i am so inlove with your fics rn I just read them day and nighttt but i wanna request Enjin with a big titty mama complaining everytime they fuck on all fours because her heavy tits are well, heavy.
Hope you like it!
Enjin loves you... Really, it's true. You're beautiful and smart, thoughtful and sarcastic. And so damn hot... And not to mention-- You have some nice tits.
Big and juicy, round and heavy. He loves to lay on them, he likes to fondle and squeeze them. When he's having a bad day? He loves to sneak his hands under your shirt and feel the warmth.
But you on the other hand? Well-- Your girls can be a bit annoying.
Especially now, When Enjin had you on all fours and in a nasty arch. You ass ripples as he drives his cock deep into your weeping cunt.
But the damn boulders on your chest are ruining your pleasure. They're so damn heavy as they swing back and forth. "En- Enjin- slow down! My tits are going to knock me out!"
He groans from the back of you. Hands kneading at your ass as he drives himself in. "Wh- What was that sweetness?"
You groan. "My tits! Enjin, they hurt in this position.. they're too heavy and keep swinging all over the place"
He lets out an amused huff. "Why didn't you say so? Let me help you baby.."
He brings your back to his chest. His big hands cup your large chest, the fat spills out between his fingers. "I'll hold them for you.. "
He rolls his hips into your ass. His fingers roll your hard nipples between his fingers.
Fuck he loves your boob so much. Soft and warm..
You relax into his touch as he drags his dick slowly in and out of your pussy. The weight of your chest is lighter now. You can finally enjoy the pleasure your boyfriend is giving you.
He whispers in your ear as his movements become faster. "My poor babygirl... Tits too heavy for her.. I'll always be here to hold them for you doll."
Wet sloppy kisses are placed on anything his lips can reach. The nape of your neck, your shoulders and ears.
You are falling into bliss as Enjin places his arm under your girls to keep them up. The other hand turns your chin so his lips can meet yours in a heavy kiss.
I had this idea sitting in my head and I thought I might as well get it out somewhere lol
Do you think you could write a x (fem)reader fic, where Zanka got some kind of poison or toxin in his system that makes him extremely clingy? Like EXTREMELY clingy
I thought it would be so cute to get the cleaners reaction to an out of character zanka who is attached to reader at the hip and is constantly looking for her attention
Anyway hope you have a great rest of your day!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️
sure!
꒰ ♡ ꒱Close Enough⇢zanka nijiku
-i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. i love you simply, without problems or pride
pablo neruda
synopsis: a quiet mission leaves something behind that makes him stay closer than usual, like distance stops making sense. nothing dramatic happens, just a steady habit of being near you all the time. everyday things feel softer and slower, with small gestures replacing words, and space between you two slowly becoming unnecessary.
content: f!reader, fluff, toxin , so on
a/n: the plot may or may not follow the anime/manga. if you have any suggestions or recommendations feel free to dm me. also if there are any mistakes or or things you would like me to add, reach out to me.
Nobody noticed the toxin at first because Zanka still looked normal.
He still talked the same. Still fought the same. Still had that permanently irritated expression like the world personally offended him.
The only difference was that he suddenly could not handle being away from you.
At first it was small.
You’d get up during meetings and he’d immediately look up.
You’d leave a room and less than a minute later he’d appear in the doorway too, acting like it was coincidence.
Then it got worse.
“Where are you going?”
You looked up from tying your shoes. “Outside?”
“For what?”
“…Fresh air?”
“I’ll come.”
You blinked. “Zanka, I’m literally just sitting outside.”
“Okay.”
“Okay… what?”
“I said I’m coming.”
Like that settled everything.
Honestly, it probably would’ve been less weird if he acted embarrassed about it, but he genuinely didn’t seem to realize he was acting strange.
Meanwhile the rest of the Cleaners were losing their minds.
Rudo watched Zanka follow you into the kitchen for the fourth time that day.
You were pouring yourself a drink when you felt someone behind you again.
You didn’t even need to turn around anymore.
“You know,” you said carefully, “most people knock before entering rooms.”
“I did.”
“You opened the door and walked in.”
“That counts.”
You finally looked over at him and almost laughed.
He looked genuinely serious.
Arms crossed. Standing close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest every time you moved.
“You’ve been following me all day.”
“You’ve been leaving all day.”
“That’s how moving works.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, like he didn’t appreciate your sarcasm.
Then, without warning, he reached over and grabbed the sleeve of your hoodie.
Not aggressively.
Just holding it.
Like a kid who didn’t want their favorite person walking away.
You stared down at his hand.
Then back at him.
“…Zanka.”
“What?”
“Why are you holding my sleeve?”
“You move too much.”
Rudo nearly hit the floor laughing.
“You sound insane right now!”
Zanka ignored him completely and looked at you instead.
“You were gone for twenty minutes earlier.”
“I was showering.”
“You didn’t say where you were going.”
“I didn’t think I needed permission?”
“You don’t.”
“Then why are you upset?”
“I’m not upset.”
He absolutely sounded upset.
You bit back a smile.
The toxin really had destroyed whatever emotional filter he normally had because this was basically Zanka saying I missed you and being mad about it.
Which, honestly, was kind of adorable.
In a terrifying way.
Later that night, you were sitting in the common room reading when Zanka walked in.
The second he saw you, his entire posture relaxed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that you noticed.
He immediately came over and sat beside you.
Very beside you.
Like thigh pressed against yours, arm touching yours, practically glued to your side.
You lowered your book slowly. “Comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“There’s an entire couch.”
“I know.”
“…Then why are you sitting on me?”
“I’m not.”
“You kind of are.”
“I barely am.”
You laughed softly and shook your head.
The sound made him glance at you immediately.
Not annoyed.
Just focused.
Like every tiny reaction from you had suddenly become important to him.
“You’re clingy today,” you teased gently.
“No.”
Rudo, walking by at the perfect moment, stopped dead.
“THAT IS THE BIGGEST LIE I’VE EVER HEARD.”
Zanka looked genuinely irritated at the interruption.
“Go away.”
“You used to act like holding hands was a going end the world!”
“I still do.”
“You are literally sitting in her skin right now!”
You started laughing again while Zanka glared at Rudo hard enough to kill plants.
Then, like he completely forgot anybody else existed, he turned back toward you and suddenly leaned over until his head dropped into your lap.
You froze.
So did everybody else.
Zanka never initiated affection like this in front of people.
Ever.
But now he just looked… tired.
Comfortable.
His arms loosely wrapped around your waist while he buried his face against your stomach like he’d been wanting to do that all day.
Your expression softened instantly.
“Aww,” you whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair.
The reaction was immediate.
He melted.
Actually melted.
His shoulders dropped, his grip tightened slightly around you, and he let out the quietest breath against your hoodie.
Rudo looked like he was witnessing history.
“…Enjin.”
“What?”
“I think she domesticated him.”
“No,” Enjin said calmly. “The toxin did.”
Your fingers kept moving through Zanka’s hair slowly, gently, and after a minute he mumbled against your stomach:
“Don’t stop.”
Your heart nearly exploded.
“You’re cute right now,” you teased softly.
“No I’m not.”
“You’re laying in my lap.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
He looked up finally, expression completely serious.
“You make me calm.”
The room went quiet for a second.
Because under all the clinginess and weird behavior, that part sounded painfully honest.
You smiled softly and brushed his bangs back. “You're clingy today. In a nice way.”
“Because it's you.”
Rudo grabbed Enjin’s shoulder violently.
“HE CAN SAY THINGS LIKE THAT?!”
hope this is what you are looking for. if not feel me to correct me.
Pairing sokka x reader. Sokka gifted you a betrothal necklace he made himself.
Idk man I hate describing the fics 😭
From the beginning, being part of Team Avatar meant constant movement, new places, new dangers, new people, but somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, you became something steady. As an earthbender, you were reliable in a way that grounded everyone, quite literally at times, but especially Sokka. He noticed it long before he understood it.
At first, it was small things: the way you reinforced the ground beneath camp without being asked, how you quietly shaped stone into something useful while everyone else rested, or how you always seemed to anticipate what people needed before they even said it.
You weren’t loud like Aang or blunt like Toph, and you didn’t carry yourself with the same intensity as Katara, you were calm, thoughtful, and steady.
And for someone like Sokka, who constantly felt like he had to prove his worth without bending, that kind of presence became something he leaned on more than he ever expected.
It started with conversations. Real ones. Not just his usual jokes or over-the-top plans, but quieter talks late at night when the fire burned low and the others had already fallen asleep. He’d sit beside you, sometimes a little awkward at first, rambling about strategy or frustrations or things he didn’t usually admit out loud.
You never interrupted him or brushed him off, you listened, really listened, and when you responded, it wasn’t with empty reassurance but something thoughtful and honest.
You told him he wasn’t just “the idea guy,” that without him, half the plans wouldn’t even exist, let alone succeed. And maybe he laughed it off at the time, made some sarcastic comment to hide how much it meant, but it stayed with him. After that, it became habit. Sitting next to you. Talking to you first. Looking for you in a crowd without even realizing he was doing it.
Somewhere along the way, it stopped being subtle—at least to everyone else. Katara noticed the way Sokka’s voice changed when he talked to you, softer, less performative.
Aang noticed how Sokka would instinctively move closer to you during breaks, how he’d offer you food first or check if you were okay after fights before anyone else.
Even Toph, who pretended not to care about anything remotely emotional, made the occasional comment that left Sokka flustered and defensive. But you… you just stayed the same. Warm, steady, quietly affectionate in your own way.
You’d brush dirt off his shoulder without thinking, hand him tools you shaped from stone when his broke, stand just a little closer than necessary. It wasn’t dramatic or overwhelming—it was natural. And that somehow made it mean more.
The necklace, though, that was something else entirely. Sokka didn’t decide to make it all at once. It crept into his mind slowly, the idea forming over days and weeks until it refused to leave.
Back in the Water Tribe, betrothal necklaces weren’t just gifts, they meant something real, something lasting, and the thought of giving you one both terrified and excited him in equal measure. Still, once the idea settled in, there was no stopping it.
He started collecting materials wherever he could, pretending it was for “tools” or “plans” whenever anyone asked. Small shells from a beach you’d camped near, stones you had once shaped absentmindedly and left behind, bits of cord he carefully traded for.
He worked on it in secret, usually late at night when everyone else was asleep, hunched over with intense concentration as he carved, tied, and adjusted every piece. It didn’t come easily, his hands weren’t as precise as a craftsman’s, and more than once he had to start over, but he kept going anyway. Because it was for you, and somehow that made the frustration worth it.
When he finally decides to give it to you, he almost backs out three separate times.
The timing never feels right, too many people around, too much noise, too many chances to mess it up, but eventually he realizes there’s never going to be a “perfect” moment, not in the middle of a war. So he settles for a quiet evening instead, when the sky is soft with fading light and the world feels, for once, like it’s not about to fall apart.
You’re sitting beside him on the ground you’d smoothed out earlier, your shoulder barely brushing his, and he’s so unusually quiet that it doesn’t take long for you to notice something’s off.
When you ask what he’s hiding, he panics immediately, blurting out a denial that convinces you of the exact opposite. And then, before he can overthink it again, he just… pulls it out.
The necklace rests in his hands, imperfect and uneven, every flaw painfully obvious to him, the slightly crooked alignment, the rough edges he couldn’t smooth out, the knot that took far too many attempts to get even remotely right.
And suddenly he’s talking too fast, words tumbling over each other as he tries to explain, to justify, to lower your expectations before you can even react.
He tells you it’s not great, that it’s kind of messy, that he knows it’s not what you deserve, but then his voice shifts, softens, becomes something more honest. He tells you what it means. Where he comes from. What giving it to someone represents. And by the time he’s finished, there’s this fragile kind of silence hanging between you, like everything could change depending on what you say next.
But you don’t hesitate.
You take his hands in yours, steady and sure, and instead of focusing on the flaws, you trace every detail like it matters, because to you, it does. You see the effort, the time, the care behind every uneven piece, and it hits you all at once just how much of himself he put into this.
When you tell him it’s perfect, he tries to argue, of course he does, pointing out every little mistake like that somehow invalidates the whole thing, but you just shake your head, smiling softly as you tell him you don’t care about any of that. What matters is that he made it. That he chose you.
And that’s the moment it really sinks in for him.
When you lift your hair and quietly ask him to put it on you, Sokka almost forgets how to breathe. His hands are careful, more careful than they’ve ever been, as he ties it behind your neck, fingers brushing your skin in a way that sends a nervous kind of warmth through both of you.
He fumbles a little, of course, but he manages it, and when he’s done, he just… pauses, hands lingering like he’s not quite ready to let go of the moment. When you turn back to face him, the necklace resting against your collarbone, there’s this soft, almost disbelieving look in his eyes, like he’s still waiting for something to go wrong.
Instead, you lean forward and press a gentle kiss to his cheek.
It’s simple. Soft. But it means everything.
When you pull back, your smile is small but certain, and the words you say next are just as steady as you’ve always been. You tell him yes, not in some grand, dramatic way, but like it’s the most natural decision in the world, like there was never really any other answer.
And for a second, Sokka just stares at you, trying to process it, before it finally clicks. The nerves, the doubt, the constant overthinking, it all melts away, replaced by something bright and overwhelming and real. His grin breaks through before he can stop it, wide and genuine, a little stunned but completely happy.
And when you lean into him afterward, your shoulder resting comfortably against his, neither of you pulls away.
Because in the middle of everything, of war, of uncertainty, of a world constantly shifting beneath your feet, you’ve found something solid in each other.
જ⁀➴ Zuko’s changed over the years but the one thing that stays constant is how much he loves his wife, she’s the only thing he believes in. There is no other above the women who’s so beautiful it could challenge Aphrodite and win.
Request
Zuko’s has proven himself to truly be nothing like his father when it comes to his way of ruling and especially in his love style. His always been gentle and loving towards you, so patient and soft. You’re the finest piece of porcelain he has gotten his hands on, nothing could compare to you in any way.
His built a statue in your name that lies in the courtyard of the palace. He lets you in to all negotiations even when the chamberlain advises against the idea because your opinion has more weight than anything in the world, you’ve demonstrated yourself to be an acknowledgeable person in all you’re involved in. The nation has thrived under his rule and your guidance, and if it keeps the kingdom expanding further than Zuko would gladly allow you to stand by his side as you please.
Despite being a man in a position of immense power and influence, Zuko is extremely humble. He is humble enough to be standing on his knees as you sit down on the edge of your bed, Zuko’s head resting on the silk on your robe. Gently on your thighs as you stroke the dark locks that grace his head, your fingers running through his hair so smoothly, he can’t help but release a soft moan, “mhm, that’s so so good,” he softly murmured.
You softly chuckled as you paused to move your hand to gently cup his face, a slow gesture as you guided his face to look at him. His soft eyes staring up at him as if he were looking a being beyond his understanding, his mouth slightly ajar as he stared at you, “a fly will get into your mouth,” you mused as you stroked his cheek, his eyes fluttering closed as he leans into your touch.
“Have I ever told you, you look absolutely stunning?” He weakly asks as turns to kiss the inside of your palm and all you could do is let out a soft and breathless, “I could name a couple of times,” you said tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.
“I should tell you more. You’re so perfect, I need to kiss you,” he murmured into your palm before pulling back and pushing the slit of your robe to have access to your bare thighs before placing a kiss on them, “I should appreciate you…your body…” he sighs as he smiles into your thigh, “you’re so…ngh—“ he moaned as he slowly spread your legs apart to kiss the inner of your thighs.
You slightly shudder at placement of the kisses as you tilt your head back, “Zuko.” You murmured into the air before he pulled back and wrapped his arms around your mid length, “don’t say my name like that, I’m not a strong man when I’m with you.” He pleaded as you softly laughed.
A/n: Sokka losing his mind because one girl doesn't care who they are.
Reader being an animal tamer from the circus from my wonderful friend. @nuttymouthful
The circus smelled like hay, sugar, and something faintly dangerous, like singed fur and poor decisions. Lanterns glowed overhead, casting everything in warm gold, and the distant roar of a crowd rippled through the tents like a living thing. It was loud, chaotic, alive…exactly how you liked it.
And currently, you were elbow-deep in a bucket of fish, arguing with a turtle seal who thought rules were optional.
“No,” you said flatly, holding a fish just out of reach. “You do not get a third one. You are not starving. You are manipulative.”
The turtle seal blinked at you. Then, with all the audacity in the world, it made the saddest noise imaginable.
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t start that.”
“Uh… excuse me?”
You didn’t even turn around. “Busy.”
They waited two seconds and then much louder, more offended. “Excuse me?!”
You sighed, tossed the fish into the bucket, wiped your hands on a towl tied at your belt loop and finally turned.
And immediately clocked… a group.Not just any group. A group group.
A bald airbender with bright gray eyes and the kind of open, curious expression that screamed too nice for his own good. A Water Tribe woman who looked like she could mother an army then take down said army. A very muscular woman who was absolutely judging everything with her arms crossed. A man in royal Fire Nation attire who carried himself like he’d spent years trying not to set things on fire. And another guy…
"We wanted to check out the sho-."
You interrupt him as you looked at him. "…and you are?”
He blinked. “I’m Sokka.”
You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“…that’s it?”
“Do you want a sticker?”
The girl with the metal bracelets snorted.Sokka looked personally wounded.
The bald one stepped forward, smiling warmly. “Hi! I’m Aang—”
“....cool,” you cut in, already turning back to your animals.
There was a pause. A confused, almost offended pause.
Then Sokka’s voice exploded behind you because of course he does. “LADY?! HE’S THE AVATAR?! THIS IS THE FIRE LORD.” His thumb jerking to point at them.
You didn’t even flinch. You reached down, grabbed your turtle seal under the belly, and lifted him to his side with practiced ease, turning slightly so they could see him.
“And this,” you said, deadpan, “is a turtle seal.”
The turtle seal made a happy noise.
