sorry thinking about having to sit in steve’s lap during group car rides because robin gets her license and can’t afford anything but a beater volkswagon that doesn’t fit everyone inside of it
maybe the road gets bumpy or your jostling because eddie said something that made you laugh. and steve is in literal purgatory hell because he can smell your natural scent mixing with your perfume and it’s killing him!! he’s fighting off his boner like this life depends on it :(
you keep leaning back to whisper inside jokes into his ear and the way your breath feels on his face gives him goosebumps. thank god it’s dark in the car because he’s certainly embarrassingly red by now
all his senses are honed in on you: the way your laugh sounds, the way you smell, the skin of your arm touching the skin of his and if he lets himself, he can see a bit of your cleavage over your shoulder and oh no. oh god. the dreadful boner
you can feel it almost immediately against your ass. normally, with any other guy and in any other circumstance, you might’ve been offended. but with steve, you’d almost hoped for it when you decided it was his lap you wanted to sit on tonight
the others don’t notice you shift in his lap to face him better, still not straddling but capable of looking him in the eye. he’s looking at you like you’re about to tear him a new asshole— wet, hazel eyes glaring up at you
you throw an arm lazily over his shoulder, threading a hand through his hair and he lets out a whimper so quiet that even you could barely hear it over the sound of the engine
“it’s okay, stevie,” you murmur low in his ear. he shivers
“i’m—sorry—i don’t know why—“
“hey. it’s okay.”
he nods at your reassurance, trance-like, mouth slightly agape. He breathes, “I just—don’t want you to think—“
“do you think about me like this all the time, steve?” you murmur with your head tilted inches from his face
“no! no— i—“
“do you think about what i look like underneath my clothes when you touch yourself at night?” you ask him this right into the shell of his ear, “all alone and pent up?”
“ohmygod—“ he almost moans
“we’re here!” robin announces from the front seat. the engine cuts and the cabin lights turn on and steve is snatched very suddenly from his hypnosis; his cheeks a very bright crimson
“c’mon,” you smile sweetly but squeeze his shoulder in a way that says: this isn’t over
★ american teenagers - a stranger things series ★ steve harrington x reader
0:00 ───|────── 0:00
↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺
♪ say what you want, and say it like you mean it- ♪
★ summary: following the plotline of stranger things - steve harrington has been your best friend since you moved to the quaint town of hawkins, indiana, from the bustling city of new york in third grade, a move prompted by a familial tragedy. in your junior year of high school, you get swept up in a world full of monsters, other worlds, and strange little girls with powers. when standing in the face of death, will you do the impossible and face your feelings?
★ paring: steve harrington x bestfriend!reader
★warnings: violence, gore, angst, slow burn (like, very slow), fluff, suggestive content (MDNI - 18+), swearing, light substance use, steve is clueless for like, pretty much the whole story
the unspoken side plot of mike spending the past 18 months finding a hobby in costumizing little figurines to better visualize their plans (and keeping them in a bag w his d&d demogorgon) is so adorable
summary: it’s a game of push and pull between you and steve. he pushes, you pull, and nothing ever changes—not as long as impending doom hangs over hawkins. until one night, a burst of liquid courage is all you need to come crashing down steve’s door.
content warning: henderson!fem!reader, friends to lovers, alcohol use, drunk love confession, p in v, pet names, steve calls reader “baby”, slight angst, comfort, steve harrington is completely whipped, mdni smut. not proofread 3.7k words.
authors note: first time writing steve so kinda scary lol, if i wrote him horribly feel free to tell me ^^ here’s my masterlist if you wanna check out more of my works, also my emergency comms are always open :) - here’s my kofi tip jar!
You’ve known Steve Harrington your whole life.
Well—not really. You’d known of him.
Steve Harrington was untouchable. Stupidly popular. Perfect hair, easy smile, the kind of confidence that made teachers sigh and girls trip over their own feet. Every girl wanted him. Everyone wanted to be him.
You had accepted, quietly, that you’d never exist anywhere near his orbit.
Except on a Tuesday, at exactly twelve p.m., when Steve Harrington barreled through your front door and slammed straight into you.
That was when you met him.
He came crashing in like a storm, hair wild, eyes sharp with urgency, already halfway through your house before you could even process it. Only to find out He was looking for your loser little brother.
