I'm not a poet, i'm just a woman

Terminally obsessed with Steve Harrington She/Her || 19 || asks & requests open

[soleilssymposium]

𝑆𝑜𝑙𝑒𝑖𝑙'𝑠 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

Steve Harrington

Series

Tough Love, Babydoll - hockeyplayer! steve au Series masterlist

[soleilssymposium]

𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝑩𝒂𝒃𝒚𝒅𝒐𝒍𝒍

𝐼𝑐𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟!𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑥 𝑓𝑒𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 (1.4k words)

Playlist

Recommended specific song: Hungry Eyes by Eric Carmen

warnings: mentions of alcohol consumption and drunk people, no use of y/n, Steve is a smoker, Steve blows cigarette smoke in readers face, grinding on the dance floor (lol) summary: when you turn up at Steve's party, you immediately feel out of place. Until you find Steve, who seems very glad to see you. a/n: here it is! chapter two. Sorry it's been such a long wait, pinky promise i'll sort the next chapter sooner (hopefully). Bit of a short one this time but more to come! As always, i would love to hear thoughts! My asks and messages are opennn

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑤𝑜: 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 𝑑𝑖𝑠𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑠𝑒

The first thing that hits you when you enter the Harrington house later that evening is the contrast between the polished hall and the wild partiers in it. It’s so packed it’s hard to move against the flow of the crowd, bodies dancing, flailing, laughing all around you. There’s a slight sheen on the faces you pass as you fight your way through, something manic that tells you Steve Harrington’s home is where people go to get totally wasted.

To be honest, you’re not really sure why you came.

Parties like this one are outside of your comfort zone. It’s clear everyone around you is from the same world as Steve, the ice hockey world you’ve barely dipped. You’re starting to think they can tell, narrowed eyes following you wherever you go like they already know you’re a stranger. Five minutes, you tell yourself. Five more minutes, and then if I still haven’t found him I’ll go home.

Hosts are meant to be easy to find and readily available. Yet Steve is nowhere to be found. You step out into the backyard, the sudden silence after the thumping music making your ears ring. There’s a pool in front of you, shimmering and black as the sky ahead. Sitting by the edge of it is that evasive host. The lights from inside reflect off the water onto his face, making his features seem illuminated from within, the slope of his nose seem impossibly angular.

An image of a fallen angel.

He looks pensive, a slight frown on his face as he stares down at the shifting water. Steve reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pack of Marlboros. You track the deft movements of his fingers as he selects a cigarette and lights it up, gaze drawn in by the sight of his lips wrapped around it. The way the smoke looks escaping from them. You swallow down the abundance of nerves that have settled in your stomach, calling out across the pool

“I thought professional athletes weren’t meant to smoke.”

Steve looks up sharply, eyes narrowing as he attempts to make you out against the darkness. A smirk upturns the corners of his mouth.

“We’re not. But who’s going to tell on me, huh?” He meets your gaze, his own a challenge. A half serious question of trust. You shrug, feigning nonchalance. Like this is a normal Saturday night and not the most anxiety inducing thing you’ve done all year.

“I certainly won’t.” You reply, forcing yourself to maintain the eye contact. There’s a short silence, and all you can hear is the gentle movement of the pool in the breeze. Steve unfolds himself from his position, strolling over to you as he takes another drag on his cigarette. As he walks over he lets his eyes wander lazily over your form, drinking in the outfit you chose for tonight. Or more specifically, the way your body looks in the outfit you chose. He stops in front of you, exhaling the smoke right in your face. It’s impossible not to blink in reaction as the smoke makes your eyes water.

“I assume you’re not a smoker, then.” He says wryly, his steady gaze trained on your face. When you only shake your head in reply, he shifts his weight, internally berating himself for such a dumb move. “Glad you made it in the end.” A second attempt, his voice gruff as he finally breaks the eye contact, directing his gaze at his shoes in a way that almost feels boyish. It reminds you of the boys from your youth who acted like jerks only to impress girls.

“I’m…glad you asked me.” Your voice softens a fraction, wanting to put him at ease. Immediately, Steve seems to straighten, that faint smirk reappearing.  “Can I ask why you’re not in there with everyone else? I’d have thought since it’s your party you’d….” You trail off, unsure how to say ‘be getting drunk’ without sounding rude. But Steve only snorts, taking the words right out of your mouth.

