#stranger things headcanons

[stevenjenniferharrington]

I just know that Steve and Robin are the worst gossips in Hawkins. They learn all of the movie watching habits of the customers of Hawkins Family Video (I mean, come on, they knew when Vickie paused Fast Times, they keep a record of this stuff.)

So it’s not uncommon to overhear them on a slow day like…

Robin: you’ll never guess who checked out Rocky Horror Picture Show

Steve: yeah, I know, Munson checks it out every Friday—

Robin: Jason Carver

Steve: JASON CARVER?!!

[lestappencraze]

Big important news! First, I have a patreon <3 If u guys would like too support me and get some cool benefits, I advice u to check it out!

LestappenCraze — Illustrations, drawings, Byler oriented!

Get more from LestappenCraze on Patreon. Illustrations, drawings, Byler oriented! . Support LestappenCraze and get exclusive access to their

Second news is that I have an ao3 on which I'll also post drawings! :D

https://archiveofourown.org/users/LestappenCraze/pseuds/LestappenCraze

*

Now let's talk about the drawing :P I was searching through the web for some references for the Party and I stumbled upon a height chart, which surprised me. Maybe I'm blind but I didn't realize at first that Will was taller than Lucas and Dustin now. So I drew this piece to show their growth spurts and compare their heights to the beginning of the show. I think it's super cute that Byler are the tallest of the group <3 

[wildpalmtrees]

when you get me alone it's so simple ⋮ mike wheeler , part one

syn: here was the deal: you and mike are to strictly be reliefs for one another. no romantic feelings, no acting like friends, and most importantly, no telling anyone—but what if he wasn't willing to be your guilty pleasure anymore?

content: loser × popular girl trope, kissing/making-out, dry humping, mike cums in his pants, masturbation(?) through clothes, some angst, still some unresolved issues and feelings, almost getting caught, cheating, poor mike's feeling neglected and jealous, this is so 'i can see you' coded tehe, (not proofread!)

mike wheeler had been thinking about you—for a long time.

you—his secret—that was the only way he could put what you guys had going on in his head, because really, what were you guys, smacking buddies? or absolutely nothing at all?

mike knew the latter wasn't true. he was so sure that he meant something to you, much like how you mean something to him. but he couldn't cross out that option yet, not until you could say it to his face.

his back pressed against the metal lockers of hawkins high as dustin, lucas, and max surrounded him. the hallway filled of noise that came from every direction, but this particular group of friends were discussing hangout plans.

"if you have practice tomorrow and i have chem tutoring the rest of the week, then what about tonight?" dustin brightly suggested and looked at lucas, his arms pointing up in triumph like he just decoded a secret message.

"tonight works." lucas shrugged in an agreeing manner and looked at max.

max does her usual sharp nod and quickly says "yeah, cool."

they all turned their heads to a distracted mike who was staring off into space. except it wasn't just nothing he was staring at; mike was watching you.

his eyes followed you as you ambled down the hallway with your friends in the most perfectly fitting denims and a brown corduroy jacket, bracelets jingling and hair flowing. he remembered the last time you wore those jeans—when you met him in the janitors closet the previous week—and a smile almost crept onto his face,

until he saw him.

your boyfriend. with his sleazy arm around your shoulders, and his scumbag-y, almost loathsome smile. you seemed like you kept regurgitating the same pleasing laugh as your boyfriend whispered some things in your ear.

the sight made mike sick with envy; that you could parade around school like that, with that asshole man of yours, and look so happy. he wished to be appreciated in that same manner, to have everyone know who that you were his.

"hello?" someone waved a hand in his face, bringing mike back to the present. "earth to mike?" dustin gives an exhausted look. "what the hell's your problem? you keep daydreaming."

mike shakes his head. "what? no i haven't."

"yes you are dude." lucas adds on "it's like every time we talk to you you're never paying attention."

mike's tone turns defensive. "whatever," he rolls his eyes, even though he knows it's true. "yeah, tomorrow's fine."

"see! he's off in his own world!" lucas holds his hand out towards mike like he's a presentation.

"afterschool today, idiot." max sounds about done with the conversation. "are you in or not?"

mike can't. he's busy.

it was on monday in english class when mike was walking out, ready to meet up with his friends for lunch. the classroom was filled with shuffling teenagers prepared for the bell to ring and he's about to slip out the door when someone bumps into him.

"i'm so sorry!" they exclaim, and mike recognizes this voice immediately. it's hard to not identify your voice out of a crowd.

you bend down, picking up a neon pink sticky note and handing it to him. "i think this is yours." mike frowned; he didn't drop anything. he looks down for a second to read the note and in tidy handing it said: my house @ 7:30? with a small heart and the date underlined.

which was wednesday—today.

"out." mike answers "i have to babysit holly because my parents are going bowling." a lie, but it won't hurt them if they don't know.

the curly head has a disappointed look on his face. "okay then—"

mike suddenly feels dustin's weight on his lanky body and his head knocks back against the locker. they all turn to who was behind them and see a group of friends—your group of friends.

"move out of the fuckin' way," your boyfriend spits out "freak." he pretends to whisper that part out, but everyone in a three-foot radius starts laughing.

mike stares at you, as if to see if you would say something, but he should know better by now. your laugh blended in with the rest, and you watched as dustin picks his hat off of the ground and puts it back on. he doesn't say anything and just asks if mike's okay.

"yeah man," his words are directed toward his friend, but his eyes rested on you. he wants to see if you'll acknowledge him in anyway—but you don't. an easy smile was sewn onto your face as you tugged on your boyfriend's sleeve and continue walking, familiar faces following close behind.

in this moment he's reminded of every single time him and his friends have been bullied, how he's been reminded that he's an outcast his whole, and all because of people like you. the ones who called him 'frog-face' every day, who shoved him into bathrooms to beat to a pulp, the ones who made his life a living hell for eight years.

so maybe, it is nothing except for relief. maybe you really didn't care.

"actually, i forgot my parents cancelled bowling." he circles back to the previous topic of conversation. "i'm in."

it had been a weird last couple of days.

mike hadn't come over on the planned wednesday. no call, no nothing. which you thought was odd, but maybe he forgot. then on thursday, he never came to meet you in the janitors closet. that was when you knew something was up.

never had mike wheeler ghosted you. the guy who was always basically throwing himself at you was now... avoiding you?

the days passed by slower without michael, and it was now friday. you needed to talk to him—to figure out what was wrong—and there's only one place he could be.

"you stupid piece of shit, turn on!" dustin groaned, smacking the printer with his hand like it would magically work. mr. clarke stood beside him with the user manual in his hand, reading through it in detail.

lucas bounced a palm-sized ball off the wall, "give up, dude" then threw it towards the large machine. "this hunk of junk is broken. for good."

the ball rolled over to mike, who was once again in his own world. he gawped at his blank chem homework, foot bouncing rapidly from anxiety.

he's mad at you—and at himself—for allowing this charade to go on for this long. three months. three months of clandestine meetings, and kissing, and even in a way, bonding. there were moments in that cleaning closet that just felt too raw to be 'no-strings-attached'.

like your earliest meeting: he was nervous as shit—his palms were all sweaty, he kept knocking supplies over the shelf, and you noticed.

"relax," you put a hand on the side of his face as an attempt to sooth his nerves. "if you're trying to prove something to me, don't. i'll like you more as mike wheeler than whoever you're trying to be." and with that, you kissed him for the first time.

but you soon after showed him that out of the confines of that dimly lit closet, he doesn't seem to exist to you.

"i beg to differ. five bucks i can fix it." dustin challenged, raising his brows and giving a smug look. "easiest five dollars ever." lucas replied.

"oh please—" and thus began another sinclair-henderson feud, which mike has learned to tune out. but from the corner of his eye, mike could see someone in the door's window—you—flaring your arms up to get his attention.

god, he knew this was coming, and he was dreading it.

mike muttered some excuse amidst the argument and slipped out of the classroom, where he was now left in an empty hallway with you. he stood awkwardly as usual: hands tucked into jeans that looked one size too big for his scrawny legs, bed hair, poorly-tied converses.

and of course you looked perfect. jewelry neatly stacked, make-up still looked unblemished, there wasn't even a loose string from your sweater. but that's just how you always were.