“Steve Harrington?” you asked, brow lifting despite yourself.
“That’s me,” he said automatically, the cocky charm there by instinct, then it faltered when he rushed on, words tumbling over each other. “Hey—where’s Dustin? Tell him it’s a code red.”
You felt like screaming.
Steve Harrington. In your house. Asking for your brother.
You swallowed your pride and yelled, “Dustin!” before muttering, softer but edged with disbelief, “This has to be a fucking prank.”
That was what did it.
Steve stopped.
Actually stopped. Looked up. Looked at you.
For a moment, he just took you in, like he’d been interrupted mid-thought and didn’t mind it at all. A small smirk tugged at his mouth, something curious flashing in his eyes.
And for the first time, Steve Harrington noticed you.
You were sure that would be the last of it.
Until a demodog tore straight through your house and Steve moved without thinking, stepping in front of you, shielding you, muttering something frantic about how this was what he’d been trying to warn Dustin about.
After that, you were pulled into your brother’s strange, terrifying world.
Two years later, and you were still fighting it.
Steve lingered. Persisted. Wove himself into your life in ways neither of you ever named. You weren’t together, but you weren’t not something, either.
Whatever it was, it lived in every glance held a second too long, every quiet moment where his presence settled you.
Being near him made your body loosen, like your bones remembered how to rest. Like your muscles unclenched without permission. He brought comfort without trying, without even knowing he was doing it.
He always smelled like faint nicotine from the cigarettes he swore he hated but secretly smoked, mixed with something warmer. Wood. Amber. A grounding scent that curled around you and stayed, hazing your senses long after he left.
And his touch. God, his touch.
Whenever his fingers brushed yours, it felt like molten lava beneath your skin. Like warmth spreading too fast, too bright. You used to think Steve Harrington was made of gold, and standing too close meant you’d melt.
Like that night.
Everything had gone wrong. Blood. Screaming. Panic blooming too fast to stop. It felt like the world was slipping through your fingers, like you’d lost the version of life that had ever been simple.
You couldn’t sleep.
Maybe Steve knew. Maybe it was the way your face twisted when it happened. Maybe seeing you like that lodged itself somewhere in his chest.
You heard a soft knock at your window.
When you opened it, Steve Harrington stood there, hair tousled, eyes tired and sad in that quiet way he never talked about, offering you a crooked smile that didn’t quite hide the worry underneath.
“Steve? What are you doing here?”
“I figured you couldn’t—” he started, then promptly nearly fell through the window.
You rushed forward, catching him.
He looked up at you, grinning sheepishly. “Wow. That was… embarrassing.”
Your smile softened despite yourself. “Just a bit.”
He sat on the edge of your bed, shoulders slumped, hands fidgeting like he didn’t know what to do with them.
“I saw you,” he said quietly. “When it happened. The way you froze. And I just—fuck, this really isn't my specialty.”
“I thought everything was Steve Harrington’s specialty,” you teased gently.
He huffed a laugh. “No. Definitely not.” He sighed, fingers tightening in the blanket. “When this all started, I had really bad…”
“Nightmares,” you said softly.
He exhaled like the word had been sitting in his lungs for years. “Yeah.”
“I just wanted to check on you,” he added quickly. “I can go if you want, I just—”
“Stay.”
The word slipped out before you could stop it.
And Steve stayed.
He laid beside you on your plush, frilly pink bed, fingertips barely brushing yours. You drifted closer without meaning to. When the nightmares came, he held you—steady and warm, murmuring reassurances into your hair like he was anchoring you to the world. To him.
He didn’t say much.
He didn’t need to.
Somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington took your heart, locked it away, and never even realized it was his.
But as the years passed, as Vecna loomed closer, you learned how to close yourself off. Where Steve offered himself fully, you learned restraint. You were terrified to need him. Terrified that loving him would give the world something else to take.
So you never told him.
You locked your love away, buried it deep, like a diary with a key no one could ever find.
Until tonight.
Tonight crawled under your skin. Tonight felt wrong in a way you couldn’t name. Your thoughts were loud, your chest tight, your body aching for anything to drown it out.
Your parents’ liquor cabinet offered a solution.