You set him down, then immediately scooped up your fire ferret, who wriggled in your grip like a noodle with opinions.
“And this is a fire ferret… look at it.” You held him up, squinting at him like you were personally offended by his existence. “It’s like a long rat.”
The ferret chirped.
You grabbed one of his little paws and stretched it gently toward them.
“Look at his feet. All the worst people own one of these bad boys.” You tilted your head, offering him forward slightly. “Wanna pet him? He bites.”
Zuko, the actual Fire Lord who had faced war, politics, and his own inner demons… leaned back.
“…I’m good.”
Toph was already stepping forward. “Oh, I like her.”
“Do not encourage her,” Katara whispered.
Aang, meanwhile, was staring not at the ferret, not at the turtle seal but at you.There was a strange tilt to his head, like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
“You work with all of them?” he asked, softer now.
You shrugged. “Train them. Feed them. Clean up after them. Stop them from eating each other. Same as any family.”
That made something flicker in his expression.
“You don’t… care who we are?” he asked, his chest felt light.
You finally looked at him properly.
Not the tattoos. Not the robes. Not the weight everyone else seemed to place on his shoulders.
Just him.
A guy.
A little too curious. A little too bright. A little too open.
You hummed.
“I care if you scare my animals,” you said simply. “You don’t. So… you’re fine.”
Sokka looked like he might combust.Katara blinked.Zuko looked faintly like he wanted to laugh but didn’t trust himself to try, Toph grinned like she’d just found her favorite person.And Aang, Aang just smiled.
Not the polite, practiced one. Not the “I’m the Avatar and I should be kind” smile.
A real one.
“You’re… different,” he said.
“Yeah,” you replied, already turning back to your bucket to toss the Turtle seal a fish. “I get that a lot.”
Behind him, the tall one….Sokka, if the muttering was anything to go by dragged a hand down his face. “This is insane. This is actually insane. You don’t even care who we are.”
“Nope.”
“That’s the Avatar!”
“Mhm.”
“That’s the Fire Lord!” he snapped, pointing dramatically at the scarred man.
You glanced at him again. “Good for him.”
The Fire Lord…Zuko, made a strangled noise.
“And I,” Sokka continued, gesturing to himself, “am—”
You stared at him.
“…important,” he finished weakly.
You blinked. “Okay.”
Toph snorted so hard she nearly doubled over.Katara covered her mouth, trying and failing not to laugh.
Meanwhile, Aang was still holding the fire ferret like it was the greatest treasure he’d ever been given, completely enchanted despite the occasional bite. “These are amazing,” he said, voice soft with genuine wonder. “You train all of them?”
“All of them,” you confirmed, already turning back to your work. “Feed them, clean them, train them, deal with their moods, their tantrums, their weird little habits—”
“That sounds like Appa,” Aang said immediately, brightening.
You paused, then tilted your head. “…what’s an Appa?”
“A sky bison,” Aang said. "….My Sky Bison."
You slowly turned back around, your eyes narrowed.
“You’re telling me,” you said carefully, “you have a flying animal… and you didn’t lead with that?”
Aang grinned, and just like that, for the first time since they walked in you looked interested.
“Where is it?”
Sokka groaned. “Oh no.”
Zuko pinched the bridge of his nose.
Toph grinned like chaos itself had just found a new best friend.
And Aang….Aang looked like he’d just won something far more important than any title he’d ever held.
Because you didn’t care about the Avatar.But you did care about animals.And for him? That was more than enough.
Hitoshi sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. In the silence of your bedroom, you hold your own breath.
“I’m in love with you.” He says evenly, letting his mouth deliberately slide around each word. “God, I’ve been in love with you since high school.”
Your heart drops into your stomach.
“Um…what!?” You’re dreaming. You must be dreaming. There’s absolutely no way that Hitoshi Shinsou – your best friend in the world – is confessing his love to you right now in the middle of the night via 5G cellular service.
Sure, you’ve harbored a deep crush on him over the years. And, yeah, you’re more bricked up about him than Cementoss at full power…but you never dreamed of admitting that to Shinsou. You can’t put over a decade of friendship in jeopardy!
You don’t know what to say, but it doesn’t matter, because Shinsou keeps on talking…
“And I want to come over to your place tonight and show you how much you mean to me. I want to warm you up in that drafty, cold apartment of yours.” His voice breaks into a small chuckle at the thought. “I want to wrap my arms around you and hold you close to my chest as I just absolutely lavish you with affection. In fact, I want to goddamn worship your body.”
He pauses and you can picture him biting his lip, trying to hold back the steady stream of un-Shinsou-like nonsense that’s coming out of his mouth.
Your face is heating up and you can practically feel his arms wrapped around you, you can picture the way his hard biceps would feel caging you in. Your body practically vibrates with want as your mind supplies an image of his big pro hero body cradling you underneath the covers, his sharp jaw tucked into your shoulder. Fuck, are you wet right now? What the hell is going on here?
Shinsou keeps talking, his words firing hot and heavy out of your phone. You pull the device away from your ear and put him on speaker, falling backwards onto the bed and staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes as his gravely voice fills up your room.
“I need to run my tongue along your soft skin and breathe in your goddamn gorgeous scent. Do you know you smell like wildflowers after you shower? Of course you do…you bought that expensive shampoo last time we went to the store together for microwave popcorn. I hope you never use another shampoo in your life – when I think of you, I can practically smell wildflowers. It’s intoxicating. Sexy. Fuck. I’ve gotten off to the thought of you letting me shower with you. Is that weird to say out loud? I picture myself standing behind you under hot water, washing your hair and kneading that shampoo into your scalp. I could suds you up with soap. Trail my fingers across your wet, bare body. Cup that gorgeous ass of yours.”
------
A snippet from a short Hitoshi x Reader fic I'm working on!! I'm 11 pages in, hoping to get to maybe 20 this week? It's gonna be a good one, I promise!
✦ Zanka isn’t as nonchalant as he seems. sure, with a deep voice like his, such a serious demeanor, and standing at 5’10, you’d definitely think so at first. once you get to know him though?.. yeah he’s the complete opposite, especially around his s/o. he’ll never admit it out loud, but any time he’s around you, he’s practically a puddle in your hands!
✦ this boy absolutely melts whenever you touch his face, eyes fluttering instantly. whenever you're talking and you lose your train of thought, you put your hand on the side of his face subconsciously, rubbing his cheek with your thumb to focus on remembering what you were saying. you don't notice you're doing it until you feel him lean into your touch. "oops, my bad" you smile awkwardly as you move your hand away. but he grabs your wrist and moves it right back to the same place it was before. "nah, it's okay. keep thinking, I don't mind.."
✦ he loves when you sit on his lap, especially when you have a little extra weight on you. you might think you're a little too heavy for him but trust me girl, you're not. he's a little slender sure, but he can handle you with ease. and if he notices you're hovering a bit, his hands are already finding your hips and pulling you down. you look back at him, a worried look washes over your face. "you sure this is okay? I-I don't want to make you uncomfortable-" you nervously stumble before he presses a soft kiss to your lips. "relax for me, okay? I'm perfectly fine, I promise. besides, I wanna feel all of my pretty girl.."
✦ speaking of handling things, let's talk about that attitude of yours. if you start the day off with negativity, he's doing anything to make his girl feel better. he's not letting you walk around HQ with that mean ass mug of yours. "talk to me baby, what's going on with you?" he'll ask, his hand reaching to hold your face but you push it away before he can touch you.
"nothing boy, I'm fine". he raises an eyebrow, "boy? since when do you call me that? thought I was your man." he chuckles a bit. you roll your eyes as you pick up your phone, starting to scroll. he kisses your cheek, then your neck, then your chest, kisses trailing all over your brown skin. "what can i do for you, hm? please, i'll do whatever you want me to, just say the word. but I need you to work with me...please darlin" he practically begs in between kisses. you hold back a smile, your cheeks heating up. it's so hard to stay annoyed when it comes to him..
✦ remember when I said he's practically a puddle in your hands? yeah this is especially true whenever you call him one of your agreed pet names. "hey baby, could you hand me my eyeliner" "what's wrong, my love?" "zankaaa! c'mere sweetheart I want you to help me with something real quick" "you did so good today, sweetie" use any one of these and he's looking at you with hearts in his eyes
✦ if you show him that you're interested in learning Japanese, he's ready to kiss you all over. he absolutely adores that you want to learn his native language, it has him falling for you even more than he already has. I could imagine him teasing you during one of your learning sessions, saying something that he knows you wouldn't come close to understanding (and he knows you love how he sounds when he speaks it). "日本語を勉強してくれて嬉しいよ、ベイビー。ベッドでこうやって話そう…裸でもいいよ" (yes he’s corny like that) he says tilting his head, looking you up and down. you raise an eyebrow, noticing how his voice dropped an octave. "what does that mean, honey?" you ask, getting ready to write his words down. he bites his lip, holding back a giggle. "nothing, beautiful. don't worry about it"
✦ he loves when you give him random kisses. the both of you could be sitting on your shared bed, he's reading a book, and you're watching something on your phone. you get the urge to kiss him, so you set the phone down, turn to him, take the book from his hands, and straddle him. "hey? what are you-" before he can get the question out, your lips are already pressed against his. your hands make their way to his hair, massaging his hair as you deepen the kiss, tongues finding each other. his hands hesitantly grab at your waist. giggling, you break the kiss for a second, "you can touch me babyboy, it's okay".
you start grinding down on his lap a bit, a whimper leaving his throat. his hands begin to slide down, but just before they reach your ass, you pull away. "okay that's enough! you can get back to that book now. tell me about it later, yeah?" you hop off of him, grab your found, and walk out the bedroom. he sits there, hair a bit messy and your lip combo all over his lips.
"fuuuuck, this girl!" he grabs a pillow and hides his red face, embarrassed from how into it he was...and by that little noise he made (he knows you heard it and will tease him about it later on)
𝄞⨾💿✮ 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐳𝐚 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝. Please do NOT plagiarize, copy, modify, republish, or translate my work in any way!
I could definitely see Bro being an instructor for a kids fitness class/sport of some kind - but like for kids with "difficult behaviors". Children that have been excluded from participating in the sports that their schools offers, or their local gyms because they were dubbed too much, or too weird, or too high maintenance or too different, something that he had grown tired of hearing when it came to his own son.
It started off as just him giving Dear another outlet, a hobby that he could enjoy while still being active, and soon enough Dear was bringing his friends who had been benched from the moment they received their jersey or the ones who had been pushed out of clubs and classes due to one reason or another.
One kid turned into three, three turned into eight, eight turned into thirteen and suddenly he had a full class of rowdy kids who had never been exposed to any sort of direction or authority due to the adults in their life deciding that it just wasn't worth the hassle and work.
He whips their little asses into shape and then some - lovingly, of course. Meltdowns and outbursts were met with patience and knowledgeable care rather than a frustrated parent or teacher throwing their hands up and leaving them to their self. He allowed them to feel what they needed to and voice their feelings if they were able, but they weren't getting off that easy, not with him. He knew his kids, and he knew their limits and how much was too much and he never went overboard but he did toe the line, but that's because he knew what they were capable of—he believed in them.
Of course it wasn't all work and no play in his studio. He incorporated a lot of play, allowing the younger kids sessions to have intermittent dance parties, even bringing out the climbing equipment anf tumble mats towards the end of the class so they could get their last little bit of energy out.
And of course the parents raved about him. They had dropped off difficult kids, ie kids that just needed a bit more help and patience, and had picked up kids that suddenly weren't throwing tantrums, or bouncing off the walls, or screaming at the top of their lungs because their guardian couldn't set the phone down long enough to properly engage with them. They listened better, actually settled down at night because the boundless energy rampaging through them had been given an adequate outlet. Their social skills improved because they were given a safe space to voice their thoughts, interests, and feelings without judgement, no matter how long it took for them to get the words out in whatever form they chose to express themselves.
Everyone knows that Bro's classes aren't just somewhere to dump your kids at and have them run around all day, it's more than that, it's more meaningful, it has longevity - it leaves a lasting impact on the kids that come through his care, and there's never an empty spot on his roster.
-
I just think Bro would do really well working with autistic/neurodivergent children. I personally HC Dear as autistic & selectively mute and I know that Bro has the upmost patience and care when it comes to him. In a modern AU I just know he's heavily involved in ABA and has an RBT certification or something of that nature. He's probably taken a few college courses geared towards Special Education/Child Psychology/Child Development. He really just wants to do his best to understand Dear and support him as best as he can and that's so daddy of him.
A cleaner HQ cookout in someone's backyard, swimming in the pool, eating burgers fresh off the grill that Bro grilled, Enjin is mixing drinks (bad idea but yeah sure), Semiu is tanning and enjoying the sun and avoiding Enjin's drinks like the plague. Corvus is watching a football game with Delmon and shouting what's going on back to Bro, Riyo is playing DJ making sure the vibes are just right. Gris and Follo are playing soccer with the kids, trying to keep them from running to close to the grill only to consistantly get bodied by Guita and Dear. Tomme is playing mermaids with Amo in the pool. Zanka is sitting in a floaty, staring at the sky and just enjoying life. August is arguing with Riyo about her music choices and Eishia is cautiously making sure no one burns themselves or that any glasses break near the pool, only to get asked to join Tomme and Amo. Rudo is trying to learn a little from everyone, standing by the grill with Bro, trying to mix drinks with Enjin until Semiu yells at them, He loved playing soccer until Dear hit him. He enjoys sitting in a floaty with Zanka the most, just relaxing and feeling safe.
When it's time to eat though, they all sit around a big table and pass along the food Bro cooked, talking and laughing like a big family.
could you do a Follo x Reader Nsfw fix, please? So like reader is a cleaner who like a chill person but gets super flustered in relationships, but she secretly has a hair pulling and bitting king, she likes getting her body marked up and hair pulled on. And also has a BIG secret Breeding kink, Lile she wants a baby and stuff. If please, make that the fix and include some fingering, size difference and aftercare please! Please and thank you!!!
ugh follo is such a cutie pie i need to suck him off meowwwww and the idea of being kinky asf with him ???? yummy yummy YUMMY
he’s also probably the best at giving aftercare, i said what i said🙏🏻
-
confessing your feelings to follo was maybe the hardest thing you’d ever had to do in your life.
you weren’t the best when it came to your feeings like that, you became flustered at the thought of it.
now, if that was hard, bringing yourself to tell him about all the nasty things you wanted him to do to you, that felt almost life threatening.
you thought maybe during sex you could gently usher him to put his hand here, his lips there, and fuck you this way, but you just couldn’t.
but, as slightly embarrassing as it was in the moment, your life had been saved the time he pushed himself inside you, grabbed at your hair a little harder than he meant, and as he went to apologize, the most lewd noise erupted from your throat.
ever since, he’d pull your hair here and there, harder every time, then you mustered enough confidence to tell him to kiss and nibble onto your neck, finally able to tell him biting harder was more than okay.
you didn’t expect to see such a feral side of follo, but you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t exactly what you wanted.
he had you under him currently, and he leaned in to passionately kiss you.
he was a euphoric kisser from the start, that was for sure.
his rhythm and intimacy was perfect, and enough to have your cunt drooling in no time just for him.
while he kissed you, he pulled at your hair, and you whimpered into his mouth, and he pulled away with your bottom lip between his teeth.
he chuckled lightly,
“any other secret kinks i should know about?”
he may have been asking to tease, but part of it did come across as genuine curiosity.
biting and hair pulling seemed extremely tame compared to the fact that you wanted him to make you swollen with his kids.
the thought of follo cumming inside of you, once, twice, and continuously fucking it into you, making sure not to lose a single drop, practically guaranteed to get pregnant, it made your head dizzy.
“-y/n?”
you’d been thinking about it, and follo needed to snap you back into the reality of tell your fucking boyfriend to cum inside you.
“so, there is more?”
there was a mischievous undertone to his voice that made your pussy throb, and you bit your lip.
“i’d do anything for you, tell me”
you bashfully averted your eyes,
“i want you to, uh, you know, can you maybe-“
you stumbled your words, and while he listened, he inched closer to you, kissed your jaw, and down your neck.
“c’mon, hunny, tell me”
the way he spoke to you like he’d take care of you no matter the circumstances only made it worse.
worse, as in, you wanted him to breed you even more.
his hand caressed your cheek, thumb finding its way to your bottom lip and he pet it.
“…inside, follo. can you…?”
he stopped.
he pulled back, looked at you, and could tell you were dead serious.
now, if you’d known in the first place it would be that easy, maybe you would’ve said something to him sooner.
if you’d known he’d be more of a mess than you fucking himself deeper into your pussy, you definitely would’ve said something way sooner.
he held one of your legs up to get a better angle, continuing to fuck you as he’d just cum.
“this what you wanted, love? want me to fuck my babies deeper inside?”
a different switch flickered inside follo as he kissed your cervix with his cum.
the thought of you possibly getting pregnant from this second round with follo made your head spin.
“yes, yes, follo! breed me, please!”
your cries make his dick twitch with overstimulation inside of you, and you felt it.
no matter, the way you squeezed him, he was definitely going to cum again.
he’d become much more possessive during this round, and you weren’t opposed. quiet the opposite, actually.
he caged you under him as he prepared to cum again,
“mine, you’re mine, baby”
he wasn’t a big, buff dude, but he was much bigger than you, that’s for sure.
the way he trapped you made him seem so much bigger, and your pussy milked him even tighter, so he groaned.
“g’na cum inside, m’kay? gonna make you a mama”
his hand found its way to your head, and he gripped your hair as his dick buried as deep as he could, feeling his warmth fill you to the brim.
and he held it there for a second, then a minute, making sure none would go to waste.
he’d even went as far as once he finally pulled out, he held your leg up to keep you spread, and plugged your cunt with his fingers.