"mike why are you avoiding me?" you asked in a slow pace—because you were genuinely confused—and mike's anger grew.

every single contemplation had led up to this moment. every 'doze off', every stare at the ceiling when he's trying to fall asleep, everything. mike's brain had been occupied with this conflict for way too long.

"shouldn't i be asking you that?" his top lip tugged up, "you act as though i don't even breathe the same air as you." his accusatory voice echoed through the vacant hallway. "or—or that we're on opposite sides of a coin."

"what are you—"

he cuts you off. "you don't get to be like that and then say you 'miss' me and that you 'want' me when you treat me like shit!" he yells that last part out a little too loud, and you see dustin and lucas look at the door from behind mike.

you put a hand over his mouth to shut him up and drag him into the place where it all began: the janitors closet.

"sshhhhhut up! what is your problem?" you closed the door, trapping you both inside the cramped place. "why are you acting like we're friends? if you can't recall, i have a boyfriend."

boyfriend.

he rolls his eyes with a tinge of cringe and annoyance. "that's what you say every time. that's always your excuse."

"excuse?" a look of disbelief flashes on your face. now you're starting to get angry.

"if you cared about your boyfriend then why are we in here? why can't you go be with him?" mike crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw tight from fury.

there was a pause. complete silence fell over the room as your mouth was left agape, trying to come up with something, anything. but he was right.

how you wanted him to be so wrong. but you really are a horrible, cheating girlfriend. it wasn't like you wanted to be one, it was him—the 'freak'—that you were hooked on.

mike wheeler was just a drug you could not quit, no matter how hard you tried.

he was so exciting, so addicting. every time you saw him it was like you were a child seeing candy. mike's tooth-rottingly sweet, but the rush he gives you is heavenly.

"i....i don't know."

silence brims the room once more and you stare at each other. every second that passes feels like another needle stuck inside you, and all you want to do was infect mike.

he once again became fatigued, feeling like the day this all began: with tension, anxiety, and eagerness. mike wants to reach out to you, to do what he always does. but if he were to be the one to wave the white flag, then what was all of this for?

the looks you exchange are intense and longing. the light bulb flickers, and in that split second of darkness, you pull him in. mike stands still at first, contemplating whether or not he wants this.

"i'm so sorry, i care about you so much." you hug his stiff figure, resting the side of your face against his chest. you can hear his heartbeat, and it sounded like it was almost jolting out of his ribcage.

then, michael thinks again. he knew he wasn't ready to quit this—to quit you. even when you didn't look at him, he observed at you every day during lunch. he saw how happy you were with your friends, with your life, and he knew that yours and his just didn't match.

even if you were to be public, how would that work? a girl from the opposite side of the popularity spectrum, fooling around with him, it couldn't go down easy. he pondered on how his friends would react, and knowing them, he'd never hear the end of it.

the pleasure he got from being 'yours' was inexpressible. and no one knew. no one could know. that was the thrill of it.

the feelings he felt—the exhilaration—for you was not that of just some regular crush, it was enamorment.

mike's arm slowly cloaked you, his jacket rustling against you ear as he hugged you back. his nose nudged into your hair, smelling your honey-scented shampoo. he needed this more than anything right now.

he plants a kiss onto the top of your head before grabbing your face, hands gently covering your flushed cheeks. "i adore you so much more, y/n."

you felt your stomach turn and your ears go red.

mike's mouth meet yours, delicate lips pressing onto your raspberry flavored ones. your hips lean foward, pressing against his. you feel his breath hitch and it's once again intoxicating.

after this long week of contemplation, he just needed you. he needed to feel your fingertips massage his scalp, to cram his tongue into your mouth and slide it against your own; to have intimacy. your touch lulled his anxiety and ignited his curious flame.

your hands moved their way up to his arms, grasping onto his slender muscles. mike was nothing like your boyfriend physically or intellectually, and that was so reanimating. he was so intuitive, he knew you and all your vulnerable points.

mike turned his head to the side, furthering the kiss as his nose butted your cheek. you let out a soft noise—one of care and pleasure—and he took that as a signal to wedge his tongue in between your lips, saliva coating your chins as he pushed in deeper and deeper.

he led his hands down to your neck, wrapping each individual bony finger around it loosely. you squeezed his arms tighter, craving more. mike moved his hips in a rhythm—waiting for a response from yours—and that he got.

the cramped room filled of vulgar noises and clothes shuffling while you guys tried to probe at every inch of each other, mike's hands traveling all along your sides, occasionally kneading the flesh of your waist.

his pelvis shoved your body back against the wooden shelf—the items it held rattling in the process—and his body now loomed over yours as he dove his head down further to consume your mouth.

he was needy, so needy.

your warmth mixed with his and the room suddenly got hot. mike's hair stuck onto the glisten of your forehead as he panted, releasing your lips from his possession. your breaths were long and deep, lungs desiring oxygen. mike huffed his chest up before going in for more, his mouth now making-out your rose painted cheek as you caught a rest.

his skin tickled against yours—kissing noises wet and lewd. you grabbed his shoulder and pushed his body down, trying to tell him what you wanted. your body stitched onto his, body's moving in measured motions.

mike's lips curled into a slight smirk against your jawline, recognizing your needs. he slowly traced down to the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your flesh before he planted his tongue on it. his lips suctioned onto you harshly, making you choke up just a bit.

mike wanted to leave a mark on both your heart and your skin.

the grip on his shoulders stiffened, and you felt your toes lift you up by themselves as if your body cried for more. you felt your hips be squeezed even tighter and mike mutter on your neck "stay still."

you did as he said, only ever so often shifting your head to give him more access to your neck. you wanted to give him control, to show that you surrender to him. you felt it was required of you to be like clay to mike and that he could mold you however he pleased.

his teeth nipped at your skin, earning whines that escaped from your mouth, which made mike go weak. those sounds—those euphonious sounds—were something that only he could ever coerce out of you, and it made mike feel like he was on top of the world.

the protrusion in his jeans grew with each second, and you felt yourself grow warmer and warmer. mike felt your hands go to his pants, fingers messily playing with the belt as he continued to suck onto your delicate skin. "w—wait," he gripped your wrist "let me—give me a second."

mike needed to savor every moment of this. he didn't care of the time or anything else when you were right in front of him, all loved-hazed and demanding.

one of his hands takes a grip of your silky hair and tilts your head back, his lips pulling away as mike marveled in the sloppy sight of your neck. you were covered in purple-reddish marks, skin all puffy and bruised. he felt his breath catch in his throat and his mouth open, traces of spit dripping down to the tip of his chin.

this was truly a sight to see.

you then looked at him, to which his eyes met yours—they were lidded and ruinous. you took that as a sign to reciprocate and grabbed both sides of his head, positioning them to give you leeway to his neck. your tongue licked stripes along his mellow flesh, prepping them for the mess you were about to make.

mike closed his eyes, allowing himself to absorb every touch you provided to him to the fullest extent. this was everything in his dreams and more. the nights he hankered for you to consume him completely. the urge you gave him was almost canabalistic.

he continued to let the waves of pleasure build up with the tension of your bodies melding into one another as you left soft blemishes on him, showing that you weren't scared.

you weren't scared when you were with mike.

as if it were not possible to be even closer, you pressed your chest harshly against his, pelvis' practically crushing each other. it was aggressive, unchaste, and stirring. mike felt like his body and mind were moving at different paces. his hands moved on their own all over your body, his hips rubbing in search for release, his head fogged.

you felt him pushing against the heat if your thighs, making you unfocused and therefore getting more careless. the bookshelf repeatedly thudded on the wall that supported it as mike rutted his hips up in a steady pace.