“-You think I’d be getting shitfaced? Yeah, well, I don’t drink that much in the season. Athletes can only really get away with one vice, and no way in hell I was giving up smoking.” He grins crookedly. God, he truly is gorgeous. Steve tilts his head down, drawing closer as he studies the gentle pink rising on your face. He throws the cigarette to the floor and grinds it beneath his heel before he sets a large hand on your arm. Not possessively, but as if he’s trying to ground you. His other hand runs through his hair, almost a nervous tic.

“Come dance.” Steve says abruptly, inclining his head back to the house.

“What?” You’re surprised. You didn’t think he’d talk to you long enough for a full conversation, never even considered the possibility that he’d want to dance with you. Except there isn’t time to voice any of this because he’s steering you towards the back door, his hand still on your arm.  Goosebumps rise along your arms, as though your body knows this hand belongs to someone who makes girls shiver.

Inside it’s like you never left, the same people making out in the same corners and drinking the same drinks. Except this time, Steve is by your side - and he doesn’t drop his hand. Not even when girls send dazzling smiles his way or jersey-clad guys try and catch his eye. He remains set on his target, and only lets go of your arm when you’re standing together in the centre of the dancefloor, more of a cleared area in the dining room with an impressive array of neon LEDs.

Steve looks down at you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. He snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you carefully flush against him, your heart beating so fast you hope to God he doesn’t hear it. Slowly, he leans down, lips right by your ear.

“Is this okay?” His voice is barely more than a gravelly whisper, but to you it’s the loudest thing in the room. Louder than whatever 80s ballad is blasting on the speakers. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You hear him exhale, and then his other hand is trailing down your spine, feeling every vertebra through the thin fabric of your top. You feel that hand everywhere, like a live wire plugged into the mains that’s sparking in the socket. His hand stops just above the curve of your ass,  like he’s holding himself back. Emboldened by his obvious appreciation, you raise one hesitant hand to the back of his neck, moving up to card through the strands of his perfect hair. Steve’s eyes darken at the feeling as a ragged sigh escapes his lips. He firmly plants his forehead to yours, one hand dropping to your hip where he squeezes, his thumb rubbing tiny circles.

You can’t help but trail your hand up his arm, pausing to wrap your fingers around the bicep peeking out of his tight polo shirt like you’ve wanted to for so long. And then he presses his hips to yours, swaying the both of you to the beat of the song and you swear your heart nearly jolts out your chest. When you lift your gaze, he’s already staring at you with a burning intensity that makes you feel alive. The flashing of the strobe makes it hard to read his expression and his face seems even sharper. It makes you blink. But Steve never wavers; how could he look away from something this beautiful? This real? Every girl he talks to these days is fake and brittle, but you? You are visceral and resilient. Which, he thinks, is sexy as hell.

“I like that top you’ve got on.” He murmurs huskily, lips back at your ear. “You wear that just for me?” He pulls away just enough to look at you, just in time to catch your flustered expression. He smirks wolfishly. One hand comes away from your back to rest at your shoulder, his thumb dipping under the strap of your top. Steve marks a slow path down with his thumb and time feels like it slows down. You want more. More of his hands on you, more of his eyes looking at you like he wants to devour you whole.

The scary thing is, you think you’d let him. If he wanted to.

[soleilssymposium]

okay so i just want to say thank you very much for all the love so far on Tough Love, Babydoll !! It's lowkey my first ever fic so i very much appreciate it. I have so many plans for this series so there is more coming i promise, maybe by the end of the week.....

As always, my asks and messages are open so come say hi!

[soleilssymposium]

𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝑩𝒂𝒃𝒚𝒅𝒐𝒍𝒍

Series masterlist

Playlist

Steve Harrington is no longer King of Hawkins High, but of the Hawkins Gyrfalcons. After the horrors witnessed from the Upside Down, he becomes something he once despised, hardened and cold. But how come after one meeting with you, he doesn't want to keep up his carefully built walls?

Chapter One - Shine some light on me, please

[soleilssymposium]

𝑻𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆, 𝑩𝒂𝒃𝒚𝒅𝒐𝒍𝒍

𝐼𝑐𝑒 ℎ𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟!𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑥 𝑓𝑒𝑚 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 (1.8k words)

Playlist

warnings: vague mentions of Steve being violent on the ice, reader finds Steve attractive, no mention of female anatomy or use of y/n summary: Steve Harrington is no longer King of Hawkins High, but of the Hawkins Gyrfalcons. After the horrors witnessed from the Upside Down, he becomes something he once despised, hardened and cold. But how come after one meeting with you, he doesn't want to keep up his carefully built walls? a/n: heyyy, thank you so much for reading! if you enjoyed feel free to let me know, i'd love to hear some thoughts :)

𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑂𝑛𝑒: 𝑆ℎ𝑒𝑑 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑚𝑒, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒

Steve Harrington looked good in an ice hockey jersey.