“don’t wanna lose any, yeah, baby?”
his fingers gently pumped in and out of your swollen pussy, nothing too rough, only making sure you didn’t lose any of him.
but while the fun was good while it lasted, the switched turned off, and his post-sex nurturing mode was on, making sure to wipe you clean everywhere, and help you change into comfy pajamas, tuck you back into bed with him.
he held you close to him under the covers, your head resting in the crook of his neck, while his arm draped over your hip, holding you contently.
“i’m glad you told me”
he mumbled against your head, and you lift your head, red swelling to your cheeks.
he wanted to reassure you that you made no mistake, and he’d never judge you for anything, only support you.
“it’s embarrassing, follo”
he hugged you closer and kissed your head, shaking his head.
“i think i like it more than you do, hun”
he felt you hide your face against his chest further, and he chuckled at your flustered state.
mike realized his parents didn't love each other when he was very young, and he rationalized this as all couples don't love each other. that's until he sees the way steve treats you.
c.w. none, a little angsty in the beginning but not really sad, mostly fluff, canon divergent bc i'm pretending the byers never moved to california and max is still hanging out with the party
a/n: wrote this instead of studying for finals, do not bring ship wars into the reblogs. this is me psychoanalyzing a sad teenage boy and writing self-indulgent domestic fluff
───────── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─────────
Mike Wheeler's parents do not love each other. Maybe they have some semblance of love between them, but they are not engaged in the act of love. He isn't quite sure at what age, or even exactly when, he realized this. He can't point to one exact day of his life but rather a blur of the hundreds of evenings he's spent the same way.
Sitting at the dinner table with his parents and two sisters while his mother puts out emotional fires and his father picks at his chicken then tells his mom it's over salted. Nancy has a teeth-cleaning on Saturday so she needs to move her date with Jonathan. Also how is her chemistry grade? Mrs. Sinclair recommended a great tutor. Holly's daycare closes early tomorrow so someone needs to pick her up. Does one of Mike's friends want to earn some cash babysitting? Oh and is Mike still going out with his friends after school tomorrow?
Somewhere in the middle of his mother's rambles his father will stand up muttering a "thank you," not to be polite but because it's expected, and walks over to the couch to watch TV without putting his dish in the sink. He'll watch whatever sports game is on and crack a beer while his mother cleans the kitchen.
There is no animosity or arguing between Ted and Karen, only tolerance and mutual existence.
Eventually, the idea of love becomes near repulsive to him. The idea of his parents engaging in any sort of affection makes him nauseous. It's not the childish disgust Lucas has seeing his father kiss his mother but a deep-seated discomfort. A part of him (smaller or bigger than he'd like, he's not quite sure) believes love doesn't exist. It's simply a pleasant lie society feeds one another, because the idea of being alone is terrifying.
That's until he finds himself half-asleep on Steve Harrington's living room floor.
He's been having a lot of sleepovers with his friends since the Starcourt Mall incident. None of them want to be the person who says it but they're all terrified of being alone. He's woken up quite a few times in a cold sweat with gory images in his mind, and he doubts he's the only one. Steve's parents are hardly ever in town so his house becomes the designated place for sleepovers.
The credits are rolling for whatever movie they watched, Mike can't remember because he fell asleep half-way through. His memory is hazy of what time they started but if he had to guess it's probably close to one in the morning.
Dustin is fast asleep next to him on the floor and Will's knocked out on the couch above them. They had been designing their characters for a new DND campaign, Mike's pretty sure there's pen on his cheek from falling asleep while writing the character details.
One of the other side of the couch Max is squished between El and Lucas, and he sincerely doubts she'll mind come morning. She'll probably be grateful considering she's been having some of the worst nightmares.
His eyes make his way over to the loveseat where you had been sitting with Steve. What once started as a respectable distance to avoid incurring any teasing has disappeared. You're leaning on Steve, curled into his side and he has an arm wrapped around you, rubbing your shoulders. You're trying to focus on the credits, dangerously close to dozing off while Steve stares down at you with something in his eyes Mike can't quite understand.
What he does understand is that his parents have never held each other like that.
"You sleepin' over there baby?" Steve's voice is a soft murmur, smiling as he looks down at you.
"Mmmm…" you let out a sleepy hum, barely acknowledging his words before burrowing deeper into his side.
Steve's smile widens in response and all of a sudden Mike's stomach twists. It's not disgust or repulsion but… embarrassment. He's intruding on something special, he should just close his eyes and go back to sleep. That's what he should do, but he can't bring himself to.
"Mmm…. need to put… the kids,” you mumble just barely comprehensible in your sleepy stupor.
“What about the kids sweetheart?” Steve whispers brushing hair out of your face.
“Put em to bed….” you’re practically in Steve’s lap despite the fact the loveseat was made for two. “Mike and Dustin are on the floor… and clean up…..”
“I’ll do it,” Steve murmurs gently and kisses your forehead, “but first I'm putting you to bed.”
“No…..” your brow furrows in your half conscious state.
“Yes,” Steve smooths out the crease with his thumb and kisses your cheek. Then in one smooth movement he’s standing up and hoisting you into his arms, all while making sure the blanket is still tucked around you. You let out a quiet giggle when he picks you up and he notices.
"Having fun over there?" he teases quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. It's almost a knee-jerk reaction, he can't keep his lips off you.
"I feel special," you whisper as if you're sharing a secret and Steve's face softens even more. Mike didn't know it was possible for someone to look at another person like that.
"You are special," Steve whispers in that same secretive tone and kisses your forehead. "C'mon pretty, let's get you to bed."
Your words fade into quiet indecipherable whispers and giggles as Steve carries you to and up the staircase and Mike finds himself staring at the empty loveseat. A million thoughts swirling in his head and none at the same time. He's about to sit up when he hears Steve coming down the staircase and immediately closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep.
He doesn't know why, he could just pretend he woke up now. He doesn't have to give Steve any indication that he witnessed their intimate moment, but for some reason a part of him believe that waking up now would ruin something. Something he can't quite put words to.
The older teen shuffles around a little, turning off the TV, before coming over to where Mike and Dustin are laying on the floor. Then before Mike knows it Steve is lifting him up and placing him on the couch. He feels like a little kid being carried to bed after falling asleep on the car ride home. Though that only happened once or twice at his mother's insistence, usually his father woke him up to walk inside.
He hears some more shuffling and then the couch dips presumably with Dustin's weight. He hears the sounds of Steve cleaning up trash and crafts, carefully organizing their DND papers as to not be scolded later. Just when he thinks Steve is about to head upstairs a blanket is gently tucked around his shoulders and a damp cloth is pressed to his cheek to wipe the pen marks off.
"Wheeler?" Steve whispers gently, and his body tenses but his eyes don't open.
Noticing the tension in his body, Mike hears Steve let out a huff indicating he's smiling. He tucks the blanket a little tighter and ruffles Mike's hair.
"Go to bed kid."
Steve tucks a blanket around Dustin before flicking off all the lights and setting the heater to a comfortable temperature. Then he quietly creeps upstairs and Mike can hear the soft murmurs of you two speaking. He doesn't need to be in the room to have an idea of what's being said.
summary: Steve crashes girl's night, but now you're wondering why this wasn't the plan all along
wc: 1.4k
warnings: fem!reader, talks of having kids, clingy lovesick Steve, Max and El being meddlers, sugary sweet fluff all the way through
a/n: I am so beyond obsessed with these two, I want to write them forever. This is part of a larger series, but this can be read as a stand alone! I am so fearful about the finale, this is 100% how I am coping <3
previous part here! | materialist here! | ask box here!
“What are you doing here?” Your boyfriend, your lovely, sweet and incredibly clingy boyfriend, was standing on your front porch, loaded down with shopping bags and a hopeful expression on his face.
“What do you mean ‘what are you doing here’?” Steve’s head cocked to the side in the way that made your heart twirl. “You needed ice cream.” He held up the bags emphatically. “So I brought ice cream.”
Those little liars.
“Just call him!”
“Please, come on!” Your girls were not patient creatures.
“I want ice cream too, but Steve is busy.” you sighed, hoping that they would drop it soon. You were ecstatic to have them both there for the sleepover you’d been promising for weeks, but they were on a tear tonight.
“Who would he be busy with? You’re here.” Max snarked, not looking up from El’s nails, which were being painted a lovely shade of neon green.
“He has a job, my angel.” Steve wasn’t at work, and you knew that he was planning on spending the night at home. But you hoped he was sleeping or doing something he actually enjoyed. He’d been so busy with work and wrangling your adopted children lately, you didn’t want to disturb him. “And other friends.”
“If you call him, he will come.” El says it so bluntly, it makes your heart stutter. She’s so sure of it.
“And it’s crazy you think he’d rather do anything else.” Max rolled her eyes. “He’s obsessed with you.”
You could feel the heat rushing to your face. You grabbed the phone, pulling the cord tight over the back of the couch. “Wanna order pizza?”
“They called you when they were supposed to be ordering the pizza, didn’t they?”
“Yep,” Steve said, popping the ‘p’ and not even bothering to hide his grin. He slipped past you, pausing only to push a firm kiss to your cheek.
“I told them to leave you alone!” your swirled around, eyebrows raised and hands firmly planted on your hips. El and Max at least had the decency to look somewhat chastised. “You’re supposed to be relaxing!”
“Spending time with my girls is relaxing.”
Okay, there was no way you could complain after that. El and Max scampered off the couch, following Steve into your kitchen where he had dumped the bags.
“Okay, strawberry for El,” he said, mostly to himself. “And vanilla for Max.” He pulled out one more pint, in your favorite flavor.
You shouldn’t be surprised that he had gone overboard. Three pints of ice cream, and all the toppings that you could dream of were already littered across the counter. And there were several bags to go.
“Stevie, this is too much.” You insisted, crossing your arms. God, was he pouting?
“You never let me spoil you!”
“The number one rule of having a boyfriend is that you have to let him spoil you.” Max said, the words muddled around the half bar of chocolate that she had managed in one bite. El nodded emphatically, rifling through one of the bags and pulling out a box of Eggos.
Steve’s eyes were wide as he gestured in agreement. “See? They get it.” Steve rummaged through your drawers, finding an ice cream scoop easily, like he’d done it a million times.
You reached for the cabinet with the bowls, but Steve’s hand snatched yours out of the air. “Baby, go sit down. We’ll make you a sundae, right girls?” Steve’s eyes were wide and pleading, and he knew he’d already won.
You nodded, reveling in the kiss he placed on the back of your hand, squeezing a few times before letting it drop. You stumbled back into the living room, plopping on the couch and letting the sounds of Steve arguing good naturedly with the girls wash over you.
A few hours later, and you’d all eaten through half of the ice cream, cried through the ending of E.T. and someone avoided getting reprimanded for the way that you and Steve were tangled on the couch together. He had one of your hands between both of his on his chest, gently playing with your hand and lightly kissing your fingerprints at irregular intervals.
You hadn’t planned on the girls staying over, but they’d fallen asleep before the trailers had finished on the second VHS. You’d cleared it with Hop and Mrs. Mayfield before Steve had carefully carted them both into your parent’s guest room.
The two of you were snuggled on the couch together, a movie playing softly in the background, though neither of you were paying it all that much attention. Steve was warm and the blanket he’d pulled off the back of the couch was soft against your skin. His chin was tucked on top of your head while he pulled you tight against his chest.
“Think you could get used to this, honey?”
“Used to what?”
“All of it.” You caught his gaze wandering around the room, taking in the aftermath of a successful night with your girls. Used cotton rounds scattered across the coffee table, a half finished bowl of popcorn and seemingly every blanket in a five mile radius piled up on the rug.
Your heart twisted, because you knew exactly what he meant. You reached for one of his hands, carefully testing to make sure the bright pink polish had dried before threading your fingers together. You weren’t surprised at how easily he’d gone along with their request to paint his nails, and you weren’t surprised at the butterflies it’d set off in your stomach.
Steve didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. “Wanna come home to this every day.”
“Didn’t think you were in the market for more roommates.” you laughed, softly.
Steve rolled his eyes, but the hearts in them were more obvious than ever. “Kind of rude to call our future kids roommates, if you ask me. I imagined them looking a lot more like you than those two do, anyways.”
“Stevie,” you grumbled, hiding your face in his chest. You felt him smile against the top of your head. Flustering you was one of his favorite pastimes.
“I’m serious, baby. Know you’d be the best mom,” he sighed, “Too sweet not to be.”
You chanced a peek up at him, and the sight took your breath away. His eyes were shut, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips and a little blush dusting over his cheekbones, tinting his freckles pink.
It wasn’t the first time the two of you had talked about this. It was always like this, hushed wishes and warm words. You’d get lost thinking about Steve cuddling a tiny baby, probably born with a full head of hair if his genes had anything to say about it. You couldn’t help but think he’d thrive as a dad. How easily he’d fall into the rhythm of school pick up and soccer practice. And you wanted him to have all of it.
You sat up, forcing him to open his eyes at the loss of contact. He leaned forward, instinctively chasing you. “Are you sure it’s gotta be six, Stevie?” You asked meekly.
“I’ll take as many as you want to give me, honey. One? twenty? Doesn’t matter. Whatever makes you happy.” His eyes went soft.
“Stevie, you give in too easily!” you laughed, swatting at his chest. He caught your hand, placing exaggerated kisses up the length of your arm.
He’d reached your face, settling kisses easily across your cheeks and the tip of your nose. “Wrong.” he mumbled, too focused on his new mission.
“Wrong?!” you hissed, careful not to yell and wake up the girls.
“Mmhmm,” he hummed, the vibration tickling your neck. “It’s not giving in if I want my girl happy and healthy.”
“Thought you wanted enough Harringtons to stock a basketball team?”
“Priorities changed.”
You grinned, leaning your forehead against his. “Don’t deserve you.”
You felt Steve sigh, pulling you tight against him. “Good news. You don’t have to earn me.” You were sure he could feel your heart stutter through your pajama top. “Besides, you're dead wrong about that. I’m way out of my league, here angel.” You were readying your rebuff, when his thumb found your cheek. “Just let me have this one, baby. You’re out of nail polish remover and Robin isn’t gonna let me hear the end of it when I show up with my manicure tomorrow.”
“Fine, we’ll have however many hypothetical children I want.”
“Perfect.” he whispered, in a tone that you know he meant more than just letting you win the argument.
Gimme a Steve Harrington stirred with rum, cola and a lime wedge. (Also add an umbrella in there to make it pretty hehehe)
i need to make it incredibly clear how you're my fave and you inspired me to make this drink menu in the first place, so i truly hope you like this one <3
[fic masterlist]
call the amateurs and cut 'em from the team
After catching your frat-boy boyfriend making out with someone else at a party, you end up at Steve’s dorm, mascara-smudged and humiliated. What starts as comforting movie night turns into something warmer, heavier, and a little too honest. Steve’s always been the one to make you laugh, but tonight, he’s the one who makes you feel something real.
wc: 8480
order up: steve harrington x reader, friends-to-lovers fic set in a college, loaded with mutual pining and flavored with smut + fluff. a little cheating element for funsies
tw: cheating (offscreen, not steve/reader), smut, emotional hurt/comfort, alcohol mention, implied breakup, comfort sex, praise kink (gentle), safe sex, aftercare, body worship, mutual pining, late 80s college au, crying after sex, emotional vulnerability, steve being like soft!posessive and im lowkey blushing at my own writing of it.
The late September night air is still sticky with leftover heat, but goosebumps race across your arms anyway.
It’s not the weather that makes the bumps dance across your skin, it’s the sharp sting in your chest. It leaves you humiliated and sends you walking fast down the cracked sidewalks that cut through campus. Music and laughter spill out from the frat house behind you, already fading as you put distance between yourself and the scene you can’t stop replaying.
You hadn’t even been looking for it. A trip to the bathroom, a wrong turn down the hallway, and there was your boyfriend, lips pressed against some girl in the kitchen like he hadn’t just walked you in hand-in-hand an hour earlier. His hand on her waist looked practiced and comfortable, like this wasn’t new.
Your throat feels raw, either from yelling or swallowing back tears.
Probably both.
Mascara clings to the corner of your eyes, smudged in a way that isn’t nearly as glamorous as the glossy lips and crop tops that the girls at that party had perfected. Your shoes pinch with every step, and your hair, once carefully styled, now clings in damp strands against your cheeks.
You don’t even think about where you’re going until you’re already climbing the concrete stairs to one of the dorms. It’s Friday night so most doors are shut, muffled bass and laughter seeping through some, others silent with the hush of people who actually use weekends to study.
You head straight for the one place you know will open, no matter what.
The hallway feels too long. You swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand as you reach Steve Harrington’s door.
Three quick knocks, before there’s shuffling inside, then the sound of feet padding across the floor. The door swings open.
And there he is.
Inside, Steve was half-sprawled across his narrow dorm bed, a packet of notes open on his lap and a movie playing on the small TV balanced on his desk. His roommate had taken off for the weekend, which left the room unusually quiet. It was something Steve told himself he didn’t mind, but in truth he was just used to the quiet. It felt like back home.
Just, not in a fun way.
The knock startled him and he frowned, tossed his notes aside, and padded barefoot across the floor.
When he opened the door, there you were.
Party clothes rumpled like you’d walked straight out of chaos and into the harsh dorm light. You looked like a mess and not the kind of wreck that came from too much vodka and bad decisions, but the kind that sat heavy behind your eyes and made Steve’s chest tighten.
For a moment, he just stared. He had never seen you like this. Not sharp-tongued, not laughing, not even collected. Just raw.
“Hey,” he said softly, stepping back to make room before you could even ask. “You okay?”
You don’t remember deciding to say his name, but it’s out of your mouth before you even think about it.
“Steve.”
His expression shifts immediately. That easy smirk of his doesn’t even flicker this time. He takes in the mess of your makeup, the tremble in your voice, the outfit you suddenly feel ridiculous in. You know him well enough to recognize how irritation looks on him. Not at you, but at exactly what you’ve just walked away from.
“Let me guess,” he says, holding the door open wider so you can slip past him. “Tyler being the jackass I always said he was?”