his hand finally released from your hair and moved to guide your hand down to his jeans. your palm delicately wrapped around the bulge of his pants and mike let out a strained groan, growing more impatient.

he knew it was wrong to do it here, but he needed to be undone.

mike's other hand hastily engulfed your entire face and he pulled you up to kiss him again, hungrily swallowing your lips. a soft moan dragged out at the thought of him being so authoritative and clouded by lust, which caused mike to move his hips even more belligerently. he was so close.

your drool smeared all over his nose as he devoured your upper lip, biting it intemperately in the process. mike steered your hand to stroke the erect in his pants in slow, painstaking motions, causing his hips to buck up like it was itching to be unshackled.

he contorts his face into one of immense pleasure, his eyebrows scrunching together out of sexual frustration and anticipation. "ah—uh—mmmmghh!" mike jerked, panting heavily. he felt icky, gooey warmth in his boxers and his frame shuttered. his movement came to a still as your gasps for air filled the room. he was now quiet again, and moving by small increments. "f—fuck," he looks down and your eyes follow to see a clear damp spot on his pants.

mike breathed heavily against your forehead until he came down from his high, sweat covering the both of you.

that was when you heard a knock coming from the door. "mike?"

[bunnyclawzz]

Can u do Steve Harrington smut manhandling reader like dominant Steve

See, Steve doesn’t even mean to be dominant most of the time, it’s usually in small, subtle things throughout the day that go unnoticed.

A hand on your waist while you to are standing next to each other, following you wherever you wander just to be safe-because of course he has to protect you. Sometimes it’s a hand in your back pocket, others he’s pulling you in for a kiss by your belt loops, occasionally lifting and hauling you around when you get especially stubborn with him-But his dominance never goes that unnoticed in the bedroom. The way he lays you down, the way he discards of your clothes, even the way he talks is dominant in such an intimate way.

“You’re so pretty” he’ll mumble sweetly as he practically rips your top away. “Shh-jus’ let me do the work, you had a long day” he whispers against your lips, eagerly pulling your pants out of the way like he wouldn’t get another chance to. “Steve, you’re so needy—” “Can’t I just love you?” He asks playfully, smiling down at you as he pulls his own clothes off. “I barely saw you today, y’know” he murmurs as he tugs you closer by your hips, still continuing on as he raises your legs around his waist. And of course Steve is the kind of guy to groan “Fuck, I missed you” as he bottoms out inside of you. He always starts so slow, careful to let you adjust to his length, one of those big hands moving to firmly hold your face to keep you from looking away. “I’ve just—I’ve been thing about you today and I couldn’t wait to see you” he goes on as he shallowly thrusts, showing off that cocky grin as you moan and sigh. “..you can’t act like you didn’t miss me, babe.”

And he is just so cocky the entire time. Groaning as he fucks into you, moaning about how pretty and easy to move you are as he lifts your legs onto his shoulders while simultaneously pulling you closer by the hips. “You feel so good, baby..wanna switch? Hm?” It’s barely a question, just lowers your legs and flips you to straddle him. “Steve-!” “Shhh..” she shushes you, gripping your waist as he just bucks into you like it was nothing. “Just take it..yeahh-Just—just look pretty and take it for me..”

[crowspetrat]

Everyone hanging out Eddie doing his typical jokey flirt just to push Steve's buttons and Steve's brain going into autopilot and flirting back, snapping his jaw shut the moment he remembered where he was and who Eddie was, meanwhile Eddie's poor brain just fully crashes.

[flwrsuh]

just like a dream — s.h.

୨୧˚- pairing ; King! Steve Harrington x shy virgin! reader. afab! reader, no use of y/n. wc 7.4k

୨୧˚- warnings ; smut, 18+ mdni, porn with plot, kissing, inexperienced reader, experienced steve, slight bullying (not really), steve is kind of an asshole at first, pussy eating, gentle steve, slight fluff, lmk if i forgot any

: ̗̀➛ listening to ; just like heaven — the cure

Steve Harrington, Hawkins Golden Boy, ‘King Steve,’ Captain of the basketball team, whatever else his admirers called him— he was the complete an utter opposite of you. Where he’s outgoing, making loud jokes with the popular kids in study hall, you’re sitting alone in the back of class with your nose in a book. It never occurred to you, however, that maybe he noticed you just as often as you’d noticed him.

So, here you sit, in the back of Mrs. O’donnell’s class on a rainy afternoon in Hawkins. You had successfully made it to your senior year without having too many problems, you were a shadow, if that— invisible in your own skin. You didn’t have a problem with it, though. In fact, you liked being alone. Left to your own imagination, you had more fun than you could guess anyone had at a Steve Harrington house party. While they were underage drinking and smoking and only god knows what else, you fought dragons and explored ancient ruins in the quiet of your room. It was peaceful inside your head, until it wasn’t.

The rain patters softly against the classroom window, a nice, calming backdrop for your reading. That was, until he came barging in, soaking up all the quiet like it came easy for him. You were sure it did, but never could understand just how some people were born with the natural talent of social interaction. For you, that kind of life seemed like a nightmare, plucked straight from your worst fears— having people around you all the time, doting on you, talking your ear off like you’ll even remember them after graduation.

Your head snaps up as he struts through the classroom, damp from the rain, hair messy but somehow still perfectly styled, laughing with his friends about something you couldn’t even hear from the back of the classroom. You can practically see the girls in the front row melt at the mere sight of ‘King Steve’, and it makes your nose crinkle, the same way it always had. He was a pompous ass who just happened to look good doing it.

You turn your gaze back to your book, attempting to drown out your teacher and the annoying chattering from the popular group sitting near the front of the classroom. It was hard to focus with Steve Harrington sitting there, with the way all the girls and even some of the guys whispered about him and the stupid things he and his friends would do, but you managed. Until a balled up piece of paper hits you on the top of your head, that is. You glance up, looking for the culprit, and find Steve grinning at you like the Cheshire Cat.

As your eyes meet his from across the room, Tommy H. has to bring a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, they were making fun of you. You had seen it done to other students like yourself, but you were never really the center of their cruel jokes. Sure, they looked at you funny if they ever noticed you were there, but this was different— they were all looking at you now. You wished nothing more than to shrink down into your seat and become invisible again.

Steve leans back in his chair, one arm slung over the seat behind him like he owns the classroom—which, let’s be honest, he kinda does. That stupidly perfect grin is still plastered across his face as Tommy elbows him and snickers.

He doesn’t look away.

Even when Mrs. O’Donnell shoots them a glare for being disruptive again, Steve just winks at her and gives a little salute before casually tearing another piece of paper from his notebook.

Your heart thumps weirdly loud in your ears now. You’re not used to attention, especially not his. The new crumpled ball arcs through the air and lands softly on your desk with a quiet thump. You stare down at the little balled-up notebook paper, as if it might explode if you move suddenly. Eventually, your gaze drifts back to Steve, who threw the paper at you. He mouths two words, “Open it.”

You glance back down at the paper, sitting still in the middle of your desk like a taunt, several sets of eyes still fixed on you. Finally, you let out a huff, somewhere between annoyance and confusion, and begin to unravel it. It takes you no more than a few seconds, the lined paper crinkling with each gentle pull to open it up—completely blank. You hear the laughter from Tommy, Tammy, and whoever else you can’t remember the names of. You can still feel your heart beating in your ears, louder and more persistent as you try your hardest to school your expression. You wouldn’t let Steve Harrington and his stupid friends hurt you this much—they didn’t matter, they never did.

You spend the rest of the class trying your best to ignore them, keeping your eyes glued to your desk throughout the study period, hoping and praying that they’ll give up and leave you alone. Thankfully, they do, but there’s one set of eyes that never seems to stop trying to meet yours—Steve’s.

That afternoon, you had largely forgotten about the earlier incident, choosing to move on rather than dwell on your insecurities. As you walk, someone suddenly grabs your arm, pulling you into a mostly empty hall. You’re forcefully pulled into a hard chest, crashing into the culprit before you can pull back, meeting familiar brown eyes.