You grabbed the bottle from the glass cabinet and tipped it back, wincing at the burn as it slid down. Your legs felt like jelly, your hands shaky, and a hiccup slipped out before you even realized it.
Through the drunken haze, all your body wanted was him.
Steve.
His voice. His warmth. His presence.
You stumbled along the familiar dirt road to his house, his face flickering through your mind like broken radio static. Brown curls. Soft hazel eyes, the same color of coffee when you stir creamer in. Hands that felt like heat, like safety, like something solid in a world that kept fracturing.
When his house came into view beneath the streetlight, your heart thudded so hard you swore it might run there without you.
You knocked once.
The door opened almost immediately.
Steve stood there, confused, until his eyes dropped to the bottle in your hand, your flushed cheeks, the exhaustion etched into your face.
“Y/n?” he said carefully.
You smiled lazily. “Thought you might need it after today’s mission. And, you know—who better to drink with than the guy who used to demolish kegs in high school?”
You paused, then added rather sadly, “Never went to your parties, but I heard you were a legend.”
He didn’t smile.
Instead, he gently grabbed your arm and pulled you inside, voice soft enough it settled under your ribs.
“Just—come inside.”
And you followed him upstairs, clumsy and buzzing, into Steve Harrington’s room.
You realized you’d never actually been inside Steve’s room. Crazy, right? You’d known him for two years and never once stepped past his doorstep.
He’d been inside yours constantly, of course—but Steve tended to avoid his own home. Unknowing parents, a dad he didn’t get along with… so the closest you’d ever gotten was the front step.
But now it’s nearly one in the morning, and here you are. His house. His room.
It’s surprisingly neat, tidy almost, and you pause. Sure, Steve had outgrown his meathead, jock persona years ago—but he was still Steve. Some part of you had doubted what you’d find here.
He holds your arm as you step fully inside, and when the door clicks shut behind you, his fingertips leave a slow, lingering trail along your skin. It burns. You swear it burns.
“Hey… you okay?” he asks, voice soft, low, almost unsure.
You ignore him and wander over, picking up pictures and knickknacks, running your fingers over the traces of his life.
Until you turn near his bedside table and see a photo of yourself—smiling.
Your breath falters. You decide to mask it with teasing. Holding up the picture like it’s a diploma, you smirk. “Sappy much?”
Steve’s face heats, almost red, and he snatches it from your hands. “Am I not allowed to have good taste?” he teases, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
And for some ridiculous, stupid reason… that’s when you break.
The back of your knees hit the bed, and you slide down, pulling your legs to your chest, bottle still in hand. Laughter bursts out of you—ugly, almost manic—tears streaking through it. You take another swig, alcohol burning down your throat as your chest heaves.
“God… I’m so fucking stupid,” you whisper through a sob.
Steve slides down beside you. “Hey… hey. What’s wrong?”
You sniffle and say nothing.
“Talk to me, please,” he nearly begs.
“You wouldn’t understand,” you slur, bitterness coating your words.
He tilts the bottle from your hand, taking a long swig himself, grimacing at the taste. “Try me.”
“You… you ever been in love?”
He goes quiet, then softly, “Yeah.”
“How many times?”
“Once,” he says immediately, locking eyes with you as he hands the bottle back.
Silence falls between you, broken only by the dull clink of glass. Alcohol slides lazily through your veins, making everything feel warm, dizzying.
Finally, Steve breaks it. “Why’d you come here?”
Your breath catches, the truth crawling toward your lips. “I… missed you.”
His hand shifts closer to yours, brushing fingertips in the kind of casual way that always makes your heart thrum.
“And to confess something… stupid,” you add, voice wavering, slurring slightly, hiccupping in between words without even realizing it.
“And ‘cause I’m… really sad, and you… you make me happy,” you admit, voice wavering, words tumbling over themselves.
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “Okay, now you’re drunk.”
“Am not!” you shoot back, swatting at him playfully—almost tipping sideways from the effort.
He chuckles, voice softening. “Do you want to tell me what’s so stupid about your confession?”
Your knees pull tighter to your chest, hand brushing his.
“My whole life… I spent it watching this guy,” you slur slightly.
“Believing he’d never notice me… that it would never happen.”