This fact has been made increasingly clear to you, specifically every time you’re working the food stand at Hawkins Ice Area, sneaking glances through the windows that look into the rink.  A flash of his white teeth. Broad shoulders visible even under the hockey jersey. That dead-eyed stare combined with his winning smile. How his hair falls when he takes off his helmet, sweaty and tangible in a way that’s never seen off the ice. Even from this far away, you feel as if it’s all there in detail.                                                                                  

Unfortunately, this view has distracted you many times from customers. Which has been a constant cause of contention between you and your manager. Like now, for instance, when he calls your name sharply with a piercing glare that send you scrambling to finish heaping fries on some guy’s order.

Once the disgruntled customer has been satisfied and your manager is busy yelling at someone else, you let your eyes wander back to the ice. The Hawkins Gyrfalcons are in their last period against a team from a few towns over, the scores are currently neck and neck. If either team scores just one more goal, then they win. You search the ice for Steve, for the yellow 53 on the back of his blue jersey. When you find him he’s skating across the ice after the puck with a speed that makes you suck in a breath, anticipating him crashing into the boards. But it’s not the boards he crashes into, but an opposing player – probably a deliberate attack. You watch as Steve recovers quickly and shoves the player in the chest, tearing off his helmet to get in his face. Even from up here you can see the harsh set of his brow. How that vein in his neck throbs out at the injustice.

You know the rumours, heard the story. Steve Harrington is pretty well known in Hawkins, used to be seen as a pretty face and not much more. It was only after those strange deaths and weird occurrences from a few years ago died down that he first stepped into the rink. They say he was a natural from the start, something about the violence and aggression of the game spoke to a part of him revealed by the grief Hawkins had experienced. It wasn’t long before he rose up through amateur leagues to being scouted for the town’s official team, and then to captain, heading off to face teams from around the state. He was known as ruthless, always spoiling for a fight to buy time for the team, always the first to shove, to cut dangerously close to another player. Despite his apparent bad attitude, he still carried something of his old ‘King Steve’ self in him. Maybe it was the sharp jawline, or the charm offensive, or even the confidence he held himself with. Whatever it was, it made him magnetic. Both on the ice, and off.

Even now, watching him yell inches away from that player with his finger jabbing into the poor guy’s chest, you can’t bring yourself to look away.

It’s not long before the referee skates up, forcing Steve away from his target, and you turn back to the counter with a sigh as you pick up a cloth to wipe away the grease stains for the sixth time this shift. It’s at that precise moment a group of ten turn up with expectant faces, and you get lost in the frenzy of taking orders and flatly describing the three different ‘snack combo’ options on offer this evening. And then a roar goes up inside the area. This is the one time your manager allows you to slack off, you and your co-workers looking to the window to see the action.

The noise from inside is deafening, even from this distance. Hundreds of hands clapping thunderously, shouts of glee from the Hawkins crowd. They must have won, then.                                                              

And in the middle of it all is Steve Harrington.                                                                                                                                    He’s wearing that winning smile, the one with an edge that’s sharp as ice, clapping his teammates on the back. He turns to the crowd, skates a lap around the rink as he grins at them. His fist banging on the plastic barriers as he speeds past, then he’s holding both arms aloft in victory. Your eyes dip just for a second to the sliver of stomach made visible by this gesture, catching only a flash of coarse hair and toned torso before it’s gone and your cheeks are burning. Most of your co-workers have gone back to the counter now, but you remain trapped as a voyeur. Until Steve’s gaze lifts and suddenly his dead-eyed stare is directed at you.

Which is impossible, because he’s down there and you’re all the way up here, and yet…..he’s staring right back. Fixedly, like you’re an anomaly that intrigues him. You swallow nervously, wanting to look away but you’re frozen to the spot like a small thing being watched by a polar bear in the barren expanse of the Arctic. He tilts his head to the side just slightly. And then he’s gone, skating away to his teammates and you’re left reeling, blinking hard to try and regain a normal heartbeat.