Steve steadies you by holding onto your arms, his gaze filled with an unusual sense of care. His voice, softer than you’ve ever heard it, carries genuine concern. “Are you okay?” he asks, loosening his grip on you.

“What are you— what?”

Steve’s expression flickers—something between worry and that same stupidly charming guilt he gets when he knows he messed up.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, running a hand through his damp hair. “I just… I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He doesn’t let go right away. His hands slide from your arms down to gently cup your wrists like you’re something fragile, like he might break you.

You stare at him, utterly confused. This isn't the loud, obnoxious Steve Harrington who laughs too loud in class and flirts with half the cheer squad without thinking twice.

This is… quiet Steve? Careful Steve?

The hallway is empty except for a janitor pushing a cart down the far end, and even then, they turn away after one glance at the King of Hawkins holding some random girl against the lockers.

His eyes search yours, the warm brown ones everyone loses their minds over. Steve exhales, slow and careful, like he’s choosing his words wisely for once in his life.

“I saw your face,” he says finally. “When the paper hit you. You looked… pissed.”

A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not mocking. It’s almost fond. Like he finds something about your anger kind of cute.

“I just… I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” His voice drops lower, quieter, almost shy. “I wasn’t trying to be a jerk.”

He shifts slightly, one shoulder leaning against the lockers beside you now instead of crowding you completely. He reaches up and gently brushes a loose strand of hair from your forehead with two fingers. Your breath hitches before you can stop it.

“What were you trying to do?” Your voice comes out shakier than you wanted, more unstable.

Steve’s eyes soften at the sound of your voice, nervous, quiet, nothing like the confident girls he usually talks to. He swallows hard.

“I was trying… to get your attention,” he admits, no bravado now. Just honesty.

A beat passes.

Then another.

The janitor’s cart squeaks down the hall and disappears around a corner. The school feels hushed suddenly, like it's holding its breath too.

He licks his lips, nervous habit, and looks down for a second before meeting your eyes again.

“You never talk to anyone,” he says quietly. “You’re always in class alone with that book or walking by yourself between periods.” His head tilts slightly. “I’ve noticed you.”

Your stomach flips, not from fear this time, but something else entirely unfamiliar— being seen.

“You have?”

Steve nods, slow and serious—like this is the most important thing he’s said all day.

“Yeah,” he says. “For weeks.”

He leans in just a little, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with rain-soaked jacket.

“I mean… I see you,” he clarifies, voice warm now. “You’re always quiet, yeah, but you’ve got this look on your face sometimes when you read? Like… like something amazing’s happening in your head.”

A small smile forms, one of those rare ones that doesn’t show off for anyone else. One meant only for you.

“And I keep thinking… man, she probably thinks I’m an idiot.” He chuckles quietly at himself. “Which, I am, but not about this. Not about wanting to talk to you.”

Steve takes a tiny step closer, close enough that his shadow wraps around you both.

“So… I threw the paper,” he says with a half-smile. “Stupid move, probably. But I didn’t know how else to talk to you.”

He rubs the back of his neck, nervous Steve again, and for once, Hawkins High’s golden boy looks unsure. As if he actually cares if you’re mad at him.

“I just… wanted to say hi.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “Do you hate me now?”

“No,” you reply quietly, barely above a whisper.

Steve’s whole face lights up, like someone just flipped a switch and turned on the sun. The tension in his shoulders melts away, and that bright, easy grin spreads across his face, the one that makes girls sigh at one glance their way.

“Oh thank god,” he breathes out with a soft laugh. “I thought for sure you were gonna call me an asshole.”

He leans back slightly now, more relaxed. Still close, but not crowding. Just there with you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence isn’t awkward, it feels weirdly peaceful? Like maybe this is what normal conversations feel like when they’re not loud or performative or fake. He reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out another piece of folded notebook paper.

“You are an asshole.” Even insulting him, his face splits in half with the widest smile you think you’ve ever seen. Not only were you speaking up now, you were teasing him, and you even allowed a tiny smile to curve the edges of your lips. Steve laughs, a real, full laugh that echoes a little in the empty hallway. It’s loud and warm and so Steve, but it doesn’t feel obnoxious this time. It feels happy.

“Okay,” he says, still grinning like an idiot, “fair.”

He holds up the folded note between two fingers, then slowly extends his hand toward you again. This one isn't crumpled or thrown. This is an offering. An olive branch? A flirtation?

Who knows with Steve Harrington, but he's looking at you like you're something special now. Like your quiet sarcasm is a gift instead of something to mock.

His eyes flicker down to your mouth for half a second, just long enough for your heart to stutter, before meeting yours again with soft curiosity. You take the note, fingers gently brushing his as you do.

The second your fingers touch, Steve freezes. It’s just a brush, skin on skin for less than half a second, but his breath hitches like it was lightning.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t make some dumb joke to cover the reaction. Just stares at you, eyes wide and suddenly so beautiful in the dim hallway light. Your fingers curl around the note as you take it, and he swallows hard, throat bobbing under that stupidly perfect jawline of his.

For someone who’s always so loud and confident, Steve Harrington is terrifyingly quiet right now. There’s no cockiness or laughter with Tommy or Tammy backing him up. Only him looking at you like he's never seen anyone quite like this before—which maybe he hadn’t?

You unfold the note slowly, carefully, like it might contain something fragile. Inside, in messy but still neater than you’d expected handwriting, “Will you go out with me?"

No jokes or sarcasm. No "just kidding" written underneath.

Just that.

Simple. Direct. Heart-on-the-sleeve Steve Harrington for once in his life.

He’s not looking at you anymore, suddenly very interested in a spot on the floor near your shoes, as if he can’t bear to see your reaction yet, or maybe because he’s terrified of rejection from someone who actually matters to him.

You frown a bit at the words, this had to be too good to be true. There was no way in Hell Steve Harrington was seriously asking you out. “Are you messing with me?”

His heart stops at how dejected you sound, like that’s the only logical option for what’s happening here. Steve’s head snaps up the second he hears your voice. And when he sees your face, the frown, the doubt, that quiet hurt in your eyes, something like panic flashes across his.

“No,” he says instantly. “God, no.”

He reaches out without thinking and cups both sides of your face gently with his hands, warm palms against cool skin, and makes you look right at him.

“I’m not messing with you,” Steve says firmly. No teasing tone. No sarcasm. Just raw sincerity from a guy who doesn’t usually do serious well.

His thumbs brush lightly over your cheeks as if checking if this is real too. You glance around at either end of the hall, like you’re waiting for Tommy H. or one of his other friends to jump out and laugh at you, the weird girl who actually thought Steve Harrington of all people liked her, even for a moment.

Steve follows your gaze, left, then right, scanning the empty hallway. He sees it too. The doubt. The waiting for a punchline.

And his expression darkens, not with anger at you, but with something protective.

Before you can pull away or overthink it any longer, Steve leans in and kisses you.

It’s soft and gentle, not like anything like his usual ones, the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand anything back right away, just gives itself quietly and sweetly on your lips.

No audience.

No laughter.

It’s only him and this moment, and the way his hands stay cradling your face like you’re precious to him already.

Your eyes widen, body tensing when your brain finally catches up to what’s happening. Your hands move to his shoulders, to push him away or to hold onto him tighter, you’re not sure.

Steve feels the tension in your shoulders, the split-second hesitation, and he pulls back immediately, just enough to break the kiss, but he doesn’t let go. His hands slide down from your face to rest on your arms, thumbs gently stroking like a silent ‘I'm here.’

His eyes search yours, wide, worried now. Not hurt, but afraid he messed up.

For a heartbeat, neither of you breathe. Then, because you didn't push him away, because you're still holding onto his shoulders, a tiny hope flickers across Steve's face.

“What— what was that for?”

Steve’s lips part, and for once, the guy who always has a comeback, a joke, some smooth line, he’s speechless.