The name stings, even though it’s true. Tyler was all broad shoulders, expensive polos, and the kind of smirk that made people think he’d already won before he even opened his mouth. You choke out a bitter laugh, toeing off your shoes by the door like you’ve done a hundred times before.
“Yeah. Guess you called it.”
Steve follows you with his eyes as you cross the room, his chest tightening at the slump in your shoulders. He’d wanted to be wrong. God, he’d wanted to be wrong about Tyler. But he knew. He always knew. The guy never looked at you the way Steve did, like you were a person and not some prize to hang on his arm.
“And let me guess again,” Steve says, his voice dropping into that mix of sarcasm and softness that’s always been his way of prying a smile out of you. “Amanda Bishop?”
Your head jerks toward him. The name hits too close.
“How the hell did you—”
He shrugs, but the muscle ticking in his jaw gives him away. “I saw how she looked at him at the mixer you dragged me to last week. She tried it on me last semester. Guess she finally caught a fish dumb enough to bite.”
That earns him a choked laugh you didn’t think you had in you. He grins faintly at the sound, then moves past you to rummage through the drawer under his bed. A moment later, he tosses a familiar blanket into your lap. It’s the ratty plaid you always steal when you’re cold in the lounge.
“You can tell me the whole story, or none of it. Doesn’t matter.” His voice softens, not pitying, just sure. “But you’re not going back to your dorm tonight, okay? You’re staying here. Movie night.”
Your throat tightens for a whole different reason this time. You glance at the TV still humming in the corner, at the stack of VHS tapes he never organizes, and for a second, you forget the humiliation waiting for you across campus.
You met Steve because of Robin, the summer you both worked with her in the campus library. At first, you thought he was too much.
He was too smooth, too charming, too Steve. But hours of reshelving books together had worn you down. Somewhere between arguing over music choices and splitting vending machine snacks, friendship snuck up on you.
It wasn’t that he was acting like that to impress anyone, that was just him.
And right now, sitting in his dorm room with his blanket around your shoulders and his voice low and steady, it felt like the safest place in the world.
You don’t even wait for him to ask again. Once you’re sitting on the edge of his bed with the blanket around your shoulders, the words come spilling out, ragged but sharp.
“I went to get a drink, right? Walked into the kitchen and there he was. Good ol’ Ty, tongue-deep in Amanda, like he wasn’t already attached to someone.” Your laugh comes out hollow. “And not even trying to hide it. Like he thought I was too stupid to notice.”
Steve’s jaw ticks, but you keep going. “So I said—” you clear your throat, still raw from it, “I said, ‘Hope she’s better at faking orgasms than I am, because God knows you need the practice.’”
Steve actually chokes. “Jesus Christ.” His hand flies up, half to his mouth, half in disbelief. “That’s why your voice sounds like sandpaper.”
“Yeah.” You pull the blanket tighter around you. “Probably would’ve landed better if I wasn’t sobbing through the whole thing.”
That earns a low, surprised laugh out of him. Not mocking you and not cruel. It was just genuine in that way you had gotten used to lately. And the sound of it makes the humiliation settle a little less heavy in your chest.
“To be fair, I was kinda halfway out honestly.” You let out a heavy sigh, finally admitting it out loud. “God I don't even usually go for guys like him and there I was, foolishly wondering why he'd been so jumpy and avoidant the past couple weeks. I don't know what I was thinking.”
“Either of you could have been 90% out and he still shouldn't have done that. I know it's tough for a guy like him to string a sentence together, but even ‘it's over’ is better than that.” Steve's annoyance wasn't lost on you.
“You're acting like he cheated on you.” You tease a little.
“I'm acting like I want to rip his tongue out for being scummier than even I expected of him.” He gives you a pointed look, hands on his hips. “And it's not acting. He's clearly not using it for anything worthwhile now anyway.”
The comment does make you laugh, but there's also a connotation to it that sends a new heat through you.
He crosses the room, crouches by the tiny stack of VHS tapes balanced on his desk, and flips through them like he’s on a mission. A minute later, the TV hums to life, screen filling with the bright, blocky opening crawl of The Princess Bride.
You blink at him. “Really?”
Steve straightens, grinning, and shrugs. “It's your comfort movie. Don’t pretend it's a shock that I know this.”
You don’t argue. Instead, you shift over, laying down and settling more against the pillows on his small twin bed. When he drops down beside you, shoulder to shoulder, it feels almost too natural.
For a while, you watch in silence, the familiar lines of dialogue filling the space. It’s only when he reaches over to steal a handful of popcorn from the bag he tossed between you that he speaks again.
“You’ve gotta stop going for frat guys,” he says, casual but pointed.
Your head turns, brows arching. “You were almost a frat guy.”
His mouth quirks. “Almost being the key factor.”
There’s an edge there, playful but something else too. You catch the way his eyes linger a beat too long, the way your heart kicks at the fact that you both mentioned him as the alternative.
“Guess you dodged a bullet,” you murmur, turning back to the screen. But your lips curve, and you know he notices.
The movie plays on, but the room feels warmer now, closer and edged with something you can’t quite name yet.
You last longer in the party clothes than you expect, but the tight waistband of your skirt and the glitter itching at your collarbones make it impossible to relax. The blanket helps, though not enough. Steve must notice, because when he gets up to grab drinks from the mini fridge, he pauses halfway.
“You want a hoodie?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.
You nod, pulling the blanket tighter around your chest. “Please. Something that doesn’t smell like frat boy sweat.”
He snorts and digs through the pile at the end of his bed, tossing one toward you. It’s soft from too many washes, Dark green with faded letters from Hawkins High across the front. He turns around, ever the gentleman, as you tug off your scratchy top and pull the hoodie on quickly, the oversized sleeves slipping past your hands.
Steve grins when he drops back beside you. “Looks better on you anyway.”
You roll your eyes, but the compliment lands somewhere it shouldn’t. The sweatshirt smells like him, and the moment you tuck your hands into the sleeves, your shoulders finally loosen.
The movie plays on, both of you mouthing lines under your breath like you’ve seen it a hundred times together. When you laugh, Steve exaggerates the way he says, “As you wish,” just to get another one out of you. You throw a piece of popcorn at his chest, which he catches in his palm before eating it with a smug look.
It’s easier to breathe with him close, his arm brushing yours whenever he reaches into the bag balanced between you. Eventually, you shift down a little, your head falling against his shoulder. He doesn’t move away. Instead, he adjusts, settling in so you’re more comfortable.
The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s warm. His hand rests lightly on the edge of the blanket near your knee, close enough that you can feel the heat of him through the fabric.
You tell yourself it’s just Steve being Steve.
He’s your friend.
He’s always been good at making you feel better, pulling you out of your own head until you’re laughing again. But the longer you sit there, the more you notice the rhythm of his breathing, the weight of his shoulder beneath your cheek, and the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.
The ache in your chest dulls into something you almost don’t mind feeling.
The Princess Bride winds down, the final lines rolling over the hum of the TV. You shift against him when the credits start crawling up the screen, not quite ready to move but not wanting to break the spell either.
Steve pushes himself up, stretching an arm toward the stack of tapes. “Alright. You want a classic or something dumb?”
“Something dumb,” you say quickly, your voice steadier now.
He grins like he expected that and flips through until he pulls out Killer Party. The cover is ridiculous, some half-baked horror movie from a couple years back with costumes and fake blood. He pops it into the VCR with more confidence than the flick deserves, then drops back beside you without hesitation.
“Where do you find these… masterpieces?” You say, exaggerating the word.
“Robin and I play a game at work where we rank all the worst horror movies.” He smiles as gets back on the bed. “She has a notebook, even. It's… extensive, color coded and everything. If a customer sucks we recommend one of them based on the appropriate ‘suckage’ level. It's all very scientific.”
This time, his arm slides easily across the back of the bed, the weight of it settling behind your shoulders. When you lean in, it feels natural, like you’ve done this before, though you haven’t. The blanket shifts, pulling both of you a little closer together.
The movie starts, all low-budget screams and overdone effects, but you can’t seem to pay attention.
Not when Steve is right there, hair falling into his eyes as he tilts his head toward the screen, mouth curved in the shadow of a smirk. He looks more at ease than you’ve ever seen him, the soft cotton of his t-shirt stretched across his chest, plaid pajama pants loose around his legs.
You notice details you shouldn’t —the way his lashes catch the glow of the TV, the faint scrape of stubble along his jaw when he shifts, the warmth radiating from his side into yours.
His fingers brush your knee when he reaches for the popcorn bag again. They don’t move right away, just rest there for a beat longer than necessary. You feel it, and you know he feels you feel it. Neither of you pull back.
Your head tips further against his shoulder, his arm instinctively curving in until it’s around you fully. He doesn’t say anything about it, just keeps his eyes on the screen, though you can tell by the small twitch of his mouth that he knows exactly what he’s doing.
By the time the movie hits its halfway mark, the dorm is silent around you, the only sound the tinny screams from the TV.
It’s late enough that your body wants to sag into sleep, but the way you’re pressed into him keeps you wired. The bed is too small for two people to sit this close without noticing, knees brushing, shoulders locked together, his arm heavy and warm around you.
You shift, just a little, trying to ease the cramp in your hip, and the movement only draws attention to how little space there is. His chest rises under your cheek, steady and solid. His hand, resting low on the blanket near your knee, flexes like he’s aware of it too.
“You know,” Steve says quietly, his voice dipping lower than the movie, “you don’t have to worry. I’m not about to play rebound guy or something.”
You tilt your head enough to see him. His eyes are on the screen, but the line of his mouth gives him away. He’s teasing, but not really.
Your throat tightens, raw from earlier, though this time it’s not from shouting. “Didn’t ask you to.”
He finally glances down at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. The look lingers longer than it should, like he’s waiting for you to call his bluff.
But the problem hangs there between you, unspoken. It makes you confused to even think about the word ‘rebound’. Yet Steve’s arm doesn’t move, and neither do you.
The movie drones on, forgotten, the glow of the TV painting both of you in pale light. The silence is now caught in the thin space between you.
You reach into the bag for another handful of popcorn, but your fingers scrape only salt and kernels at the bottom. You sigh, crumpling the bag closed, and Steve looks down at you like he’s just been caught.
“That’s it?” you ask, mock-offended.
He lifts his hands in surrender, mouth twitching. “Hey, you threw half of it at me earlier. Not my fault you wasted the good pieces.”
You laugh under your breath, the sound thinner than usual, but when it fades, you catch yourself staring at him in the light of the TV again, shadows softening the sharp lines of his face.
“You never liked him, did you?” The question slips out from where it’s lived for two months.
Steve doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand. His gaze moves from the TV to you.
“No.”
You raise your brows. “Not even a little?”
He shakes his head. “You deserved better than some guy who only looked at you when it made him look good.”
The words land harder than you expect as they hum through the small space between you, heavier than the movie’s awful soundtrack. His arm is still draped around your shoulders, his other hand close enough to graze the blanket where it covers your thigh, and you’re way too aware of every inch of him.
You clear your throat, but it only makes the raw edge of it more obvious. “Guess you could’ve said that before I wasted two months.”
He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Would you have listened?”
It’s not an easy question to hear and yet you can’t look away from him.
You want to say no, because the truth is you wouldn’t have listened if Robin had said it, or Nancy, or anyone else who’d tried to warn you.
But Steve?
Maybe.
Maybe if he’d said it, if he’d looked at you the way he’s looking at you now, you might have listened.
You don’t even register that you spoke that thought out loud until his brow furrows, a crease of knowing cutting across his forehead. He leans in a little, searching your face like he’s trying to decide if you mean it.
“You really don’t think I’d be like… some rebound?” he asks after a beat, quiet, almost careful.
You shake your head, the answer quicker than you mean it to be. “I don’t even believe in rebounds. I also don’t care about sports enough to use them as metaphors.”
That cracks him. His mouth tips into a grin, and he huffs out a laugh that shakes his chest beneath your cheek. “Wow. That’s tragic. Not even a little bit of sports literacy?”
“Not even a little,” you admit, trying to keep a straight face.
He leans closer, his voice low and teasing. “Guess that makes me the coach then.”
The line is ridiculous, and you can’t help the laughter that bursts out of you. He laughs too, shoulders shaking, and somewhere between the sound of it and the way your eyes meet mid-grin, his mouth is on yours.
It isn’t desperate, the way Tyler would kiss you like it was just to get in your pants.
It's not even close to that.
It’s warm and steady, the kind of kiss that sneaks up on you, spilling into the quiet without asking permission. His lips are soft, his hand tightening slightly where it rests near your knee, and you melt into it before you even think about what it means.
The movie drones on in the background, forgotten.
Steve’s lips move slow against yours at first, testing, almost tentative, like he’s not sure if you’ll pull back. But when you don’t, when your fingers clutch tighter into the blanket across your lap, he leans in more fully. The angle shifts, the kiss deepening, and it makes your chest ache in a way that feels nothing like what Tyler ever gave you.
His hair falls into your cheek, tickling your skin, and you don’t think, you just tilt your head to catch him again.
It’s easy to lose time in it. One kiss bleeds into another, softer, then a little surer, his hand shifting up from your knee to your thigh. The weight of it burns through the blanket, steady and grounding.
When you finally pull back for air, your foreheads bump, both of you catching your breath. His eyes flicker down to your mouth again, then up, searching.
There’s a pause. The kind that stretches. You know exactly what hangs between you — the party, the fight, Tyler, all of it.
Steve swallows, his thumb brushing lightly against your leg. “This probably isn’t the smartest thing or like, the best idea,” he says, voice rough.
Your chest squeezes at the words, but not enough to make you move. You shake your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t feel wrong.”
He looks at you for one long, loaded second, and then he’s kissing you again, firmer this time. His hand slides higher, the blanket slipping down as you press closer, drawn into him like there’s no way not to be.
The hesitation lingers for only a heartbeat before it dissolves, giving way to something hotter, hungrier.
His palm moves higher, grazing the outside of your hip, and when he reaches the edge of the oversized sweatshirt, he hesitates. Just a breath. Enough for him to pull back and glance down, waiting. He doesn't want to assume, doesn’t want to take. He wants to be asked, and it makes you ache in a whole new way.
"I mean, it's your sweatshirt, technically you can just take it back." You tease, but it doesn't land the way you'd hope.
He narrows his eyes a little, not angry just in confusion, like he's not sure if you understand his hesitation.
"Yeah, but it's your body and I'm not just going to undress you if I'm not invited," his tone is soft, it hits you right in the heart.
He's asking. He wants permission.
You don't let yourself ruminate on how you boyfriend just always assumed he was entitled to touch you. Instead, you smile.
"Invited," you say against his lips. "But I'm not wearing anything under this, so..."
Your eyes travel to the discarded top you wore to the party earlier, a sequin mess on the floor.
Steve laughs, but his eyes grow darker.
"Jesus Christ," he murmurs. Then his mouth is on yours again, his hand sliding up under the soft fabric. He pauses at the curve of your ribs, the weight of his hand so much heavier than it should be, his palm warm against your skin. He doesn't linger, just moves higher until his thumb brushes the curve of your breast, a low groan rumbling from his throat.
His other hand follows, fingers skimming the hem of your skirt, and when his teeth catch the edge of your bottom lip, the room blurs a little around you. Everything feels warmer, heavier, his fingers skimming up under the soft material of the borrowed hoodie. You shift into his touch, and his hands move higher, thumb catching your nipple in a way that sends sparks through your chest.
"You're annoyingly good with your hands..." You whisper against his mouth, earning a low laugh from him.
"Noted," he whispers back, the word a promise.
He's not rushed and every touch reminds you of it. It's not a race, not a quick fuck. This is Steve, and he's not in a hurry. He settles so hes leaning over you, one leg between yours, the weight of his thigh pushing up the edge of your skirt. The fabric rides up as he does, his hands moving from your chest, to your ribs, to the dip of your waist, and everything about this moment settles between your legs like he was meant to be there.
"Hey..." he starts, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, and the intensity there catches you off-guard. His hand moves up and down your thigh, not sure if its to comfort himself or you, and he hesitates.
"This is okay, right?" He asks softly.
You nod. You don't trust your voice, not when his hand is so close to the ache growing between your thighs, and not when his expression is so focused, like you're the only thing he sees.
"Don't get mad when I ask this, okay?" His voice is quieter, like he's afraid to break the spell.
You blink. "I'm not going to get mad. Just ask."
"Okay..." he swallows. "This isn't to like... get back at him, right? Cause that's not the kind of guy I am. I don't do this kind of thing just to piss people off."
"No, it's not, but..." you whisper, reaching up to cup his jaw. "Why are you doing it? If not that?"
Steve's eyes go soft, his gaze lingering on your face, on the messy makeup that's no doubt streaked by now. The look is so heavy, so full, that you feel like you're naked in front of him already.
"Don't be an idiot." His mouth curves a little. "You know why."
You can't help the laugh that slips out, soft and surprised. Your eyes meet his, and you keep his gaze as his hand trails up your skirt to your waist band.
"It's because A," he kisses you again, slow before murmuring against your lips. "I think you deserve better than some Gamma Alpha Whatever the hell."
Another soft kiss to your lips as he hooks a couple fingers into the waistband and starts to shimmy the skirt down.
"B, I'm either selfish or delusional enough to think I could be that guy. Jury's still out on which..."
You lift your hips as he slides the skirt off of you and settles more between your legs, arms braced by your head now.
"And C, which is my personal favorite..." he leans down to whisper in your ear and you can practically feel his grin. "I think you deserve an orgasm you don't need to fake."
The bluntness of it startles a laugh out of you, and his mouth curves in a way that makes it impossible not to kiss him again. The blanket slips down, but neither of you bother to fix it. Not when his thighs are pushing yours apart, the loose pajama pants a soft tease against your center. You arch up into him, the cotton of his t-shirt soft against your palms as you trail them down his clothed chest.
He quickly lifts off his shirt and tosses it to the side, revealing more chest hair than you expected honestly, and a few moles dotting the expanse. You trail your fingers across his shoulders and down his biceps. He's not ripped or overly toned, but lean, the muscle hard beneath his soft skin.