The rest of your shift is uneventful, and you’re left to close. Although as you wipe down the sink and sweep the floor, your mind keeps wandering back to Steve. That briefest of moments where he looked back at you. Well, at least you’re pretty sure that’s what happened. To be honest, it wouldn’t surprise you if it you made it all up, daydreamed a little too far. Except it stays resolutely in your head, those brown eyes boring into you from the rink, pinning you to the spot.

Everytime you blink you see him.

A sharp tap on the counter pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to tell whoever it is that you’re closed. The words die instantly on your tongue because standing in front of you, is Steve Harrington. His hair is wet from the showers, a little floppier than normal. He looks different dressed in sweats. Frayed at the edges, maybe. A droplet of water drips onto his forehead, and you are left powerless but to track it as it slides down his face. A sudden urge to lean over and brush it away with your fingertips rises in you. It’s only when Steve clears his throat you realize how hard you’d been staring at him.

“Hey. What kind of food do you guys do?” He asks. His voice is low and gravelly, which makes sense. You’ve always imagined him to be a smoker, despite his obvious athleticism.

“….Oh, we don’t anymore.” You blurt out, and then add “As in, we’re closed, sorry.” A frown tugs at his lips as one large hand comes up to card through his damp hair.

“You sure about that?” He rakes his cool gaze over you. And you remember with horror that you’re still wearing your uniform. 

“Yeah, I’m sure. We close at 9:45, and it’s-“ you glance at the clock on the wall over his shoulder “-10 o’clock right now. I’m sorry.” You reply, managing to keep your voice firm even though you can hear your pulse roaring in your ears.

Steve sighs heavily, an exaggerated display of disappointment. His gaze flicks to the menu boards behind you. “What, not even a small loaded nachos?”

You hesitate. Steve notices immediately. He leans a little closer, a smirk curling at his lips. “C’mon. Winning gives you an appetite, you know.” His voice is more intimate this time, almost conspiratorial. As if he’s inviting you to partake in some petty crime with him. Just like watching him on the ice, you find yourself unable to remove your eyes from his face. Unable to refuse.                 

You nod mutely, not trusting yourself to speak, turning to pull a paper tray from under the counter. Your agreement is rewarded with a full smirk from Steve.

He watches you move around the small space in silence, tracking your actions with interest. There’s something unassuming about you that he can’t shake off, a quiet grace you seem to carry even in the face of someone as indomitable as him. He finds it confusing, a puzzle he can’t work out.

You place the now full paper tray on the counter with a timid smile, wiping your hands on the apron tied around your waist to disguise how shaky they are. Steve nods, still smirking, and pulls out a wad of notes from his pocket. He sets them down on the counter and picks up the nachos.

“Thanks for being so understanding.” He tips his head to you, a botched attempt at a gentlemanly gesture that has him internally kicking himself. But it still sets off butterflies in your gut. To distract yourself, you count the notes, eyes widening.

“You’ve given me too much, loaded nachos are only $6.50. There’s $25 here.” When you look back at him he shrugs indifferently.

“I know. Keep the change.”

You shake your head immediately. Making food past closing time is one thing but accepting such a large tip is another entirely. “I appreciate it, but I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”

He grins at you then, seeming as if he knows something you don’t. “Well, that’s just tough love, baby doll. I’m not taking it back.” The nickname takes you by surprise, as does the flicker of heat that rolls through your abdomen at hearing it fall from his cracked lips. Steve’s grin softens the slightest touch.

“I’m Steve, by the way.” He says, for once sounding unprepared. Wanting to know your name so badly wasn’t something he anticipated.

“I know.” You respond, then wish you should shove the words back into your mouth from his raised eyebrow. “I mean, I work here, so I’ve seen you playing.” You quickly correct. When this too is met with amused silence, you tell him your name. Steve nods thoughtfully, considering something, deciding.

“We’re having this party. Me and the team, to celebrate the win. You should come.” He states, disguising the want in his tone behind the matter-of-fact presentation. You stare at him, wondering for a long moment whether you’re hallucinating.

“…That’s nice of you, but- “

“-Nope. Just come tonight, okay? It’s at my place.” Although his interruption is harsh you can see the flicker of honesty in his eyes. He really does want you to go.

“I’ll think about it.” You reply hesitantly. Steve grins, satisfied. He picks up the tray and nods to you before sauntering off down the hall. You’d never admit it, but you lean over the counter to watch his silhouette recede until he turns a corner, craning your neck for one last look. And you swear he turns his head to look back at you before disappearing from sight.