He blinks at you, swallowing thickly. Then, in the softest voice you’ve ever heard from him, “I kissed you… because I really like you.”

He’s not using his usual smirk, not laughing at you and you realize then, maybe he’s being honest— pure honesty, a kind of vulnerability you hadn’t expected from him that makes your stomach flip all over again. It’s terrifying when it dawns on you, you don’t think he’s joking.

He licks his lips, adding quietly, “And… I was hoping that maybe… if we kissed first? You wouldn’t think it was a joke.”

A beat passes.

And suddenly Steve Harrington, the guy who dated cheerleaders and went to every party in Hawkins, looks terrified of being rejected by you.

“Oh.”

Steve stares at you, waiting for more than just ‘oh.’

His chest rises and falls quickly, nervous. Like he’s bracing for a blow.

You can see the gears turning behind his eyes: Did she hate it? Was I too fast? Did I ruin everything before it even started?

The hallway is so quiet now. Even the distant chatter from classrooms down the hall feels muffled.

And then slowly your hands, still resting on his shoulders, relax. Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his damp jacket. You don’t push him away or seem angry, which causes a thankful huff of a breath to fall from his lips. All there is for a moment is silence and maybe something else starting to grow beneath it.

“You can do it again,” you say so softly he would miss it if he weren’t still so close. “I mean, if you want to.”

Steve hears it.

Of course he hears it, because his whole world has narrowed to the space between your lips and his, to the quiet hush of your voice saying you can do it again. For a second, he doesn’t move. Like he’s making sure you meant that. Making sure this isn't a dream. A slow, tender smile spreads across his face. Not cocky. Not show-offy. Just happy.

Without another word, he leans in again and kisses you for real this time, soft at first, then slightly bolder when you don’t pull away. Instead, you lean further into him.

This kiss is warmer. Smoother.

Steve tilts his head just slightly, learning the shape of your mouth, how you feel against him, and one hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. The other stays on your shoulder, anchoring you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. It’s not passionate or messy, it's sweet, careful. He wants to get this perfect, needs to. And when a quiet little sigh escapes you, unintentional but undeniably real, the sound makes Steve melt inside.

Steve deepens the kiss just a little, still gentle, still respectful, but now with more confidence. Like your soft sigh was permission to explore. His lips move against yours slowly, carefully. He doesn’t rush it like he might’ve done with other girls in the past. This is different. This is you. And Steve Harrington right now, is completely gone for you.

One of his hands slips down from your neck to rest on your waist, pulling you slightly closer, not trapping you, but inviting. Giving space if needed, taking space if allowed.

The hallway clock ticks loudly somewhere above you, the only sound besides your breathing and the quiet press of lips meeting again and again.

The bell rings out, loud and shrill, making you separate from him. You gently push him back, not enough to make him lose balance, but enough for him to get the hint and back up on his own. Any second now, the hall would be flooded with students, he wouldn’t want to be seen with you, especially not in such a compromising position.

Steve stumbles back half a step, more from surprise than force, as the bell continues to shriek through the halls. For a split second, his face falls. That soft, kissy glow gone now, replaced by reality— the end of class, students everywhere in less than 30 seconds. And yeah, maybe he’s worried about what people will say. Not because he cares if they see him with you, but because you’re quiet, reserved, and Steve knows how high school works. The gossip machine crushes anything that doesn’t fit their stupid norms and fast.

He quickly adjusts his jacket and runs a hand through his hair. His eyes dart toward the classroom doors where kids are already starting to pour out into hallways nearby, laughing, shouting over each other as usual.

Steve glances back at you, just for a second, and in that look, there’s something unspoken.

I don’t want to go.

But he can’t just stand here. Not with the halls filling, not if Tommy sees him lingering by you after kissing you like that. So instead of saying anything dumb, Steve does something simple. He grabs your hand, quick, quiet, and squeezes it once. A secret pulse of connection before reality crashes in.

Then he steps back completely, slipping into the stream of students emerging from classrooms down the hall, but not before flashing you one last small smile over his shoulder, the kind only you get to see right now. You stand there, frozen for a moment, hand still slightly warm from where his had touched yours.

The hallway is loud now, bodies everywhere. Lockers slamming. Groups of kids laughing and shoving past each other, but all you can focus on is the ghost of Steve’s kiss and the way he looked at you, like you were something special. Maybe you were.

Not just some quiet girl in the back of the class, but the one he kissed, the one that, for whatever reason, he was interested in.

Your cheeks burn as someone bumps into your shoulder, a jock with a gym bag who doesn’t even say sorry, and reality fully crashes back in— school life continues. No matter that your entire world just shifted five minutes ago in an empty hallway with the King Steve Harrington.

Later that night, while sitting in your room, your mind still occupied by the memory of Steve’s lips on yours, you hear something creaking outside your window. Moving to check what it was cautiously, you start to hear your heart racing in your ears. You pull back the curtains gently, bracing yourself for whatever may be lurking beyond them, and come face to face with none other than— “Steve?”

Steve is supporting his weight on your trellis, trying his hardest not to topple to the ground. He’s in a hoodie and jeans, no letterman jacket, just regular clothes. The second you pull the curtain back and say his name, he freezes, wide brown eyes lock onto yours through the glass. No smirk, no joke, just pure, wide-eyed hope, and maybe a little fear that you won’t let him in.

You open the window, allowing him to climb in. He does, but not before knocking over a stack of books on your desk with him, wincing at the thud they make when they crash to the floor. His eyes lock back onto yours after a moment, sensing the confusion etched onto your features. With furrowed brows, you cross your arms over your chest, “What are you doing here? And how do you even know where I live?”

Steve immediately crouches to start gathering the fallen books, “sorry, sorry,” mumbling under his breath.

“Your address,” he says, voice low and sheepish, slightly out of breath from the climb to your window. “I looked you up, in uh, in the white pages. That’s probably creepy, huh? Now that I’m saying it, it’s definitely creepy.”

He winces as he piles the books back onto your desk, The Hobbit, A Wizard of Earthsea, Dragonflight, and then straightens up.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Steve admits quietly. “But I had to.”

His eyes flicker over your face, the way you’re glaring at him with crossed arms and suspicion, and something in his chest tightens.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about today,” he says. “About kissing you. About how… how it felt like the first real thing I’ve done in forever.”

He swallows hard, suddenly looking less like Hawkins High’s golden boy and more like a guy who actually has feelings. Steve takes a small step toward you, careful, like you’re a spooked animal.

“And I didn’t want to wait,” he adds. “I kept thinking… what if she changes her mind? What if she regrets it? What if she thinks I was just messing around?”

His voice drops even lower, almost fragile now.

“I had to see you. Tonight.”

He reaches out slowly, not grabbing, not demanding, but just lifts his hand like an offer: can I hold your hand? Can we talk about this without the whole school watching? The streetlight outside casts soft light through your window onto his face.

“Well, now you see me.”

Steve exhales—half laugh, half relief, but it’s shaky. Like he wasn’t sure you’d let him in at all.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I do.”

He stares at you for a long moment, taking in the quiet of your room— fairy lights strung around the ceiling, shelves full of books with spines cracked from rereading, a desk covered in notes and doodles.

It looks like you, peaceful, thoughtful, maybe a bit understated, nothing like his loud house parties or basketball locker room chaos. And then his eyes land back on yours, dark with something nervous and hopeful all mixed together.

“So, did you just come to talk or…?”

Steve’s breath hitches. Did you just imply what he thinks you did? His eyes dart to your lips, then back up, quickly, like he got caught doing something forbidden. A faint pink tinges his cheeks. Steve Harrington is blushing.

He licks his lips again, then takes one slow step closer. Without a word, because maybe words would ruin it, he leans in and kisses you.

This time, it’s different from the hallway kiss, softer at first, but bolder too. Like he's been thinking about this all night and now that he's here, he doesn't want to waste a second.

The kiss deepens when you bring a hand up around the back of his neck, tugging gently on the hair there.