"You good over there?" He says when you realize you've gotten caught up in exploring his torso.
His smile is just a little prideful, like you touching him even just like this has him feeling more confident than usual.
"You're hot." You blurt out, and his smile widens. It's not even a word you usually use. It feels silly to say right now, but you can’t help it.
"Was I not hot with the shirt on…?" He teases, leaning in to brush his nose against yours.
"Obviously, you're always hot," you reply, and his grin widens, "but damn, you've been holding out on me."
You trail your fingers down the patch on hair on his chest, following it lower.
"I kinda thought you'd be like, super clean shaven and shit." You admit, looking back up to meet his gaze.
"Is that like... a turn off?" He says with a laugh like hes trying to hide the fact that he might be a little nervous about being naked in front of you.
"No," you reply, letting your nails scratch at his lower stomach. "I just like what I see."
His brow arches, and his expression turns a little more heated, the humor draining out of it. He leans down to kiss you again, and this time, there's no teasing.
"You're hot too." He says against your lips. "Wearing my hoodie, stealing my snacks, laying on my bed."
His fingers trail up your thigh, then to your inner thigh, until his thumb presses up and into the thin material of your underwear.
"Fuck," he breathes out as he feels the damp fabric. "You're really that wet?"
He says it like it's almost a question.
"What can I say," you manage, voice tight. "I'm not used to having the attention of someone who knows what he's doing."
It's a dig at Tyler, and Steve knows it. His grin turns into something darker, something pleased, and his eyes never leave yours as his thumb presses against the thin fabric harder.
"That's right." He hums, the words a low rumble that makes heat pool in your stomach. "Let me show you what you're missing out on, huh?"
He doesn't wait for a response, just pushes your underwear to the side and strokes a finger up your slit. You gasp, the sensation sharper without the barrier, and his eyes stay locked on your face. He does it again, and again, just stroking lightly and watching.
"Steve," you breathe, and his eyes flash.
"You know, I was lying earlier," he admits, the words a low whisper as his fingers circle your entrance.
"When?" You ask, shifting into his touch.
"When I said this was a bad idea." He dips a finger into you, slow, his gaze fixed on your face. "It's actually the best idea I've ever had. Watching you come on my bed? Top ten best ideas, easily."
Your laugh gets caught in a gasp as he curls his finger. The pressure builds, steady and firm, and his eyes never leave yours, not when he adds another finger, not even when his palm shifts and his thumb takes over, rubbing circles over your clit.
You can't remember the last time anyone watched you like this, not your ex, not any of the guys before him. Steve's expression is focused and determined, and the intensity of it makes the heat coil low in your stomach. He doesn't speed up, he doesn't rush, and every stroke makes the tension inside you twist tighter and tighter.
You're gasping, shifting into his touch, and his free hand braces by your head again, keeping his eyes locked on your face as he curls his fingers, the movement dragging them over a spot that makes sparks shoot through your hips.
"Keep the sweatshirt on..." he whispers, panting even though he's not even being touched yet. "Just... lift it so I can see you."
His thumb brushes harder, faster, the rhythm building, and the sound you make isn't a word, not really, just a broken whimper that seems to spur him on. Your fingers are shaking, but you do what he says, gripping the hem of the hoodie and lifting it over the swell of your breasts.
The way he looks at you is nothing like how you're used to. "Yeah, thats perfect baby... you look so good in my clothes." He groans, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.
It's not the praise or the pet name that makes you tremble, it's the fact that his eyes are on your face. His gaze flickers down to where his fingers are buried inside you, then back up again, his brow creasing in concentration as his thumb presses harder.
Your thighs start to shake, muscles tensing as the tension reaches a peak, and Steve doesn't let up, his hand moving with a rhythm that has your hips rising.
"Come on baby," he whispers, leaning closer, his voice rough. "Let me see you."
The soft command breaks the dam.
Everything inside you snaps, the tension spilling out until every part of you shakes. His lips are on yours, swallowing the cry that leaves your throat. He doesn't stop, his fingers curling, his thumb pressing, his kiss catching every whimper.
You're trembling by the time the aftershocks fade, his fingers stilling as he pulls away just enough to meet your eyes. The look is heavy and satisfied and a little awed, and it makes you feel beautiful in a way you're not used to.
"So pretty," he finally murmurs, pulling his fingers out of you, but not before dragging them along your oversensitive walls and making you shiver. "Can't wait to watch that again."
He smiles at you in a way that feels heated and soft all at once, before he lifts his hand to his mouth and drags his tongue along his soaked fingers.
"You're gonna kill me," you murmur, half in shock, and his grin widens.
"Just trying to get an honest review here. Can't be a good coach without a little feedback." He's joking, but there's something serious behind it, and the intensity of his gaze makes the ache inside you coil tighter again. "No notes, for the record. That was a perfect score."
He waggles his eyebrows, and the absurdity of it makes you laugh, but the sound dies when his gaze drops back to your bare stomach, the hem of the oversized sweatshirt now brushing the swell of your breasts, your soaked underwear still pushed aside.
"Jesus Christ, look at you," he says, almost under his breath, and your heart kicks at the edge of need in his voice. "Can't believe I get to touch you like this."
Your mouth opens, a joke forming, but he doesn't give you the chance to say it. Instead, he leans down and catches your mouth in another kiss, slow and sure, the weight of him settling against your body.
The blanket shifts as you slide a leg around his waist, drawing him in, and the groan that rumbles out of him makes you ache all over again. You feel the outline of him pressed against your core, and you rock up into him, making him shudder.
You start to tug at his pajama pants, eager to see him, and he smiles, breaking the kiss to help you pull them down along with his boxers. The playfulness fades when he's fully naked, his cock jutting hard and ready toward his stomach. He kicks his clothes away and the bed shifts, both of you adjusting until your bodies slot together.
"Oh...more suprises..." You whisper, reaching between you to grip him. He hisses, his eyes falling shut for a second, but then he's grinning down at you, the smile cocky and sweet all at once.
"Gotta keep some secrets." His mouth curves, the expression almost shy.
His cock is heavy and thick in your palm, the tip already slick with precum, and he swears when you stroke him. He's so hard that his hips twitch, his forehead falling against yours, and the control in his body gives way to need.
"Condom?" you ask, and he groans.
"Hold on," he manages, pushing himself up onto his hands.
You miss the weight of him immediately, but the view more than makes up for it. The muscles of his back shift as he reaches for the drawer by the bed. You hear the crinkle of the wrapper, and when he turns back, his grin is lopsided.
"What?" he asks, tearing the foil open.
"I've never seen you blush before." You reach up, fingers grazing the warmth in his cheeks. "You're cute."
He laughs, a low sound that rumbles out of him as he rolls the condom on. "Yeah, and you're gorgeous, so guess we're even."
The words make you smile, and when he leans down to kiss you again, it's easy to lose yourself in the feel of him. The weight of him, the taste of him, the heat of him, and the fact that it's Steve, his smile and his teasing and his care.
When he pulls back, his gaze locks on yours, there's something so sweet about it. "Ready?"
"Aren't you going to take my panties off?" You tease, trying to ignore the nerves buzzing in your stomach.
His face twists a little, like there's something he wants to say but he's not sure how. "I, uh..." He hesitates, but then his shoulders relax and the expression softens. "Did you... wear these on purpose? To the party?"
You frown, looking down. They were black lace and definitely not something you usually wore. And yeah, you had worn them in a pathetic attempt to make your boyfriend want to actually look at you like he hadn't been distant as hell the past few weeks.
The thought of admitting it makes your face go hot.
"Uh, no... I mean, yeah... we hadn't had sex in a while and even though it wasn’t even really good, I thought maybe if I..."
You look away, worried you'd ruined the moment. "Anyway, I guess it wasn't me that was the problem there anyway..."
Steve is quiet, but his hand is still on your hip. You risk a glance at him, and the look in his eyes makes your demeanor change entirely.
"Can you keep them on?" he asks, his voice quiet, his gaze fixed on your face.
"What?" You stare up at him, not understanding.
His expression shifts, and when his gaze flickers down your body, then up again, his pupils blow wide. "I'm not going to lie... the idea of being the one to see them instead is kinda... doing things for me. Like, yeah, maybe they were supposed to be a surprise for someone else, but now..."
The words sink in. Heat pools between your legs, and he must notice, because the corner of his mouth quirks, and his hips flex, his cock dragging along your center.
"Now you'll actually get to cum all over them, instead of some ungrateful douchebag ripping them off you." His voice goes low and fuck, if thats not the hottest thing a guy has ever said to you. "So if it's okay with you, I'm going to keep them on you."
"God yes," you breathe out, not even thinking about the response, just feeling.
He toys with the soaked fabric between your legs a little before really pushing the crotch aside. He runs his cock along you a few more times, before he starts pushing into you.
You look down to watch and its... well it's fucking hot, is what it is. Seeing his thick length disappear into you slowly, inch by inch, and the way he's holding his breath, jaw ticking.
"You like seeing that, baby?" He teases, a strained laugh coming from his chest.
The words send a shock through you, and you're pretty sure your eyes roll back a little. You've never really had a guy talk to you during sex, and the sound of his voice saying such filth, especially knowing how sweet he is, does something to you.
"Steve," you gasp out as he finally bottoms out.
His hips flex, rolling into yours, and the movement is slow and deep. His gaze stays on your face, taking in every expression, and his fingers trail up the line of your jaw.
"There you are," he murmurs, voice low and rough. "Knew you'd look so good taking me. So good."
You're panting, not used to the fullness of him, and he doesn't rush, doesn't move faster. He can tell its been a minute for you, and the way he watches your face tells you he's enjoying this.
"How does it feel?" He asks, his bicep flexing as he holds himself up.
"Full." You blurt out, unable to hide your surprise. "Fuck, I didn't expect..."
His brow arches. "Didn't expect what?"
"Didn't think it'd feel like this." You admit, reaching up to drag your nails across his shoulders. "You're just... a lot, Steve."
"More than you're used to?" He ask simply, lips brushing yours every so lightly when he leans in.
You know its another dig, and maybe an unsubtle one, but it makes you flush. "Yes."
His expression is pleased and needy all at once. His hips snap harder, making you gasp.
"Good." His voice is firm.
And then he's kissing you again, slow but hard, and the rhythm of his hips builds. Every stroke is steady and firm, the angle deep enough to make sparks shoot up your spine.
"In my bed... wearing my sweatshirt... in panties you wore for some other guy..." His voice is rough, but the words make you moan.
He shifts, sitting up more, his free hand gripping the underside of your thigh and lifting. The angle changes, his hips rolling into yours, and his eyes stay locked on your face as his thumb presses against your clit.
"But so wet for me instead." He groans.
"Only you," you manage, the truth is out before you can stop it.
The way he looks at you after that makes everything inside you twist, and his pace picks up, his strokes growing shorter, more intense.
"Wanted this for so long..." He admits, the confession a rumble between the two of you. "Thought about it... about you... just wanted you to like me..."
His admission hits you right in the chest, the sincerity making everything ache, and when his hips stutter, when the pace grows unsteady, you can tell he's close.
"Steve, look at me," you murmur, his eyes are closed, brows furrowed, and the intensity of his expression has you trembling. "Look at me."
His eyes snap open, the that beautiful gaze focused, as his thumb presses against your clit more, the pressure building and building.
"I like you." You gasp, your toes curling. "I like you so much."
You don't know who comes first, his hips snapping into yours, his cock buried deep, or if it's the look on his face that pushes you over, but the world breaks apart. Everything is light and heat and sensation. He swears, the words tumbling from his mouth in a jumble, and you feel the rush of his release as his cock twitches.
Your hips rock together, the two of you riding the wave, and his lips find yours, messy and breathless, the kiss barely there and yet all-encompassing. You're gasping, whimpering, and he swallows every one of your sounds like they belongs to him, until the aftershocks fade and you're left boneless in his bed.
His forehead rests against yours, both of you panting, and when he finally eases back to pull out, his smile is warm and boyish and pleased.
"It was good for you?" He asks, though the answer is obvious.
"Jesus Christ, Steve." You breathe out, the words barely a whisper. "You want a review in the campus newspaper or something?"
He laughs, the sound so bright and loud, the room seems to get warmer. "Not a bad idea, actually. But I'd like to keep the details between us."
You roll your eyes, but the words land differently. The two of you aren't a thing, not yet, but there's a question behind the teasing, and the realization settles into your bones.
Steve Harrington is serious about this. Serious about you.
His mouth curves as he rolls away, standing up to grab a tissue from the box beside his desk. He tosses the condom into the trash, then drops back onto the bed beside you, his weight dipping the mattress.
You don't know what to say. This was never the plan. It was never even on the list of possibilities. It was always a pipe dream you kept locked away, for the quiet moments when you let your mind wander.
Yet here you are, and when his hand moves lightly across the swell of your hip, the touch makes you ache.
"Lets get you out of these," he says, hooking a finger under the edge of your underwear.
You let him, lifting your hips so he can tug them down, pulling the sweatshirt down as far as it will go. He smiles, his gaze lingering on the exposed skin, before getting up and putting them in his laundry basket.
As sweet as he was, you knew damn well he was going to keep those.
He opens a drawer and grabs a pair of basketball shorts, bringing them over and helping you slip them on before putting his own pajama bottoms back on. He doesn't say anything as he does, just a soft smile that warms his face.
When he drops onto the bed beside you again, the silence isn't awkward. It's almost like a bubble, the two of you alone in his room, the world outside a distant memory.
"I'm gonna go to the lounge to grab water," he murmurs, kissing the side of your head.
He gets up, grabbing his dorm keys and a water bottle, before disappearing.
You settle deeper into his bed, the scent of him all around you. The blanket is soft, the pillows plush, and the thought hits you, sudden and sure.
You could easily get used to this.
The thought makes you dizzy, and by the time the door swings open and Steve reappears, it's all you can think about.
"Got some snacks for the morning too," he says, the words breaking the spell. "Hope that's okay."
"Of course." You shift, pushing yourself up, and the motion seems to catch him off-guard. "What?"
He puts the water on the nightstand before heading into the bathroom and coming out with a damp facecloth.
"I don't have whatever makeup remover stuff girls usually use, but maybe this helps?" He offers.
The care makes your throat tighten, and you take the cloth with a shaky smile. "Yeah. This is perfect."
He's so gentle as he sits on the edge of the bed, watching as you wipe the streaks of makeup away.
"Better?" you ask when it's gone.
He grins, leaning forward to kiss you, his hand cradling your jaw. The touch is so soft, the kiss so easy, that everything inside you seems to shift, and you reach for him without meaning to. Your arms slide around his neck, the two of you sinking deeper into the bed, and when his smile widens against your mouth, you know this isn't a fling.
It isn't a rebound.
It isn't just tonight.
"You really like me," you whisper, the words not quite a question, and the look on his face makes your heart skip a beat.
"Yeah," he replies, like it's simple. "And I'm hoping you might like me too."
You swallow, the emotion rising in your throat, and when he shifts, when the warmth of his body settles against yours, your arms curl around him like you've done it a thousand times before.
"Yeah," you manage, the word thick. "I really do."
He looks at you, his eyes bright, his expression almost shy, and his gaze doesn't leave yours. "I'll never pull that kind of bullshit on you, by the way."
"Pull what?" You frown, not understanding.
He brushes a lock of hair back from your forehead. "What Tyler did."
The name feels foreign. You'd forgotten anyone else existed for a few moments.
"I won't pretend to know how to be the best boyfriend." His eyes hold yours. "But I'm not stupid enough to screw it up like that."
Your laugh is shaky. "It wasn't a big deal."
"Yes, it was." He doesn't move, his fingers still resting on your cheek, the touch almost reverent. "It was a big deal. You're a big deal. And I don't ever want you to think for a second that you aren't."
His words make tears sting the corners of your eyes.
"It's okay to be upset," he whispers, and the care in his voice cracks something loose inside you.
The first tear slips free, then another, and when he kisses your forehead, the tears keep coming. You don't cry for long, but the release is cathartic, and when the tears dry, when the last few shudders fade, Steve just holds you, his weight warm and heavy.
"Feel better?" He asks after a while, and the fact that he hasn't rushed you or tried to fill the silence with awkward small talk makes something inside you settle.
"Yeah." You smile, wiping the last of the tears from your cheeks. "That felt like it was long overdue."
He nods, his hand trailing down the line of your spine, the touch a comfort. "Lay down, I'm going to get the light."
You sink back into the pillows, and by the time the light turns off and he climbs back onto the bed, the day starts to weigh on you. The mattress dips as he settles beside you, his arm sliding around your waist. You settle against him, letting the quiet seep into your bones before you realize something.
"Steve?" You whisper.
"Yeah?" His voice is rough, and when you glance up, his eyes are closed.
"I technically didn't break up with him." Your chest tightens. "At the party."
You feel the laugh coming from him before you hear it, his shoulders shaking beneath your cheek. "I think telling him he essentially sucks at sex and storming off was a pretty clear message."
"Oh… yeah." You try not to smile, but it doesn't work. "Maybe."
"I mean, I can tell him myself if you want. Like a formality." He leans back enough to meet your eyes. "I'll even throw in some bonus material. Maybe tell him about the noises you make, or the way you taste, or the look on your face when I make you come..."
"You're an ass," you murmur, laughing as you bury your face against his chest.
"Guess that's a no then," he teases, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
You nod, your arms winding tighter around him, and you wait for the fear to hit. You wait for the nerves, the anxiety, the dread.
But they never come.
There's only Steve, his quiet breathing beneath your cheek, and his arm curling around your waist, holding you close.
Just want to celebrate your happy hour and the fact that you write some of the most INCREDIBLE fanfic here!!! It’s genuinely so sweet and romantic and smutty!!! You deserve everything and more <3
Now, may I please have a Steve Harrington vodka cranberry, stirred, with a twizzler straw and a cherry? I think a lil bent paper straw would also be cute for the situation. Thank you!!!
