fluttered, a determined heat settled in the pit of her stomach as your tongue ran up the length of her first and second finger. Sydney's mouth dropped open as she watched you wrap your lips around the tips of them before dragging her hand back to your chest.
"Your hands," You spoke, continuing to move it down until it her grasp rested on the band of your panties. "I've always been obsessed with your hands."
Her mind flashed back to the comment you'd made all those months earlier, how you couldn't stop staring. She thought about maybe how much sooner she could've been doing this if she had gotten out of her own way.
She couldn't dwell on that for long, not with the way you were moving in and perching yourself in her lap. Your thighs sat either side of hers and Sydney let her hands instinctively fall onto your waist.
Nose to nose, you could smell the lemon off the drink you'd brought her. She could feel your breath across her face and it was everything she'd imagined it would be.
You, like this, in her lap. That was quite honestly something she'd thought of many times.
Placing a hand on either side of her neck, you felt the weight of her braids resting atop your fingers. You'd only been trying to do this since you met the girl but you knew Sydney would be a tough one to crack.
But she was an uphill battle that would always be worth it for the view.
The view of her eyes shutting gently as her lips parted and she surged forward to capture your own lips. Her tongue immediately found its spot in your mouth, moving perfectly with yours and tickling the soft skin.
The tiny moan that left your throat and flooded into Sydney's mouth was swallowed right up by her. Hands holding you tight as she pulled your hips into her own, you let your own hands move up to her jaw.
You held onto her face, tilting it up so you could consume her whole. You'd finally got everything you wanted, there was no way you could let her go. Her hands lifted off your hip for a moment and you heard yourself whine at the loss of contact.
Syd snorted a laugh, only disconnecting your lips for a moment as she worked her own shirt off. Suddenly you could move your hands, running them down the smooth fabric of her cropped bra. Your hands cupped at her chest, feeling the swell of her breasts under your fingers.
Soon, you felt her arm slide under your behind as she began to shuffle back up the bed. She lay down beneath you, letting you perch above her as her hands went back to your waist.
Reaching behind you, you unclasped your bra, sliding the straps down your arms slowly before you tossed it behind you. Sydney did let her eyes fall on your bare breasts, taking in the sight before her.
Moving her hands, she cupped one breast in each hand with her fingers gently tweaking at your nipples. Your eyes began to roll, the tiny shocks of electricity ran through your body as she played with your most sensitive areas.
Your hands lay against her stomach, bringing them to her jeans were you began to unfasten them, slipping your hands underneath them to feel for the waistband of her underwear.
Hearing your name drift off her lips brought you back, your hazy eyes dropping back down to where she lay beneath you.
"Get up here and let me taste you." Sydney ordered in the same voice you'd heard every working day in the kitchen.
Like a switch turning on inside of you, you obediently shuffled up her body until you were hovering over her face. Your heart was pounding behind your ribcage, feeling her hands curve over your ass until they slipped beneath you.
Sydney hooked her fingers into the fabric of your panties, slipping them to the side as her other arm came over your thigh. She pulled you down until you were seated on her face, your cunt laying on the flat of her tongue.
She licked one long line from your entrance to your clit, circling it a couple times before she pursed her lips around it to suck. One of your hands went to your breast, pulling and tweaking at your nipple as the other hand shot out behind you to splay on Sydney's stomach.
You felt your hips roll into her mouth, riding the curve of her tongue as she moved it skilfully against you. Your mouth fell open, the sweet moans flooding past your lips and filling the room.
"Jesus Christ, Syd," You huffed out your words as you kept bucking your hips. "Just like that."
She hummed into you, affirming that she wouldn't change a fucking thing. Not if it meant you kept humping her tongue like that, sounding so pretty when you called out her name.
Her tongue moved around you just like it had in your mouth. It made its way in and commandeered the space. She knew exactly what she was doing, knew exactly how to move to to elicit just what she wanted from you.
Sydney's eyes opened, watching you above her as you rolled your hips with your head tipped back. The way your eyes shut and your mouth fell open as you whimpered. In honesty, she thought you looked a bit like a debauched slut. Just how she wanted you.
There was pride sitting on her chest, sitting just behind you actually. That pride knew that there were a handful of people back at that bar right now that wanted you exactly like this, and Syd was the one that had you. That pride also knew that there was no way they could have you moaning the way you were now.
None of those men would know exactly what you wanted like she could. Not that you were a prize, an object, or anything of the sort.
But Sydney had one first fucking place.
Your hand drifted just a little bit lower, back under her open jeans and beneath the band of her underwear. The curls of her pubic area ran under your fingers until you dipped them into her slit.
"Sydney, you're fucking soaking."
She gave you a moan in response, the feeling reverberating through your body and her hips raised up under your touch. You dipped a finger towards her entrance, collecting slick until you brought it back to circle her clit.
Moving your hand behind you, she lifted her hips to help you get better reach. Your fingers dipped down, tips gently breaching her entrance and making her release another groan into your core.
Your pussy clenched around her tongue, spasms moving up your body as you kept up your movements. Both of Sydney's arms came to hook over your thighs, holding you tight as you fucked her face.
Cries of her name kept rolling off your tongue, the more that she sucked her lips around your clit. You'd no doubt that your neighbours might be impressed by Sydney's skill but all the more wishing she'd go home right now.
You slipped both your middle fingers inside her core, hooking them up against her and rubbing the heel of your hand against her clit. Her hips bucked up again, chasing the feeling as your fingers moved quickly inside of her.
Feeling the white hot tension building to its breaking point inside of you, your teeth clenched around your lower lip as you looked down at her. Her eyes caught on with yours as you rolled your hand against her clit again.
The way her eyes rolled back and the blissed out expression crossed her face was enough for you. Your whole body tensed up as you felt the coil snap, fighting to keep your hand moving in her trousers as your orgasm plummeted through you.
Sydney held onto you, gently pressing kisses to your pussy as she felt your muscles tensing beneath her hands. Her own eyes screwed up as you crooked your fingers up, pressing against the soft, spongey area behind her pubic bone and feeling her tense around your hand.
You shifted your hips back so you could hear the way she whimpered, the sound going down in history for you as it twisted into a moan of your name. Her fingertips dug into your thighs as you brought her to her orgasm.
Her hips stuttered, quietly calling out for you as you let her ride it out on your hand. Gently, you swung your leg off of her and slowly ran your fingers against her slit, feeling the aftershocks slowly dissipating through her.
Shifting to lay beside her on the bed, you brought your fingers up to her mouth, watching her wrap her lips around them and taste herself as you kissed at the wetness you'd left on her chin.
Sydney snuck her left arm beneath you, her right wrapping round your back to pull you in closer as she pressed her lips back against yours. Her tongue pushed it's way through and made total ground as her thigh slotted between your legs.
Rolling it against your centre once, she smiled as you moaned into her mouth. Sydney nodded, humming in delight as she felt your hands working under the band of her bra.
"That's a good girl," She cooed, well and truly finding the rest of her confidence. "Lay back and let me worship you."
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