Steve makes a quiet, breathy sound against your lips— oh— at the feel of your fingers in his hair.

It’s soft. Messy. His favorite part of himself to mess with when he's nervous. And now you're touching it? That tiny tug, that gentle pull, it sends a shiver down his spine, and suddenly Steve kisses you like he’s been starving for this all day.

He cups your face with one hand, tilting it slightly as the kiss gets deeper, warmer, hungrier but still sweet, not reckless or sloppy like makeout sessions might be at parties. This is meaningful. Like every second matters because it's you.

His other arm wraps around your waist and pulls you closer gently, until there's no space left between either of you.

He slowly backs you up into your bed, lips still locked in a passionate kiss. When the backs of your knees bump the side of your mattress, Steve gently lays you down underneath him.

Steve follows you down with careful balance, one hand braced beside your head—never putting weight on you, never rushing.

Your pink bedsheets smell like vanilla and laundry detergent. He takes a second to breathe it in, like he’s memorizing the moment.

Then his lips trail from yours, placing a soft kiss to your jaw, then lower, nipping gently at the curve of your throat before pressing an open-mouthed kiss right over your pulse point. It’s warm, wet, slightly ticklish, but in the best way possible.

And when he feels how fast your heart is racing under his mouth? Steve smiles against your skin, just a tiny curve of pride, and does it again, slower this time, savoring every shiver that runs through you beneath him.

Steve’s lips linger on your throat, kissing, nipping softly, before he trails lower, his breath warm against the delicate skin of your collarbone.

He’s being so careful. Like you’re something precious. Not rushing, not assuming anything, but when you tilt your head back slightly, a silent invitation, a quiet surrender, he takes it as permission to keep going.

Another kiss just above the dip of your shoulder, then one more beneath it, right where fabric meets skin and warmth pools between you two.

His hands stay gentle: one cradling the side of your face while the other rests lightly on his hip beside yours, not pushing for anything beyond this slow exploration yet, but wanting. Wanting so much more than a kiss in the hallway could ever could give him.

Steve’s breathing is uneven now, shallow, a little quick. He lifts his head slightly, just enough to look down at you beneath him. Your eyes are half-lidded. Your cheeks are flushed pink, the same shade as your sheets, your lips slightly swollen from kissing. Steve looks like a boy who just discovered heaven and doesn’t want to leave it ever again.

Without saying anything, he leans back in, and this time, his kiss lands softly on the corner of your mouth, slowly moving across to press one right in the middle of your lips, tender, sweet, full of everything unspoken between you two since that afternoon. Steve’s hands slide beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie, hesitant at first, fingertips barely grazing warm skin. They’re careful, respectful. Not grabbing or squeezing, just learning you.

His palms are warm against your sides, thumbs brushing over the curve of your waist as he leans into another kiss, deeper this time, more confident now that he feels you melting under him, not pulling away, not flinching.

A quiet sound escapes him, something between a hum and a sigh, as his touch grows bolder and his fingers trace small circles on your stomach underneath the thin layer of cotton. Steve’s touch grows bolder, gentle but sure now.

He lifts the edge of your hoodie slightly, just enough to press a soft kiss right above your belly button. A tiny, sweet gesture that makes his heart race. Your breath catches, eyes slightly widened as you stare down at his brown ones. Steve looks up at you from under his lashes, eyes dark with affection, maybe a little awe.

He sees the way you're watching him. The quiet surprise in your expression. The fact that you’re letting this happen, letting him be close like this, and it makes his chest swell.

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly pulls your hoodie higher, just enough to expose more of your stomach, and leans down again. This time, he kisses bare skin, right above the waistband of your shorts, a soft press of lips warm against cool flesh before gently nuzzling there for a second.

“Steve—“ The sound of his name on your lips, soft, uncertain, maybe even a little breathless, makes Steve freeze.

He lifts his head instantly. Not because he’s scared or embarrassed, but because you said his name, and it sounds so good coming from you. His eyes search yours again, warm brown pools full of concern and care now instead of just desire.

“Yeah?” he murmurs back, voice low and gentle, rougher than usual from kissing you so much. His focus is fully on you, ready to stop anything if that’s what you need right now.

“I’ve never—“ you blush, suddenly feeling small under his gaze. “Done anything… like this, you know?”

Steve’s expression shifts instantly, not with surprise or judgement, just a quiet understanding. So much softness floods his face that it almost hurts to look at. He doesn’t say anything for a second, just gently cups your cheek, thumb brushing over the warm pink of your blush like he wants to soothe you.

Then, quietly, “It’s okay.”

No teasing smirk. No “really? Never?” He just means it, it's okay. You don't have to be nervous around him, not about this, not ever if you're with him like this again later on. And then Steve does something sweet, he leans in and kisses your forehead. A slow, tender press of lips, gentle as a lullaby.

Your next words surprise him, “But I want to.”

Steve’s breath stops.

For a second, he just stares at you, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, pulse jumping. For once, the guy who always knows what to do with girls, or at least thinks he does, is completely still. Speechless. Then slowly, so carefully, a soft smile spreads across his face, not cocky or smug like usual, but pure happiness mixed with awe.

“Just… be gentle, okay?”

Steve nods, fast, like he’s taking a sacred vow. His expression is so serious, so reverent, that it doesn’t even look like the same Steve Harrington who jokes around with Tommy or flirts with everyone at parties. This version is all soft eyes and quiet devotion. Like you just handed him something fragile and precious, and he will not mess this up.

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice barely above a breath. “I’ll be gentle.”

He leans down slowly, so slow, and kisses you again— feather-light on your lips this time, patient and sweet and caring. Like every touch from here on out has to mean something because it's your first time wanting this, wanting him.

Steve’s hands hover at the edge of your waistband, fingers brushing the soft fabric, hesitant.

He kisses a slow trail down your stomach, one kiss just above your belly button, another lower, each press of his lips deliberate, tender. Like he's worshipping you without words. His breath is warm through the thin fabric of your shorts as he pauses for a second, waiting, making sure you're still okay, still wanting this.

Then, with careful fingers, so unlike his usual boldness, Steve gently hooks one finger into the elastic of your waistband and tugs, just slightly, not pulling it off yet, just testing the waters. A silent question in touch, can I go further?

You nod, breath catching in your throat as you watch with rapt attention. Steve sees your nod, hears the way your breath stutters, that tiny, nervous sound, the way you’re watching him, wide-eyed, heart pounding—it makes his own chest tighten with something huge. Responsibility. He swallows hard, lifting the fabric of your waistband just a little more and presses a kiss right to the soft skin beneath it, right above your womb, a patch of warm skin that’s never been kissed like this before.

Another pause. Another glance up at you, checking in without saying anything, making sure every inch is okay for you to go further.

Steve’s hands move with delicate precision—lifting the fabric of your shorts just enough to expose more of your skin, inch by soft inch.

He kisses each new patch as it appears: a soft press right above your hipbone, then another lower, along the curve where fabric meets flesh. His lips are warm. Gentle. Each kiss is slow, like he's memorizing you, not rushing toward anything but savoring this moment.

When his fingers finally slip under the waistband completely and hook around it properly, he waits again, eyes lifting to meet yours one last time, a silent question hanging in the air between you two.

Steve’s movements are slow, reverent, like he knows this is something sacred for you.

He pulls your shorts down over your hips, then lower, past your knees, gently off one foot, then the other. The fabric drops to the floor beside the bed with a soft sound.

Then he kisses his way up, starting at the back of your knee, soft presses of his lips, a light nip, gentle enough not to sting, another kiss on warm skin as his hands glide along your thighs. With quiet care, Steve parts them just slightly, not pushing too far yet, but making space so that if you want this, he can be close.

Steve settles between your legs, his body warm and solid, knees on either side of your hips, hands resting lightly on the bed beside you. For a moment, he just looks at you.

Not with hunger or impatience, but wonder. Like he can’t believe this is real. That you’re letting him be here like this, trusting him like this.