I'm like, incredibly happy with how this turned out and LOVED writing this drink menu fic so much. I made it extra smutty and romantic for you <3
[fic masterlist]
your very real boyfriend
You only agreed to fake date him to score cheap rent above the local bakery. But a bottle of wine, a too-sweet story from your elderly landlady, and a very real game of “what would my boyfriend do next?” changes everything.
Love was never supposed to be part of the lease. But there he is.
wc: 11642
order up: steve harrington x reader, modern au strangers-to-roommates-to-lovers story with fake dating, mutual pining, smut, softness, and a sexy sweet, awkward “so… we’re real now?” kind of confession.
tw: smut (explicit), alcohol use, oral (f & m receiving), praise kink, fingering, unprotected sex, dirty talk, aftercare, domestic intimacy, body worship, awkward post-hookup humor, emotional vulnerability, very soft cockwarming, this man is so house husband coded i stg
You’re standing outside the bakery just off Main. The air is cold enough to see your breath, the kind of early October chill mixed with homemade pumpkin bread and wet leaves. Plastic skeletons hang from lampposts, a ghost made of streamers flaps in the wind. You tilt your head back to look at the apartment above the bakery, the one that could finally be yours.
For a minute, you start to picture it. Where your records would go. How you’d hang your posters so the sunlight hit them in the morning. Maybe you’d even meet some guy in a band, bring him up here, put a record on, and pretend you both have the world figured out.
Someone clears his throat beside you.
You glance over. He has good hair, the kind that looks effortless, and a nice sweater layered over a collared shirt. Jeans that probably cost more than yours, clean sneakers. The kind of guy who says “ma’am” to waitresses and holds doors for old ladies.
You, on the other hand, tried to look like the kind of person who could get approved for an apartment. Your usual band tee is swapped for a black long-sleeve top tucked into a plaid skirt, your usual leather jacket replaced with a plain denim one. You even brushed out the streak of color in your hair, though a bit still lingers near the ends. You figured you looked normal enough, but the way he gives you that slow once-over says he can still tell you’re a little offbeat.
“Are you here to show the apartment?” he asks, polite but already impatient.
You blink. “No. I’m here to rent it.”
He glances down at a folded sheet of paper in his hand, the listing printed in neat type. “I thought the showing was at nine.”
“It is. For me,” you say, checking your watch.
His eyebrows draw together. “Mrs. Shaw told me nine thirty.”
“No. She told me nine thirty.”
“So one of us is wrong.”
“Yeah,” you say, crossing your arms. “You.”
He looks down at his note again, mouth twisting when he sees the small “9 AM” written in his own messy handwriting.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “Shit. Guess that’s on me.”
“Guess so.”
He looks like he’s about to argue anyway, but the bakery door swings open before he can. The smell of cinnamon and sugar rushes out, warm against the morning air.
Dorothea Shaw stands there with flour dusted across her apron, cheeks flushed from the ovens. She’s in her late sixties, with silver hair pinned up in a bun that always comes a little loose by midday and soft pink lipstick that never quite stays on the edges. There’s a kindness in her eyes that makes everyone call her “Mrs. Shaw,” even though she always insists on Dorothea.
“Oh, you must be the two I spoke to on the phone,” she says cheerfully. “I didn’t realize it would be a couple.”
You and the guy both start to talk, overlapping. “Oh, we’re not—” “No, we just—”
Dorothea laughs, waving a hand like she’s already made up her mind. “You young folks don’t have to explain yourselves to me. Come in, come in, let me show you the place.”
She ushers you through the side door of the bakery and up a narrow staircase that smells like sugar and yeast. The steps creak underfoot, the paint along the banister chipped from years of use. She keeps talking as she climbs, her voice bright over the hum of ovens below. “I’ve known Steven since he was knee-high,” she says with a fond glance at him over her shoulder. “Never thought I’d see the day he settled down.”
You raise an eyebrow. The guy (Steven, apparently) flushes pink and gives you a helpless look. “It’s, uh, not exactly like that,” he mumbles.
Dorothea just smiles knowingly. “Sure, sure. I’ve heard that before.”
The apartment opens into a cozy living room where morning light spills across faded floral wallpaper and lace curtains move with the draft. A corduroy couch sits against one wall, a crocheted blanket draped neatly over the back. There’s a short wooden shelf lined with old cookbooks and a square television with a crooked antenna. Everything feels a little worn but loved, the kind of place that’s been lived in quietly for years.
Dorothea gestures toward a small archway. “Kitchen’s through there. Gas stove still works if you’re patient with her. I left the table too, it fits right under the window.”
You peek inside. The kitchen is narrow, tiled in pale yellow, with a single sink and a fridge humming softly.
She continues down the hallway, showing two small empty bedrooms across from each other and a bathroom at the end. The fixtures are old porcelain, the mirror spotted, but everything smells like soap and lemon polish.
“There’s even a second bedroom,” she says warmly. “Perfect for when the baby comes.”
Steven coughs, nearly choking on air.
You glance at him, deadpan. “Children aren’t part of the plan yet.”
Dorothea chuckles, eyes twinkling. “Still in the honeymoon phase, then. That’s sweet. Plenty of time for that down the line.”
His head snaps up. “Please—”
She waves him off, smiling. “Oh, hush. I’m only teasing.”
Then she names the rent. The number sounds unreal, the kind of price you’d only hear from someone who values good tenants over money. You and Steve both pause, sharing your first real look of agreement.
You clear your throat. “Would it be all right if we talk about it for a minute?”
“Of course, dear,” Dorothea says, folding her flour-dusted hands. “Take your time. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
You both step out onto the landing. The air smells like fresh bread cooling below and a hint of rain outside. You can hear the old radio from the bakery drifting through the floorboards. Steven sticks his hands in his pockets, shifting awkwardly, still a little pink from the “settling down” comment. He looks over at you, sheepish.
You stay quiet for a second, both of you standing there with the soft hum of the bakery radio beneath your feet. The landing is narrow, lined with worn wallpaper and a window that looks out over Main Street. The sun is climbing higher now, catching the edges of the guy’s hair and the faint blush that still hasn’t left his face.
“So,” you say finally. “Steven.”
He looks up fast. “Just Steve.”
You nod. “Okay, ‘Just Steve’.” You give him your name, offering a quick, polite smile.
He repeats it softly, like he’s trying it out. Then he clears his throat. “So, uh, about the apartment.”
You glance back at the door. “Yeah. The price is… kind of hard to ignore.”
He nods. “It’s a good deal. Way better than anything else I’ve seen. I mean, I work at Family Video, so it’s not like I’m swimming in cash.”
You huff a small laugh. “Record store on Main. Same situation. I can pay, but it’d be easier to split it.”
Steve leans against the wall, crossing his arms. He looks thoughtful, not cautious, just measuring the idea. “There are two bedrooms. If you wanted, we could…” He hesitates, searching for the right phrasing. “We split the rent, utilities, all that.”
You tilt your head, he sounded like he had thought of this long before he messed up the showing time. “Did you already have a roommate in mind?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Sort of. I figured Robin might move in, but she’s still living at home. Doubt she’d care either way. She’ll probably be around a lot, though.”
You nod, finding it funny, the way he says the name like you should already know her. There’s a familiarity in his tone, easy and fond, the kind people use when they talk about someone who means something. You can’t help but wonder if she’s his girlfriend. You push the thought aside, keeping your tone even. “That’s fine. I’ve got friends who’ll probably hang around sometimes, too. Nothing crazy.”
He smiles, a little relieved. “So, no wild parties. Got it.”
“Same goes for you,” you say. “I’m not cleaning up after any keggers.”
He holds up both hands, mock-offended. “I’ve retired from that life. Promise.”
You talk through the practical stuff. Who’d take which bedroom. How to split the bills. That you’ll both try not to steal each other’s laundry quarters or leave dishes in the sink.
Maybe it’s the warmth from the bakery below or the way Steve’s voice softens when he agrees with you, but for a minute, it doesn’t feel like a bad idea.
When the terms are settled, you knock lightly on the doorframe and call for Dorothea.
“So?” she asks.
You glance at Steve, and he nods. “We’ll take it,” you both say at once.
Dorothea’s face brightens. “Oh, that’s just wonderful. I can have the paperwork ready this afternoon.”
She walks you through a few more details, pointing out where the spare key will hang and reminding you about the mail slot downstairs. Before she leaves, she pauses in the doorway, eyes soft. “And you two should come down for dinner sometime. Once a month, maybe. I get a little lonely in the evenings. It’d be nice to have company again.”
You start to say something, but Steve beats you to it, his smile smooth and easy. “That sounds lovely, Mrs. Shaw. We’d like that.”
Dorothea beams. “Good. I miss cooking for someone.”
When she’s gone, the apartment is quiet again, filled only with the muffled clatter of baking trays below. You and Steve stand there in the center of the living room, both realizing at the same time that you’ve just agreed to more than a lease.
He scratches the back of his neck, looking a little dazed but not unhappy. “So, guess we’re roommates,” he says finally.
You glance toward the window, then back at him. “Yeah. Guess we are.”
Sharing space takes some getting used to.
The first few weeks are a mix of small arguments and quiet adjustments. Your makeup and hair stuff slowly take over the bathroom counter, spreading across the sink like a virus. Steve leaves coffee mugs everywhere. On the counter, on the windowsill, once on top of the toilet. You tell him you’re not his maid, and he tells you he didn’t realize a person could own that many lip liners.
You meet in the middle. He keeps the mugs to one a day, and you start keeping your things in a little basket.
Dorothea still thinks you’re a couple. Every time you run into her downstairs she calls you “sweethearts.” Sometimes she sends you home with bread or pie and tells you how nice it is to have young love in the building again. You play along.
Steve’s good at it, annoyingly so, smiling and slipping an arm around your shoulder when she’s looking. The first time he calls you “babe” in front of her, you nearly choke on your croissant.
Your respective friends find the whole thing hilarious. They know it’s fake, and they don’t let either of you forget it.
Robin comes over a lot and makes herself at home, sitting cross-legged on the couch while she tells you stories about Family Video. It’s her who lets it slip that she isn’t Steve’s girlfriend, or any guy. She says it casually one night while the three of you are eating takeout, and you realize how easy she is to be around.
After that, she starts siding with you on all the roommate debates, insisting it’s weird and unsanitary for Steve to drink his coffee in the bathroom in the first place.
Your friend Eddie, who is at the record store so often you’re surprised he doesn’t work there too, drops by sometimes.
He acts like it’s the strangest thing in the world that you live with Steve Harrington of all people. You tell him you didn’t even know who that was supposed to be, and he spends half an hour filling you in on Hawkins High lore. It becomes a running joke, him calling you “Mrs. Harrington” just to watch you roll your eyes.
There are little gestures you both fall into when Dorothea’s around. Hand-holding when she’s looking. A light touch to his arm when she makes a comment about how happy you seem.
Once, she hugs you both goodbye and you kiss him on the cheek without thinking. The warmth of it lingers, and you both pretend it didn’t happen. You don’t really talk for the rest of the day.
By the end of the first month, you’ve fallen into a rhythm. He makes breakfast most mornings. You leave notes reminding him to pick up milk. Robin and Eddie still tease, Dorothea still thinks you’re in love, and neither of you has bothered to correct her. It’s easier this way.
By January, you’ve settled into a rhythm.
You and Steve move around each other like people who have lived together for years. He makes coffee in the mornings, you open the windows to let the cold air in while you get ready. You take turns doing dishes, and somehow it’s never been a fight.
He’s realized by now that the way you looked the day you met was a toned-down version. You don’t bother hiding it anymore. The pins are back on your jacket, your eyeliner a little heavier, your hair streaked again. You catch him humming along to your records sometimes, quiet and half out of tune, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. He brings home movies from Family Video on Fridays. Horror for you, action for him, something in the middle when you compromise.
You don’t bring anyone home, and neither does he. It’s easier that way. Keeps the story with Dorothea simple, and it makes the apartment feel like yours, even if you both keep pretending it’s temporary.
You’ve had a few dinners with Dorothea since moving in, each one warm and easy. She always sends you home with something wrapped in foil and a compliment about how you remind her of herself at your age. Tonight’s dinner is at her house, a small place on Cherry Street, just past Melvald’s, where the neighborhood dips into quiet. Her living room smells like pine, and there’s a small fire crackling in the hearth.
The table is already set when you arrive, three plates, mismatched silverware, a vase of fake flowers in the middle. She insists you sit side by side, saying something about “young love keeping her warm.” Steve just smiles and thanks her for the invitation.
Dinner is cozy. Roast chicken, scalloped potatoes, something green she swears will make your skin glow. The conversation drifts from the bakery to her garden to her late husband, William. She tells stories about him, how he used to bring her pastries even though she made them herself, how he’d leave her little notes in the kitchen every morning.
“Love is all habits,” she says, folding her napkin in her lap. “You find someone who makes your life quieter, easier, and you keep them around.”
You smile without thinking. The way Steve brings you coffee at work. How he picks up horror movies without asking. How he lets you talk over the opening credits.
When you look up, he’s already watching you. Not staring, exactly, just aware. You glance away, pretending to focus on your plate, but the heat creeps up your neck.
Dorothea notices, of course. “You two are sweet,” she says softly. “Reminds me of us.”
Steve laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “We try.”
She nods, satisfied, and launches into another story about the bakery’s first year, about waking up before sunrise to bake pies for customers. You listen, caught between the rhythm of her voice and the quiet sound of Steve’s fork tapping his plate beside you.
When dessert comes, the conversation softens. The fire pops, snow starts against the window, and you think about what she said about habits, about quiet. You don’t look at Steve this time, but you know he’s thinking the same thing.
Dorothea insists on pouring you both another glass of wine before you leave. You try to decline, but she waves it off, saying it keeps you young. The bottle is nearly gone by the time you finally manage to put your coats on, cheeks flushed and stomach warm.
Steve carries the leftovers in a small paper bag tied with twine. You’re walking back toward the bakery, breath fogging in the cold air. The snow isn’t heavy, just a flurry that catches in your hair and settles on his shoulders. The streetlights glow soft against the snow, and everything feels quieter than usual.
You walk side by side, boots crunching on the pavement. The air smells faintly like wood smoke and sugar.
“Dorothea really likes you,” Steve says after a while.
You smile a little. “Pretty sure she likes you more. You’re her golden boy.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “She’s just known me too long to be impressed.”
“Still. You’re the favorite.”
He grins, tipping his head toward you. “You jealous?”
“Not even a little.”
You keep walking, the silence between you not uncomfortable, just warm. The kind that hums quietly under the sound of your steps.
Then you say it. “So, my very real boyfriend…” you tease lightly, glancing up at him.
He snorts. “Yes, my very real girlfriend?”
You both laugh, the words sounding strange but not unwelcome. It’s the kind of thing that would normally end there, just another shared joke, but something about the wine keeps you talking.
You nudge him with your elbow. “I feel kind of bad, actually. If you ever want to bring someone home, we can figure it out. You know, so you can have an actual very real girlfriend.”
He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Thanks for the offer. I’ve been on a few dates, but nothing worth introducing to Mrs. Shaw. Or risking your wrath over.”
“Risking my wrath?” you ask, smiling.
“Yeah. You seem like you’d have rules about that kind of thing.”
“Only the important ones. No weirdos. No one who wears too much perfume.”
He laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind. Not that I’ve had much luck anyway. I definitely don’t have the appeal I did back in school.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That so?”
He shrugs, the bag shifting in his hand. “Apparently.”
You can’t help laughing. “Maybe someone out there’s into that stupid Family Video vest you have to wear.”
You laugh again, shaking your head. “Well, any dates I’ve been on weren’t exactly thrilling either. Mostly at their place. Which probably says a lot.”
“Please,” he says, grinning. “Trust me, no one’s ever been into the vest.”
He’s quiet for a second, then says softly, “Yeah. It’s weird, right? Talking about this stuff.”
“Kind of,” you say.
He looks over at you, eyes soft in the streetlight.
Home comes into view, the windows dark except for the glow of the sign in the front. He unlocks the door and holds it open for you. The smell of baked goods drifts through, familiar and warm.
You head upstairs together, the floorboards creaking under your feet, both of you still smiling like you’re not sure why.
Inside, everything feels softer. The bakery below is quiet for the night, and the only sound is the hum of the radiator and the faint wind against the windowpanes. You kick your shoes off near the door and hand him your coat without thinking. He takes it, hangs it on the hook by the door with his own, and toes off his shoes before heading toward the kitchen.
It is automatic by now. You go to the couch. He goes to find something to put on. The small rituals you have built over months slot neatly into place.
“You want another glass of wine?” he calls from the kitchen.
You blink. “We have wine?”
He laughs, the sound muffled by the clinking of glasses. “Debatably good wine. From the corner store. Classy stuff.”
You grin. “Pour me some, then.”
He comes back with two mismatched glasses and sits beside you. The movie starts up, something he must have grabbed from work. The title rolls across the screen, half horror, half comedy, a compromise you both pretend not to notice.
You sink deeper into the couch, the wine warm in your hand. It is cheap, but it is red, and you realize he must have remembered that you like it better than white. He never says anything about those little things, but you notice them. The red wine. The coasters he finally started using. The way he lets you pick the music when you clean.
For a while you both watch in comfortable silence, the kind that fills the room instead of empties it.
After a while, you speak. “You know,” you say, voice low, “I really think she buys it. Dorothea. The whole couple thing. I kind of feel bad lying to her.” You take a sip of your wine. “But it’s nice that she believes it.”
He doesn’t answer right away. The light from the television flickers against his face. He takes his own sip before setting the glass on the table. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I almost do too.”
You turn your head to look at him. The thought catches in your chest.
He’s leaning back, relaxed from the wine and the warmth, hair falling into his eyes. The yellow cable knit sweater he changed into before dinner looks soft, worn at the cuffs. There’s a faint crease at the corner of his mouth, the start of a smile he never quite lets out. He looks content, peaceful in a way that makes it hard to look away.