“And then one day—he slams through my front door, spouting something so absurd, I swear I saw stars.”
Steve stays completely still, listening, hanging on your every word.
“And now he’s here. In my life. Baring himself to me like some knight in shining armor. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted. And I—I—I…” You choke, words tumbling over as the tears well again.
“I can’t do the same. I mean, I can. I want to. I know he’s seen me in countless situations, but if I fully let him in… if I let him see all of me… it could be taken away.”
You draw in short, shaky breaths. “I want to be with him. I know he feels the same—or I hope he does—but I don’t want our love to be what gets him killed.”
Outside, Hawkins was falling apart.
But here, in Steve’s room, it was just him.
Everything felt safe, like it always did with him.
His fingertips curl around yours, brown eyes holding yours as your gaze falters.
“Plus, knowing him,” he murmurs, “he’d probably get himself killed in the name of love or something.”
A soft, teasing smile from him. And somehow, the weight eases.
“No,” he adds softly, “you’re right. Very stupid confession.”
Your heart nearly stops at his words, but he leans close, voice brushing your skin. “Do you want my thoughts?”
“Shoot,” you whisper, unsure where this is heading.
“Well… for one, that guy’s stupid and a fucking douche. Should’ve noticed you sooner instead of keeping his nose stuck up his own ass.”
You laugh, and so does he, as you take another swig. “Very stupid,” you agree.
His grin softens, seriousness creeping in. “But I think the girl should open herself up. Let herself love—especially when the guy is so in love with her it makes his ribs ache, his head spin.”
You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, letting the courage and liquor flow through you. “What if the girl really… really wants to?”
He grins, lips brushing yours. “Then she should. The guy clearly wants her just as much.”
Then he kisses you. Hard liquor, salt, and mint on his lips. You’re addicted instantly, tipping your head, fingers tangling in his curls.
He pulls back just enough to let you gasp, whispering against your mouth. “Fuck, baby.”
The pet name rolls off his tongue, low and rough, and it makes something inside you beg.
You lunge for him again, lips colliding in a messy, perfect, desperate kiss that leaves nothing unsaid.
Your hands tangle in Steve’s shirt, and he laughs softly, pulling it off to reveal taut, tanned abs and the faint trail of hair leading into the waistband of his exposed boxers.
You gasp into his mouth when his hand slips beneath your sweater, fingers ghosting over your pebbled nipple through the lace of your bra. It’s barely there, just a slight tease, yet it still makes your breath stutter.
His other hand grabs your jean-clad hips and lifts you easily, guiding you back as he pulls his hand away just long enough to cradle your head, laying you down on his grey sheets.
You sigh the second your back hits the bed, sinking into it, and before you can even blink, he’s already above you again.
His gaze locks with yours, and you swear you can see his pupils dilate as his eyes roam over every facial feature, drinking you in.
You watch his throat bob as he swallows, his fingertips tracing slow, absent paths over your exposed skin. He hooks his fingers into the hem of your sweater, tugging gently, silently asking.
You lift your arms for him.
You help him, letting him pull it off your body leaving you bare in your white lace bra. You let your head fall back onto the pillow, hair fanning out beneath you, and Steve pauses, only reverence painting his expression.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice suddenly careful. “You sure this is okay?”
You breathe out a quiet “yes.”
His head then drops into your shoulder immediately, curls brushing your collarbone as he exhales against your skin.
“Oh. Thank god,” he mutters. “That’s a relief.”
You giggle. “Idiot.”
He grins, lifting himself just enough to look at you, then pulls on a mock-serious face. Leaning down, lips barely brushing yours, he whispers, “But you gotta stay quiet. My parents are sleeping.”
Your mouth twitches into a slight smirk. “Yeah, Harrington. Whatever you say.”
Something about the way you said it makes his brain go haywire. He spreads wide before he kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue slipping in and tracing the roof of your mouth like he’s committing it to memory, tasting the longing that’s been building for years.
Your hands slide up his back, fingers following muscle as it flexes beneath your touch. You can’t help the sounds you make—soft gasps, little whines, yet steve swallows every one of them like he’s starving.
He could kiss you forever, he thinks. Could get off on just this alone.
His mouth drifts to your neck, lips barely grazing your skin, feather-light. And you’re already squirming. He notices instantly.