Then slowly, he leans down and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, soft as breath at first, then another slightly higher, each one careful, deliberate. His lips trail upward in feather-light kisses, not rushing toward anything specific yet, but building something quiet and tender between you two: trust, connection. A new kind of intimacy neither of you has shared together before tonight.

Steve’s breath hitches. He sees it, the faint dampness through the thin cotton of your panties. For him.

A rush of warmth floods his chest, not just pride, but something deeper— awe, affection, a quiet kind of wonder that you are reacting like this because of him.

His throat goes dry. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just stares, heart pounding in his ears louder than anything else in the world right now.

His eyes darken slightly as he stares at the spot, so soft, so private, and without a word, Steve leans down, pressing a slow kiss right over the cotton-covered heat between your thighs. His nose nudges your clit as he leaves soft kisses over the fabric, enough to make you shiver. Steve lingers there, lips moving gently over the fabric, testing.

Each kiss is warm, muffled by cotton but so intentional. Like he’s learning you through this thin barrier first, how you respond to pressure, where it feels best when he kisses, how your breath changes above him. His hands slide up your sides again, reassuring, as his mouth presses a little more firmly now, a slow drag of lips right over the center of that damp spot, waiting to see if you’ll arch into him or pull back.

Steve’s tongue flicks out, once, a teasing, wet swipe right over the damp fabric. It’s light, experimental. Not demanding, tasting. The cotton is cool from the air but warm where your body heat meets it and he can feel you through the thin material, softness, warmth, and that quiet pulse of arousal.

Another lick follows, slower this time, a long drag across the center of your panties as his nose brushes against you. He does it again with more confidence now, that same slow glide of his tongue over soaked cotton, like he's learning what feels good to you by instinct alone.

Steve feels your fingers tangle in his hair, tight, but not rough, and a quiet sound escapes him, half sigh, half moan. It sends a thrill through him.

He loves the feel of it—your hands gripping his messy brown strands like you’re anchoring yourself to him, or maybe guiding without words. And he leans into it, letting you hold on as he keeps licking slow circles over the fabric with warm, wet strokes of his tongue. Each one more deliberate than the last, the rhythm building slightly now that he knows you're responding. Your breath is getting faster, chest rising faster than before.

Steve feels the tension in your hands—the way your fingers curl tighter when he does something especially good, and it makes him bolder.

He presses his mouth more firmly against you now, lips parting slightly to kiss deeply over the damp cotton, then without warning, he gently sucks on your clit, just enough pressure to send a jolt through you, a quiet, wet suction that pulls at fabric and skin beneath. His tongue moves with it, circling slowly while he keeps gentle suction going, testing how much sensation this builds for you. And all the while, your hands are still fisted in his hair.

You let out a sharp gasp as he continues his ministrations, causing his eyes to meet yours, a small smirk playing at his lips. “You like that, huh?”

And when he sees your face, the flush, the wide eyes, the way your chest rose on that gasp, he feels something warm and proud bloom in his chest.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against you, voice low and velvety from being so close to where you’re most sensitive. Steve repeats it— another slow kiss, another gentle suction through the fabric, followed by a teasing nip of teeth over cotton-covered heat.

He brings a finger up towards your clothed heat, running it gently through fabric-covered folds, pushing in as much as he can through the barrier. “You’re so pretty.”

Steve’s voice is quiet, reverent, as he says it. It’s not a flirty line. Not something he’d say to impress someone. It’s genuine. Like the truth just spilled out because his heart couldn’t hold it in anymore.

His finger continues moving, soft, slow circles over the fabric-covered heat between your legs, pressing gently but never too hard. Testing. Learning how you respond through the thin layer. The way you arch slightly into his touch, the little hitches in your breath, they make him feel powerful, not like he's controlling anything, but like you're trusting him completely.

Steve’s mouth is on fire with focus, lips, tongue, soft suction, all working in rhythm over the damp fabric. He’s not thinking about himself. Not really. Sure, his jeans are uncomfortably tight. Sure, there's a dull throb low in his stomach, the kind that comes from wanting someone so badly it aches, but right now, you’re all that matters.

And he wants to make you feel good first.

A wave of arousal hits him and his hips jerk involuntarily against the mattress, the tiny shift of pressure barely helping to ease the tension, but he hardly registers it, too lost in kissing you like this— deliberate licks followed by gentle nips, then another warm kiss right on your clit through cotton. Every sound you make feeds him more confidence than any girl ever has before tonight.

Steve loses himself in the rhythm, kiss, lick, suck, the fabric getting damp from his mouth and your arousal mixing.

He’s breathing through it, shallow inhales when he pulls back for a second to catch air before diving right back in like he can’t stay away. Each time you gasp, each time your fingers tighten just so in his hair, it makes him bolder. Makes him want to push further, but still gently. Still patiently. His hips press down again into the mattress, subtle this time, not chasing relief just yet, just adjusting.

Steve pulls back just enough to whisper, lips still wet, voice rough with emotion and arousal. “You close, sweetheart?”

The pet name slips out, unplanned, unfiltered. Sweetheart. So unlike the loud, joking Steve Harrington everyone knows.

He looks up at you— your flushed face, your clenched thighs around his shoulders, the way your breath is coming in short little hitches, and he can tell, you’re right on the edge. His eyes are dark with affection, and something hotter, continuing his movements until you barrel over the edge.

Steve feels it, the moment you shatter. Your thighs lock around him like a vise, your back arching slightly off the bed as a quiet, breathy sound escapes you, maybe not even a full moan, but something just as powerful— pure release.

Your hands yank at his hair, not hard enough to hurt, but with desperate tension, as the wave crashes through you.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop. Just keeps gently sucking and kissing through the fabric, softening now as he feels every tremble in your body, every pulse of pleasure rippling under his lips. Steve watches everything, the way your lashes flutter shut, the soft part of your lips. How peaceful, and overwhelmed, you look right after coming undone for him.

You catch your breath for a moment before meeting this gaze, still between your thighs. “Can I… should I, you know, help you now?”

Steve’s breath catches. “Help me?”

He blinks, surprised, touched, maybe a little overwhelmed that you’d even offer. That after all that intimacy, you’re thinking about him. For a second, he just stares at you, lips still slightly wet from kissing through your panties. His face is warm, not just from arousal now, but from the sweetness of it— you wanting to return something to him.

He shakes his head, moving upwards to hover over you again. His fingers trace gently over your jaw, “No, sweetheart. Tonight was just about you, okay?”

Steve leans down and kisses you, soft, slow, sweet, allowing you to taste yourself on his lips. He rests his forehead against yours afterward, breathing the same air as you, close enough to feel every tiny shift in your body.

“I’m good,” he murmurs with a small smile, the kind that’s pure affection. “Honestly? Seeing you like that… hearing those sounds? That was more than enough.”

“Next time then?”

Steve’s heart stops before starting again, harder, faster, like a drum in his chest. Next time?

A slow, dazed smile spreads across his face, big and genuine and so full of joy that it almost doesn’t look like the same Steve Harrington who walked into your room nervous twenty minutes ago.

“Yeah,” he says softly, voice thick with emotion. “Definitely next time.”

And then he kisses you again, not passionately or urgently like before, but sweetly. A promise sealed in lips— this isn’t just a one-time thing for him.

He wants more nights like this too.

[sharkbitewrites]

𝓐𝓽𝓽𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓭𝓮

Pairing: bratty!Steve Harrington x bratty!fem!reader

Word Count: ~1.6k

Summary: Steve has a bad attitude and you're giving him snark about it. Steve is not having any of that.

Warnings: SMUT! Steve is a little mean but like not degrading, reader is snarky as hell, established relationship, unprotected piv(but as usual, I write these with the use of birth control in mind), fingering, semi-public sex ig?(in a car), dirty talking, LOTS of groping

Based on this post by @moonstoneandmoonlightt!!