You have always thought of him as clean-cut, too put together for you. But sitting here now, you see something else. The faint tiredness in his eyes. The curve of his shoulders. The kind of quiet that feels steady.
You tell yourself to look back at the screen, but you don’t. The movie keeps playing, forgotten. The air between you shifts, something warm and unspoken threading through it.
Steve is the one who breaks the silence.
“What?” he says, catching you looking at him. “Do I have, like, wine mouth or something?”
You blink. “Wine mouth?”
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his thumb across his lower lip, like he’s trying to wipe away the color. “Like when kids get that ring of juice stain around their mouth, but for adults.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head. The motion draws your eyes right back to his mouth. The faint red tint from the wine. The way his thumb drags over his lip. You look away, smiling a little.
“No,” you say softly. “Just… nothing.”
He leans back, still watching you. “You sure?”
You glance at him again, teasing now, trying to cover the flutter in your chest. “What? Am I not allowed to look at my very real boyfriend?”
He pauses. The joke should land easily, but his voice comes out quieter. “Not like that.”
You turn toward him a little, the air suddenly thicker. “Like what?”
He hesitates, then looks at you the way people do when they decide something. “Like I actually am your very real boyfriend.”
It’s quiet after that. His arm is along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him behind you. You don’t remember when he put it there. Your glasses sit on the table, half-finished.
You tilt your head, the corner of your mouth lifting. “If you were my very real boyfriend,” you say, voice lighter now, “what would you be doing right now?”
He grins, eyes still on yours. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d put my arm around you.”
You glance at his arm already stretched along the back of the couch. “Guess that one’s covered.”
He laughs softly. “Then maybe I’d tell you something sweet.”
“Like what?” you ask.
He pretends to think, his smile crooked. “Maybe that you look really pretty tonight.”
You huff a laugh, your cheeks warm. “That’s a good one. I’d probably tell you your sweater looks soft.”
He raises an eyebrow, playful. “You could always check.”
You bite your lip, pulse skipping as you press your hand lightly against his chest. The fabric is warm, softer than you expected. You can feel the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Soft.”
The air shifts. His laughter fades into something quieter. He covers your hand with his, fingers curling gently over yours. The space between you disappears inch by inch, breath mingling, eyes caught on each other.
“What now?” you whisper, still teasing but softer this time.
He smiles, almost shy. “Now I think your very real boyfriend would probably kiss you.”
You let out a soft laugh, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. “Oh yeah? Is that part of the job description?”
“Pretty sure,” he says. “You’d know if you read the fine print.”
You lean in a little, teasing. “Guess I missed that part.”
“Guess I’ll have to remind you,” he says, voice low but still smiling.
You’re both still grinning, still pretending it’s just a joke, but the space between you keeps getting smaller. The kind of slow drift that feels inevitable.
“Wouldn’t want to ruin our very real relationship,” you whisper, eyes flicking down to his mouth.
He laughs quietly, breath warm against your skin. “Yeah, that’d be a shame.”
Neither of you moves for a second, just the steady sound of the movie in the background, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
Then he leans in just a little more.
And you don’t stop him.
It’s slow, hesitant at first, the kind of kiss that starts with laughter still in your chests and ends with all the air gone from the room. The wine lingers between you, sweet and warm, and the world outside the window fades into the hush of snow and steady heat.
His hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin like he’s been itching to touch your face.
You didn’t even realize your fingers had curled into his sweater, gripping onto the fabric like it might keep you tethered to the moment.
He pulls back just enough to search your face, his hand still cupped at your jaw. “Is this okay?”
You nod once. “Yeah. This is… yeah.”
He kisses you again, and this time there’s nothing hesitant about it. It’s slow but sure, like he knows exactly how to pull you into it. His mouth moves with quiet confidence, patient and present. The kind of kiss that says he’s not rushing anything, not asking for more than you’ll give, but also not holding back.
When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you part them without even thinking, letting him in. There’s wine and warmth and something deeper you don’t name.
He tastes like everything he is:
Familiar.
Surprising.
Better than you expected.
You shouldn’t be surprised though, not after everything you’ve heard about from Eddie about Steve Harrington and the way he used to kiss girls behind the gym or in parked cars at Skull Rock. But this is nothing like that.
He’s not a teenage boy anymore. He’s grounded, even more sure of himself without putting on some bullshit act.
When he finally pulls away, both of you still breathless, he doesn’t let go of your hand. He lifts it from his chest like he’s realizing just now that you’d been holding him there. His eyes are soft and searching again, and the silence between you shifts.
Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to and you sit back a little, needing space to breathe. “It’s late.”
Steve blinks like he’s coming back to earth. “Yeah...”
“I… have work in the morning.”
He gives you a crooked smile. “No, you don’t. You have Thursdays off.”
You look at him. He says it so casually, like it’s just a fact in the universe.
“You know my schedule?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. It’s our cleaning day. You sweep, I vacuum. We fight about which records get played. You always win.”
You laugh under your breath, rubbing your palm against your thigh. “Still. Sleep. Sleep is good.”
“Definitely,” he says, eyes still on you.
Eventually you move. He stands first and offers his hand to pull you up from the couch. You both walk slowly toward the hallway, the apartment dim and quiet around you. The bedrooms are across from each other, same as always, but tonight it feels different.
You both hesitate for a second, then wordlessly disappear into your own rooms.
You change into your usual sleep clothes, a big t-shirt and your favorite worn-in shorts, the kind that make you feel like yourself. Your mind keeps replaying the kiss, the way his fingers felt against your cheek, the way his mouth lingered like he didn’t want to stop at just a kiss.
You open your door at the same time he opens his. He’s in sweatpants and a white undershirt. You’re both heading toward the bathroom.
You stop in the doorway. “Sorry. I just—”
“I just need to—”
You both gesture toward the sink.
“I’ll be quick,” you say.
He leans against the doorframe instead, watching you for a second too long. Then something in his expression shifts.
Something like “fuck it.”
He steps forward, brushing your hair back before kissing you hard.
There’s no question this time. It’s not soft. Not teasing. It’s heat and need and the leftover as his hands find your waist. Yours slide up to his shoulders. The taste of wine mixes on your tongues and you don’t even care.
All you can think is that this is happening. Really happening.
And you don’t want it to stop.
You don’t know how long you’re kissing him before you both come up for air, chests rising and falling like you’ve just sprinted across Main Street. His hands stay firm on your waist, holding you there against the bathroom doorframe, and he’s watching you like he’s trying to decide if this is real.
It is.
You glance between your bedroom door and his. “My room’s… um, it’s a mess.”
Steve laughs, the kind that’s low and breathless. “Yeah. It’s always a mess.”
You start to protest, already ready to defend yourself. “Okay, no, I clean sometimes, I’m not—”
But he kisses you again before you can finish, stealing the rest of the sentence straight from your mouth. One hand slips around your back and the other finds your wrist, guiding you with him as he moves.
You barely register the few steps it takes before you’re inside his room. He doesn’t stop kissing you. He doesn’t even pause when he kicks the door shut behind you with the heel of his foot.
You feel the edge of the bed press against the backs of your knees. He gives you the smallest push and you tumble backward with a quiet laugh. The mattress creaks beneath you, protesting like it hasn’t been used for much more than sleep.
“Shit,” Steve mutters, crawling in after you. “I didn’t realize it was that loud.”
You grin up at him. “You haven’t tested it out?”
His mouth quirks. “Not like this.”
He leans over you, arms braced on either side as you settle against his pillows, and just looks for a second. Your shirt’s rumpled from where his hands touched you, your hair messy in the way that only happens when it’s been in someone else’s fingers.
His hair’s even more of a disaster than usual. You can tell he’s been running his hand through it, nervous, like he does when he’s thinking too hard.
But right now he’s not thinking. He’s just there, above you, eyes on your mouth again.
He kisses you.
Then again, slower this time, lips dragging across your cheek and down your jaw.
When his mouth brushes against your neck, your breath catches. He lingers there, warm and careful, his strong jaw against your skin in a way that sends a shiver through you. Your hands slide from his shoulders to his hair, curling your fingers into the soft mess at the nape of his neck.
“You okay?” he murmurs against your skin.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
He smiles, a small curve of his lips against your throat before he continues, his kisses light, deliberate, exploring. He’s mapping you out. Learning the shapes of you. The space behind your ear, the sensitive spot just above the hollow of your throat.
His hands move too, one sliding under your shirt to rest flat against the small of your back, the other tracing patterns along your ribs through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. His touch isn’t rushed. It’s like he’s savoring the moment, memorizing the feel of your skin, the sound of your breath catching when he finds a place you like.
“No bra?" He says against your skin, a question that isn't really a question.
You huff a quiet laugh, pulling back enough to look at him. “I was expecting sleep...”
“Yeah,” he whispers, sliding a hand higher to cup your breast. The weight of his palm against you, the warmth of his palm makes your breath hitch. “Maybe later.” He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth, his thumb brushing over your nipple. It stiffens instantly, a shock of pleasure.
You let out a soft gasp, arching into his touch. He’s watching you again, that same focused look, his eyes tracing your face like he’s searching for some kind of permission in your expression to take your shirt off.
“Yeah?” He doesn't stop, just continues his slow, deliberate movements under the fabric. His thumb circles your nipple, each pass sending a jolt straight through you. You can feel the heat building between your legs, a low, persistent ache that’s been there since that first kiss on the couch.
Instead of answering, you tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one fluid motion. It’s not exactly graceful, but it’s efficient, and the cool air hits your skin, sending goosebumps everywhere. But it’s the look on his face that truly makes your breath catch. It’s not hungry, not exactly, but… reverent. Like he’s looking at something beautiful, something worth savoring.
“Wow,” he breathes, his gaze moving from your face down your body, taking you in. There’s no hesitation, no sense of him being overwhelmed. He looks like you’re the only thing in the room. "I always kind of wondered..."
"You've thought about my boobs?" You're aiming for sarcastic, but your voice comes out softer than intended, a little breathless.
His eyes snap back to yours, and he grins, a real, genuine grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Not just your boobs." He leans down, pressing a kiss to your sternum, his lips soft and warm. "I thought about the way you'd laugh if I said something stupid." Another kiss, a little lower, between your breasts. "I thought about the way your eyes get all intense when you're arguing with me about the best way to load a dishwasher."
His mouth travels lower, skimming across your ribs. "And yeah," he admits against your skin, "I thought about your boobs too."
You let out a huff of laughter that turns into a sharp gasp as his tongue traces the underside of your breast. He doesn’t go straight for your nipple, he’s taking his time, tasting you, mapping your skin. His hand that was resting on your back slides up, cradling the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as his mouth finally, finally closes over your nipple.
"Fuck," you whisper, arching into him. The sensation is a jolt, hot and sweet, and your fingers tighten in his hair. He applies gentle suction, his tongue flicking against the hardened peak, and his other hand palming your other breast, thumb rolling over that nipple, providing a friction that is almost too much.
"To be fair..." He says, switching over to give the other breast the same attention, voice a low rumble against your skin that makes you shiver. "It's a really great pair of boobs."
You want to laugh, you want to make a witty comeback, but all that comes out is a breathy moan as his teeth scrape lightly against your sensitive skin. He's listening to you, to every sound you make, and responding, adjusting his pressure, his pace, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you squirm. He's not just doing this for himself; he’s doing this for you.
The praise, the way he's looking up at you with his lips wrapped around your nipple, has heat pooling low in your belly, an insistent warmth.
"'Boobs' is such an unsexy word..." you breathe out, more of a reflex than a real complaint. It’s the only defense you have against the way he’s making your hips roll.
He pulls back for a second, his mouth hovering just above your skin, his breath warm against you. "Yeah?" he says, a small, smug smile playing on his lips. "You want me to find a better one? Tits? Breasts?" He pauses, tracing your other nipple with a finger. His eyes meet yours, dark and serious. "Or how about... beautiful." He kisses the spot between your breasts, right over your heart. "Perfect."
This is the most turned on you've been in a while. Your usual sarcasm feels flimsy, useless against his sincerity. It's easier to just let go.
The last word is whispered right before he dives back in, licking a broad stripe between your breasts and up to the hollow of your throat.
Your hands are restless now, roving over his back, feeling the muscles shift under his thin t-shirt. It's in the way. You want to feel his skin. With a frustrated tug, you start pulling it up, he gets the message immediately, lifting his head and pulling back just enough to yank the shirt over his head in one quick motion.
He tosses it aside. It lands somewhere on the floor, probably on that pile of clean clothes he never puts away.
And there he is. Steve Harrington. Shirtless in his bedroom.
He's not what you were expecting, and you have to force yourself not to stare too openly. It's not bulky muscle. It's the kind that comes from doing things. From lugging around inventory at work and probably playing basketball in his driveway at home. He’s broad in the shoulders, with a light trail of dark hair that starts at his pecs and disappears into the waistband of his sweatpants.
A thin, silvery scar runs diagonally across his ribs. You trace it with your fingertip, a small frown pulling at your lips. "What's this from?"
He looks down, then back at you, a hint of something complicated in his eyes. "Just... from a while ago."
He doesn't elaborate, and the way his gaze shifts just slightly tells you it's not a story for tonight. You can respect that.
You don't ask, you just lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss against the scar. Your lips are warm against his skin. He closes his eyes, and when you pull back, you see his jaw is tight.
You trail your eyes down his body, and the smile that finds you is different. Softer. "Well," you murmur, your voice low. "It's a nice view from here."
He grins, the tension breaking. "Yeah?"
"Mhmm."
He shifts above you, settling his weight more comfortably. He's careful, not crushing you. He nudges his nose against yours, his breath warm. "The view's not bad from here either," he whispers. His eyes travel from your face, down your neck, across your chest and stomach.
He’s slow as he lowers his mouth, kissing the curve of your belly, soft and open-mouthed, and you feel yourself relaxing into his touch. His fingers trace the waistband of your shorts, teasing, and you instinctively lift your hips as he pulls them down.
They get caught on your ankle, a tangle of cotton. You both let out a breath of laughter, the spell of quiet intensity broken for a second as he works the fabric over your feet and tosses them aside.
“Okay,” he grins up at you from where he's kneeling between your legs. “Got it.”
And then his eyes go back to you. To you completely bare. On his bed. The smile fades.
You're used to being looked at. You're not shy. But this is different. He's not just looking; he's seeing, making you feel quiet inside.
"Impressive form," you murmur. You can't help it. It's your shield. "A little clunky, but you got there."
He chuckles, his eyes still fixed on the spot where your thighs meet. The sound is warm, and it vibrates right through you. "Oh, don't worry," he says, his hands braced on your thighs. "My form gets better."
Before you can fire back a reply, he gently spreads your legs apart.
And then he dips his head and kisses the inside of your knee.
It's a soft, deliberate kiss. And he continues from there. He mouths a path up your inner thigh, and his hands follow, warm and slightly calloused from work, gripping you gently. It's the slowest possible version of what this could be. He's not rushing toward the main event; he's taking the scenic route.
Your breath hitches when his mouth ghosts over the crease of your thigh. So close.
He hovers for a beat, and you can feel his warm breath against your pussy, already slick with arousal. The anticipation is unbearable.
"Steve," you whisper. It's half a plea, half a warning. Your bravado is evaporating under the focused heat of his attention.
He looks up at you, his mouth impossibly close, his eyes dark with something that looks like awe. "You're so pretty," he says, his voice a low murmur against your skin. It’s not a question. It's a revelation.
And then his tongue is on you.
A long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. It's not tentative. It's knowing. The groan he lets out is for your taste. The sound vibrates through your whole body.
"Fuck," you breathe, your head falling back against his pillows.
It was very clear to you earlier that Steve really liked kissing, and that is very obviously a skillset that translates. There’s no aimless exploration. He finds your clit easily, circling it with his tongue, testing the pressure until your hips buck off the bed. He slides two fingers into you, curling them instantly against that sensitive spot inside you that makes your thighs tremble.
"God, right there," you manage to choke out, your hands fisting in his duvet.
He hums in response, a sound of deep satisfaction, and redoubles his efforts. His mouth is a perfect, relentless pressure. His fingers move in a steady, maddening rhythm. He’s watching you from between your thighs, cataloging every shudder, every hitch in your breath, and adjusting his technique accordingly.
He seems… proud. Proud that he can do this to you.
"Look at me," he says, his voice thick and muffled by you.
You force your eyes open. You’re so lost in it you had completely forgotten to be embarrassed or worried you weren't being "cool" about any of this. The sight of him, head tipped up, your wetness glistening on his chin, his pupils blown wide with desire, is the final straw.
"You're so-- fuck, you’re so intentional," you hear yourself say. It's an observation, barely a whisper, stripped of its usual bite. It's an offering.
"Yeah?" he grins, a real, genuine grin before his tongue flicks out for another taste, his fingers never ceasing their movement. "'Cause I want to get it right."
And that does it. That thought of him wanting to get something so right for you, while his mouth is wrapped around your clit, sends a bolt of pure, unadulterated heat through your center. Your back arches, a long, shuddering moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. It's not a quiet, polite thing; it's a full-body wave that leaves you breathless, your hand fisted in the duvet, your toes curled tight.
He doesn't stop. He works you through it, his mouth gentle now, his fingers slowing, drawing out every last spasm until you’re left twitching and boneless on his bed. When he finally lifts his head, his expression is pure, unadulterated pride.
"Jesus, Steve," you manage, your voice wrecked.
He crawls back up your body, settling his weight beside you. His grin is soft, satisfied, and when he leans in to kiss you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. You meet him with equal fervor, your hands wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer, pouring everything you can’t say into the kiss.
It’s you who deepens it, your tongue slick against his, one of your hands almost clumsy as it trails down to the waistband of his sweatpants. You’re not thinking. Not about anything but how you want to give him that same focus, that same careful consideration.
Your fingers find the line of him, hard and straining against the soft cotton. You're met with a soft gasp in your mouth, a sharp intake of breath. He freezes for just a second, surprised, before his hips press into your touch, a silent plea.