You roll your eyes as another sarcastic comment leaves Steve's mouth. He's been like this all day, and you haven't been having it.

"Yeah, okay. Another comment from the drama queen of Hawkins." You lean back in the passenger seat of his beamer, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Oh, ha ha." He scoffs, fiddling with the radio station until he finds a song he likes. You look over at your boyfriend. Even when he's being a brat, he still makes your heart completely melt.

You can't help but roll your eyes once more, though, as he gives you a quick look from the corner of his eye, his brows furrowed.

"Keep rolling your eyes and they're gonna stay like that." He mumbles.

"Asshole." You grumble back, sinking deeper into the seat. "If you keep running your mouth I'll make you put it to better use." You say sarcastically, but you don't miss the way Steve tenses up for a moment.

"Aww, did that get you flustered, Stevie?" You coo, your hand coming to his thigh. You don't even remember who snarked the other first, or what it was about. All you know is that Steve has had an attitude lately, and the two of you are both so petty.

You hear his breathing quicken, and his head thumps back against the headrest.

"Go-- get-get in the back." He tries to sound demanding, but you know you caught him off guard. "And what makes you think you're the one in control here?" You tease, trailing your hand further up his thigh.

"You get in the back." You hum. Steve listens, and you don't even know he has something up his sleeve.

"Doesn't matter who gets back here first, it'll have the same outcome." He mumbles as you crawl back there with him.

You hum softly, a surprised gasp leaving your lips when he pulls you down. He places a hand on the back of your head so that you don't hit the door, his love for you still evident despite the bratty, well, everything about him right now.

Steve's lips crash against yours, his tongue immediately sliding into your mouth with fervor. You tug on his hair, trying to take control, but the way he has you pinned against the seat, and the way his hands slide up your body to squeeze your tits, you're done for.

"Steve--" You breathe against his lips, your hands pulling at and threading through his perfect hair with soft sighs every time he squeezes your tits.

"What happened to you being in control, baby?" He hums into your mouth, a sly smirk on his face. If you weren't so damn turned on right now, maybe you'd be able to think of a comeback.

"Sh-shut up, Steve." Your voice shakes, only fueling Steve's stupid ego.

"You're adorable." He mumbles against your lips, pulling away to pull your shirt over your head, kissing down your jaw and to your neck.

"Steve, we're-- oh, fuck, babe." You whine when Steve pulls your bra down under your tits, sucking on one nipple while he thumbs at the other one.

"Look at you, baby. I've barely touched you and you're already whining. Bet you've soaked through your panties already." Steve smiles, speaking around your nipple.

"N-no... Don't be so-- so cocky." You mumble, knowing full well Steve is absolutely right.

"Oh, yeah?" He hums, trailing a hand down your body and sliding it under your jeans. He cups your pussy over your panties, smiling to himself.

"Oh, shut--" You're cut off by Steve's fingers circling your clit through the damp fabric, your head falling back and smacking slightly against the window.

"Jesus, careful." Steve rolls his eyes, his fingers pausing for a moment to make sure you're alright.

"Don't stop." You whine, causing him to laugh softly. "Just making sure you weren't concussed." He scoffs, resuming his motion. He keeps it slow. Enough to make you feel good, to get you wetter, but not enough to get you off anytime soon.

"Steve, c'mon." You whine, arching up towards him, which only pushes your tits closer to him.

"Fuckin' look at you." He whispers, dipping his fingers under your panties to sink his two middlemost ones into you.

"Steve!" You whine. Sure, his fingers are like heaven, but he knows what you want, and he knows how damn bad you want it.

"Gotta get you ready, baby. Stretch you out a little bit, first." He coos, pressing sloppy kisses against your neck.

You tug at his shirt, pulling it over his head and letting out a soft little moan that, unfortunately, Steve hears.

"Aw, you're moaning just from seeing me with my shirt off?" He hums, his tongue falling flat against your neck, licking all the way up to your jaw.

You're panting now, clenching helplessly around Steve's fingers as your hands trail down his chest, reaching down to his belt.

You quickly unbuckle it, trying to push his blue jeans and boxers down in one motion. "Someone's eager." He laughs, but his voice breaks slightly when his cock slaps against his stomach and he feels the cool air on his hot skin.

"Steve..." You pant, desperately trying to push your hips up closer to his leaking cock. "Okay, okay." He laughs, pulling his fingers out of you.

He makes a show of licking them clean, his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

You bite your lip as Steve actually unclips your bra and throws it off, then moves down to your pants. He pulls all the remaining fabric off your body, smiling as he sees the way your already puffy folds glisten in the dim moonlight.

He wraps a hand around his cock, stroking it a few times before running the pink tip through your folds. You gasp every time it catches on your clit, bucking your hips up to try and just get him to put it in.

"Not yet. Tell me you're done being a brat." He grunts, wanting to hear you say it even though he's torturing himself, too.

"You can't be serious." You groan, gripping Steve's shoulder with one hand, the other one sitting limply at your side.

"I'm one hundred percent serious." He smiles, watching your face for the satisfaction of seeing your face of disbelief.

"I'm--" You scoff, rolling your eyes at Steve. "Get it all out now." He coos, causing you to roll your eyes once again.

"I hate you." You grumble. "Love you, too." Steve hums, the stupidest, most cocky smile on his handsome face.

"I'm-- I'm done.. ugh, you're such an ass." You groan, causing Steve to slap the tip of his cock against your clit. You let out a soft whine, letting out a shaky breath before speaking. "F-fine. I'm done-- I'm done being a... a brat." You grumble, any embarrassment from before disappearing as Steve pushes his tip into you.

You let out a moan, wrapping your arms around Steve's neck and pulling him closer to you. He sucks on your neck, his hair tickling your jaw and his hands grope all over your body.

He starts at your tits, then your hips, then your ass, to your thighs, and back up to your tits as he begins to rut into you like he can't help it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" You moan out, grabbing at his hair with one hand and his bicep with the other.

"That's it. Fuck, yeah." Steve grunts in your ear, kissing up until his lips are all over yours.

"Steeeeeve!" You whine, that coil in your belly already tightening since Steve was fingering you so good just a moment ago.

"Yeah, baby? You like that? Can feel you squeezin' me so tight." Steve hums into your mouth, pressing his entire body against yours in the way he knows you love. The way that you're able to feel every inch of skin against yours, as if you two are so close to completely merging together.

You hold him as close to yourself as you possibly can while your nails dig into his back. Steve gets rougher, his hips meeting yours in desperation with every thrust.

"Steve! Steve, oh-- Sh-shit!" You moan out, burying your face into the crook of Steve's neck. "Please, please, please, please, please." You chant out, gasping for air when he trails his hand down your body to rub at your clit.

"Don't gotta beg for anything, sweet girl." Steve murmurs against your shoulder where he's dropped his head, his hands moving down to grab your ass and lift your hips so that he hits that spot inside you that takes your breath away.

"M'so close. So close." You pant, tears of pleasure brimming your eyes as you wrap your arms around Steve's neck, nails indenting on his shoulders.

"Me too. Fuck, you're so amazing." Steve moans, kissing up your neck and finally resting his face against the skin after a moment of hot kisses.

"Oh my god!" You moan out, eyes rolling back as your orgasm hits you like a freight train. Your legs are shaking, moans spilling from your lips, back arching, and your pussy clenching deliciously around Steve's throbbing cock.

That's the push that sends Steve over with you, his muscles tensing up and his hips halting as his release paints your insides. His cock twitches inside of you as he gives shallow thrusts through both of your orgasms until the pleasure meets the line of overstimulation.

He stops his thrusts, his body going limp on top of yours as he nibbles at the skin of your neck.

Once the two of you have caught your breath, you let out a breathy laugh. "So, was the attitude just because you were horny?" You hum, letting out a soft yelp as Steve gives a nip to the spot that he knows is most sensitive.

"Maybe." He mumbles, letting out a deep sigh.

so sorry for the lack of everything, my birthday was this week so I've been busy. Thanks for reading!