His reactions are better than words.
It’s your turn to explore. You slide your hand under the elastic of his pants and boxers, gasping softly into his mouth as your fingers wrap around him, hot and impossibly hard. You’ve spent hours next to this man, and you've never once thought about him like this, not with this intensity. He’s bigger than you expected, thick in your palm, a bead of slick already gathering at the tip. The weight of him feels like a confession, his need a tangible thing in your hand.
“Jesus,” he breathes against your lips, and then your name comes out like a genuine prayer. His body is taut, the muscles in his back bunching under your free hand.
You move your hand in a slow, steady grip, feeling him twitch in your palm. You’re not trying to get him off; you’re exploring, learning his shape, the texture of him.
When you let go he actually whimpers. It's so quiet you wouldn't have heard it if your mouths weren't so close.
He scrambles off you and pushes both layers down. His movements are a little clumsy as he kicks the last of the fabric away. You watch him, propped up on your elbows.
He doesn’t hide. He just hovers over you for a second, completely bare and more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him, letting you look your fill.
"Can you... lay on your back?" You whisper, "I just... I want to see you."
Steve blinks. For a second you think you've gone too far, asked for too much. But then his Adam's apple bobs in a slow swallow. He shifts, rolling onto his back beside you, stretching his long body out against the blue sheets of his bed. One arm goes behind his head, his other hand coming to rest on his stomach, just above where his erection lies hard and heavy against him.
The posture is casual. Open. It’s a surrender, and you feel a strange sort of power bloom in your chest. He was just in control, his head between your thighs, but now… now he’s letting you lead.
You shift, kneeling between his legs, and his eyes track your every move, dark and expectant. You lean over, places kisses on each beauty mark that dots his torso until you reach the cluster of them by his navel, where you look up.
“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips pressed lightly against the mole just under his belly button.
“Yeah,” he breathes, the word coming out strained. “More than okay.”
In response, you press an open-mouthed kiss to the base of his cock.
“Fuck.” His whole body tenses, the hand on his stomach clenching into a fist as you take him in your hand, stroking him slowly from base to tip, his pre-come smearing over your palm. The feeling of him in your hand, hot and alive and yours for the taking, is intoxicating.
You don't waste any more time. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock, and the sound he makes is a beautiful, broken thing.
Your hand settle on on his hip, the other wrapped around his shaft as you start to move.
He’s trying so, so hard to be quiet at first, the sounds catching in his throat. And sure, you remember everything that Eddie has said about the guy he used to be, the cocky jock whose voice was a loud, obnoxious thing at parties. But this is not that guy. This guy is trembling under you. This guy smells like soap and cheap wine and happiness and the heat of his own skin.
And this guy falls apart in minutes under your mouth.
His hips start to rock, small, helpless movements. His hand, previously clenched on his stomach, now comes to rest at the back of your head. He's not guiding you, not demanding, just resting it there, his fingers gently tangled in your hair as you work your tongue along the underside of his cock. He's learned, already, that you don't need to be told what to do.
Then his hips start to rock just that little bit more. That's all the permission you need.
You go lower, taking him deeper. His breath hitches as his cock hits the back of your throat and he tries, he really tries, to stop from babbling. A string of nonsense ends with a deep moan of your name as he loses the battle.
"So good... holy shit, you're so..." He breaks off into a guttural sound when you cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. "Fuck, don't stop, please don't..." It’s the first time he’s sounded truly desperate.
You don't intend to stop. You pull back for air before taking him deep again, faster this time, more confident. The hand in your hair tightens, not painfully, just... holding on.
"Look at you," he breathes out.
You glance up at him through your lashes. The look on his face is wrecked. All that former-cool-kid confidence completely gone, replaced with this raw, open-need. He’s watching your lips stretch around him, watching you take him, and the sight alone is enough to push him closer to the edge.
"I'm... I'm close," he manages to get out, his voice ragged. "You should... I'm gonna..." He's trying to be a gentleman. He's trying to warn you.
Instead of pulling back, you take him as deep as you can, your hand stroking what your mouth can't reach, and look him dead in the eye as you do. The silent permission, the greedy acceptance, is his undoing.
His whole body goes rigid. He calls out your name, one last, sharp, breathless cry, as he spills in your mouth. His hips stutter, his hand in your hair holding you there as you swallow him down, the taste of him salty and warm and utterly Steve.
After, you let him fall from your lips, pressing a soft, final kiss to his still-sensitive tip. You look up at him from your position between his thighs. He’s sprawled on the bed, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. He looks completely undone. A state of him you've absolutely never seen and you are the cause of it.
You feel a surge of something that's equal parts satisfaction and affection as you crawl back up his body. He gathers you into his arms the second you're in reach, pulling you flush against his side. His mouth finds yours instantly, a hungry, messy kiss that doesn't care where your mouth just was.
"You..." He breathes out as he pulls back, but he doesn't seem to have any other words. He just shakes his head, a slow, amazed movement. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin. "You're..."
You trail your fingers through his hair, damp with sweat at the temples. "I think the word you're looking for is 'intentional'," you whisper, a ghost of a smile on your lips. He chuckles, his breath warm against you.
"No," he says. "The word is perfect."
His hand starts to move again, tracing slow circles on your hip. He kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, your neck. His mouth is lazy and sweet, the both of you pushed to a soft, warm exhaustion. You could stay like this all night, a tangle of limbs and warm skin. But the hand on your hip moves.
It trails down, back to the place he already wrecked. His fingers slide through your wetness, exploring your slick, oversensitive folds. You twitch, a soft sigh escaping your lips as he gently pushes two fingers back inside you.
It's a feeling of coming home. He curls his fingers, finding that same spot as before. Not enough to make you come again, not yet. Just a promise. A reminder. He moves in and out of you with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His thumb finds your clit, circling it in time with the slide of his fingers.
"You feel so good," he whispers against your ear, and his voice is soft, not heated. It's like he's not even trying to get this to lead to anything more. He just wants to feel you. His touch is confident and caring in a way you've never experienced.
You turn your head to kiss him. It's slow and sweet.
His fingers work you, slow and sweet till you cum again. It's not the sharp, bright crash of your first orgasm, it's deeper, softer. A gentle wave of pleasure rolls through you, and you let out a soft, breathy moan into his mouth. Your body shudders against his.
When it's over, you slump bonelessly against him.
He holds you while the tremors run their course, his other hand tracing soothing patterns on your back. It's as close to perfect as you can imagine. He brings his fingers to his lips to taste you, and in his eyes, you see a flicker of the same awe from before. You also see a hint of something else. Something you’ve only ever seen hints of. Pride. Pride in you and pride in the fact that you are in his bed.
You pull back a little, looking down at him. His face is bathed in the soft, moonlit glow from the window. His hair is a mess on the pillow, his lips are kiss swollen, and he has a soft, contented look on his face.
"What?" he asks, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Nothing. Can we... can we sleep? Like this?" You ask, already feeling a wave of sleepiness crash over you.
"I was hoping you'd say that." He pulls the duvet over the both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.
He pulls you into his arms again, and you rest your head on his chest. He’s warm and solid under you, and you can feel the steady, even beat of his heart against your cheek. It's a rhythm that's already starting to feel familiar, comforting.
Steve’s not a stranger anymore. He’s Steve.
Your very real Steve.
Your eyes drift closed. The last thing you hear is the quiet hum of his breathing.
You wake slowly, your mind piecing things together one at a time.
The sheets are softer than yours. The light is coming from the wrong side of the room. There is an arm draped over your waist, heavy and warm. It takes a second before it clicks. This isn’t your room.
You breathe out quietly and look around. The window is cracked just enough to let in a thin line of sunlight, catching on the framed car poster near the closet and the pile of clothes on the chair. It smells like sex and laundry detergent.
Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist. He doesn’t move. He’s out cold, flat on his stomach, hair a complete disaster, face half-buried in the pillow. You gather your oversized t-shirt from the floor and pull it over your head. Your shorts are nowhere in immediate sight, so you don’t bother looking long.
You pause at the edge of the bed and glance back at him. His back rises and falls in a steady rhythm, mouth slightly open, a small frown between his eyebrows like he’s dreaming about something frustrating. You feel something tug in your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s regret or something much worse.
The apartment is quiet when you step into the hall. The wood floors are cool under your feet. You head to the kitchen, pulling your hair out of your face with one hand while the other starts the coffee maker. The smell fills the room fast. It steadies you a little.
You pour a cup and lean against the counter, drinking it over the sink while looking out the window. Hawkins is already awake. A couple of kids are walking their bikes down Main, Joyce Byers is sweeping the front steps of Melvad’s, and a thin layer of snow dusts the street. The kind that won’t last long once the sun hits it.
The coffee burns a little going down, but it feels good. You’re trying not to think about the night before, but it keeps replaying anyway. His hands, his focus, the way he said your name like it meant something.
You don’t hear him right away, but then there’s a low, sleepy voice behind you.
“Morning.”
You turn just slightly, enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. His hair is sticking up everywhere, and he’s just in his boxers. He walks past you to the coffee pot, yawning, and pours himself a cup.
“Morning,” you say quietly.
He leans against the counter next to you, shoulders brushing as he takes a sip. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s heavier than it should be.
You glance at him. “I’m sorry if this ruined our dynamic as roommates.”
He looks at you over the rim of his mug, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, it definitely ruins the roommate dynamic.”
You blink, unsure if you should laugh. “Oh.”
He sees your expression change and shakes his head quickly. “No, no, I mean—” He sets his mug down and turns to face you fully. “It definitely ruins the fake dating thing too.”
That doesn’t help. You look down into your coffee, your stomach sinking a little. “Right.”
He groans softly, rubbing a hand through his hair. “That came out wrong. I meant… it’s not fake anymore.”
You look up. His eyes are clear now, not sleepy, not joking. “I just… I figured this meant we went from ‘very real’ to actually… very real,” he says quietly.
For a second, you can’t find words.
You meet his eyes again, and the small, nervous smile that follows is enough to make your heart trip over itself.
You take a slow breath. “Oh,” you say again, but this time it’s different. Softer.
He takes a small step closer. “So… is this— us. Are we okay?”
You lean your hip against the counter, considering him. “I don’t think I’d call us ruined.”
A quiet laugh escapes him, and he steps forward until he’s right in front of you. “I'd disagree. I feel pretty ruined from that mouth of yours--"
"Shut your mouth about my mouth." You groan, cheeks warming.
He grins wider now. "No. I don't think I will."
His smile softens again. It’s disarming, the way he can swing from teasing to sincere without missing a beat.
He reaches past you for your coffee mug, taking it from your hand and setting it on the counter beside his. Then he snakes his hands around your waist. But instead of pulling you in, he steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your front and resting his chin on your shoulder. It’s a comfortable position, intimate in a way that feels new. You can feel his warm breath against your ear. You cover his hands with your own, leaning your head back against his shoulder.
“I’m really hoping you’re not going to go back to your room and pretend this didn’t happen,” he says, his voice low against your ear.
“No,” you say. “I really don’t want that.”
You don’t. The thought of going back to the carefully constructed farce you had between you feels impossible now.
"Good..." he murmurs. "But just to make sure..."
His hands move under your big shirt and settle on your hips and he nudges your thighs open with his knee, pressing himself against you. There’s no mistaking his intent, but it’s gentle, a question more than a demand.
You can feel him, half hard already, pressing against the thin fabric of his boxers. And this time, you push back, grinding your ass against him in a slow, deliberate movement.
He makes a soft, choked sound. "Okay, so... same page?" he manages, his breath hitching.
"Mhmm," you hum, turning your head to kiss his jaw. He tilts his head down to meet your mouth.
"Lean over the sink," he says, his voice low. "Please."
The 'please' is a key detail. A signpost.
You grip the edges of the counter. You can see the two of you in the small window above the sink: you, in your oversized black t-shirt; him, shirtless and strong behind you. It’s a raw, unfiltered image. You watch as he slowly, deliberately pulls down his boxers just enough, and you watch his face in the reflection.
He lines himself up. Instead of just pushing in, he traces the tip of his cock along your slick folds, back and forth, letting you feel the weight of him without rushing. He’s watching your face in the reflection, his own expression tight with control.
“Are you on…” he starts, trailing off.
You nod against the cool metal of the faucet. “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he breathes out in relief. “Good.”
He notches the head of his cock at your entrance, and for a long moment, he just stays there, a hot, firm pressure. He’s pushing in so slowly, inch by torturous inch, your knuckles are white on the counter. The stretch is immense, a deep, fulfilling ache.
He watches the whole thing in the reflection.
You don't just feel watched, you feel worshipped. It’s unnerving, it’s intoxicating. He watches his cock disappear into you like it’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, his breath caught in his throat.
"You okay?" he grunts out once he's fully inside you, his hands gripping your hips, his chest pressed against your back.
You can only nod again, a choked sound in your throat. Words are useless. You feel incredibly full, more connected to him than even last night. And all he’s doing is breathing.
His first withdrawal is slow too. A long, steady drag that leaves you feeling empty before he pushes back in, a deep, smooth thrust that makes your eyes roll back in your head. You feel every inch of him.
“Shit,” you whisper, pushing back to meet him.
He lets out a low groan. “Yeah?”
“Mhmm.”
“Let’s make this official, then,” he murmurs. He wraps one arm securely around your waist, pulling you back against him while his other hand slides down to find your clit. His movements are deliberate and assured.
“You feel so good around me,” he says, voice raspy and loving. "Could feel like this every day." His fingers begin to circle your clit. He starts to find his rhythm, a steady, deep rocking motion that has you bracing yourself against the counter.
You watch him in the window. The way his jaw clenches with effort, the way his biceps flex as he holds you. You watch your own face, lips parted, eyes hazy with pleasure.
The pace builds slowly. Each thrust a little harder, a little deeper, and the drag of him inside you is sending sparks of electricity up your spine. His fingers on your clit move in time, relentless, as your orgasm starts to build.
"Could be my very real girlfriend..." he whispers in your ear as his hips piston a little harder. "Could do this whenever you want..."
His voice, the raw need, the permission to have this, it's all too much. "Steve..." you manage, your voice cracking. You reach back, a hand finding his hip, nails digging into his skin as you try to hold on, to ground yourself, but he won't let you.
“Take you on dates, real ones,” he pants. “Not just fake ones for Dorothea.” His thumb presses harder, circles faster. “Go to the movies and hold your hand in the dark. Come home and do this."
Your orgasm crashes through you. It's a white-hot wave that steals your breath and makes your vision blur. You're crying out his name, a long, ragged sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen. Your legs tremble, your body going weak as the pleasure overwhelms you. The hand braced on the counter almost slips.
He holds you steady through it. He doesn't stop. His hips keep pistoning, drawing out your orgasm, milking you for every last shudder.
"You sound... so pretty when you do that," he groans, his voice thick with desire. He's close, so close. You can feel it in the erratic rhythm of his thrusts, the way his breath hitches. His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh.
His rhythm stutters. He buries his face in your neck, his mouth hot against your skin as he lets out a string of curses. His hips jerk forward, and he’s coming with a final, deep thrust, spilling into you with a shudder. He presses his forehead between your shoulder blades and breathes you in for a minute. His body is hot and heavy against yours, a dead weight that is one of the best things you have ever felt.
Neither of you speaks. There is just the sound of your breathing, the distant hum of the city, and the quiet aftermath of it all. It’s not awkward. It’s more. It’s heavy in the best way.
Finally, he straightens up, slowly, carefully. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder before pulling out gently, leaving you feeling suddenly empty. You stay leaning against the counter for a second, trying to find your legs.
"Hey," he says softly, his voice still a little rough. "You okay?"
You turn around to face him fully and he's reaching to grab a clean dishcloth from the drawer, hand going around you to wet it in the sink, the other hand on your hip keeping you steady. He’s gentle as he cleans you up. He’s done this before. But this is not a rehearsed performance. It's an act of reverence that makes your throat tighten.
You finally look up and meet his eyes. He looks as wrecked as you feel. "Yeah," you say, and your voice is hoarse. "I'm really okay."
He looks a little shy, as you watch him clean himself up a little with the cloth before pulling up his boxers.
"I'm going to make some more coffee," he says, clearing his throat a little. "And then... then I think I'm going to do something incredibly uncool and make you pancakes."
You laugh, surprised by the sudden domesticity of it all. "Pancakes?"
"Yeah," he says, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Pancakes. From your hopefully very real boyfriend..."
He trails off, and you decide to help him out. You step forward and wrap your arms around his bare torso, pressing your cheek against his chest. You can feel his heart beating under your ear.
"I think I'm going to be incredibly uncool too," you mumble into his skin. "And let your very real girlfriend have some."
He hugs you back, and you just stand there for a moment, wrapped around each other in the brightening kitchen. This is new territory, but it doesn't feel scary. It feels right.
He pulls back after a minute, and you can't help but admire him again. He's relaxed in a way he hasn't been before, with an easy smile on his face.
"I'm going to be really honest, though." He says, looking sheepish. "I'm not actually that good at making pancakes."
You snort, and start rummaging through a drawer, eventually pulling out a wooden spoon and a mixing bowl. "Shut up. You are not getting out of this."
He laughs, reaching for his coffee mug again. "Okay, okay. But no laughing when they're a little... lumpy."
You watch him for a minute, a real smile finally breaking through your usual guarded expression. This is it, then. The thing you’ve been dancing around for months. It's not a performance for Dorothea or a convenient solution to awkward landlord encounters. It's just Steve. You. A kitchen that smells like sex and brewing coffee. And a coming promise of slightly lumpy pancakes.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Steve," you say softly, leaning your hip against the counter and watching him gather ingredients. "Wouldn't dream of it."
[LOWKEY I WROTE THIS IN LIKE THREE HOURS BECAUSE IT MIGHT BE SOME OF MY FAVOURITE STEVE SMUT IDEAS I'VE HAD. FUCK.]