Ticklish.
Steve takes that information and uses it.
He takes his time after that, lips brushing your skin again and again until little sounds start spilling out of you, breathy and helpless. When he reaches the hollow of your neck, he starts with slow, teasing kisses and gentle nips, flicking his tongue over the sensitive spot, sucking until a pale purple mark blooms. Gradually, he grows bolder, messier, pressing harder, causing you to gasp his name far too loud.
Steve’s hand flies over your mouth.
He makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan, eyes bright with amusement and something warm and needy as his forehead drops to your shoulder.
“I said be quiet,” he whispers, breathless. “What if my parents hear you?”
You squeak out a muffled, “Sorry,” and that’s all it takes. You both break into quiet, breathless giggles, that dance against your skin.
Steve’s laugh goes a little higher, alcohol still warming his veins, you just tipsy enough to match him.
It fades when he looks at you again.
He leans down slowly, eyelashes brushing your skin as he kisses your nose. Your cheek. Your eyebrow. The corner of your mouth. Your ear. Over and over, like he can’t help himself.
“You’re impossible, Henderson,” he murmurs, smiling into your skin.
And everything slows, bodies tangled together, sweat-slicked skin, hands in hair, clothes scattered across the floor, breathless moans mixing together like a shared confession.
When Steve has your legs locked around his waist, fingers interlaced with yours as he pins them against the pillow, feeling your hands flex again and again, he slowly pushes the tip in.
He’s quick to reassure, soft breaths against your neck as he coos, “S’okay, baby. It’s just the tip, see? You can take it.”
You suck in a breath as he pushes, letting half of him inside you. He groans, trying hard to restrain himself. “See… fuck—halfway there,” he says through moaned grunts.
He brushes a piece of sweaty hair from your forehead and kisses you before thrusting inside fully, making your hips shift and your legs lock, pulling him down as your hands leave crescent shaped marks embedded in his skin.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs softly against you.
You squirm, breath hitching. “Shut up, Steve,” you murmur, your voice trembling at the edges, due to pleasure.
He laughs and kisses your cheek sloppily. “Yes, ma’am.”
You shift, and he swears your pussy grips him so hard it’s nearly mocking him to cum. He whines, head falling into your neck.
“Fuck… mm, be careful.”
You grin, realizing what you’re doing, and begin moving your hips slowly against him. His head bobs, Adam’s apple moving, and he’s trying so hard not to break.
Finally, he pins his hands over your thighs, spreading you open and locking you to the bed as he starts to thrust—slow and deep, deliberately cruel, dragging it out until it’s almost unbearable. Then he picks up the pace, hips snapping forward harder, rougher, until he’s fucking you into the mattress, the headboard slamming against the wall, the bed squeaking beneath your shared, sweat-slick bodies, coated in ecstasy.
You’re gasping his name in constant, breathless bursts. Every breath you take is used to say his name, and every time you do, he sinks deeper inside your needy cunt, nearly milking himself dry.
You’re getting louder, and Steve’s voice shakes with trembling need. “Baby… fuck, God… you sound so good.” He’s completely pussywhipped by you, and the way you moan his name like that makes his skin crawl with pleasure.
He struggles to keep you quiet, panic flickering at the edges of his mind at the thought of his parents walking in.
His hand flies to your mouth, pressing against your lips, a feeble attempt at silence, even as every nerve in him aches to hear your pretty moans.
But you’re desperate, needy, unable to hold back. His cock throbs inside you, nearly vibrating, and you gasp, biting down on his palm in a frantic effort to stay quiet. Your hands loop around the base of his neck, fingers tangling in his brown locks , pulling him closer. Steve shudders the moment your mouth latches onto his skin, teeth leaving tiny marks in his palm, his body teetering on the edge as he fights to stay in control.
Your body hums from the sensation, a tingle spreading through every nerve, toes curling as moans spill out loosely without control.
Steve follows soon after, pulling out and letting himself spill onto your thighs, panting, messy hair sticking to sweaty skin.
But that doesn’t stop him. He crawls down, leaving kisses from your neck to your breasts, gently latching onto a nipple.
“So pretty.” he murmurs as he sucks and twists, your body wriggling, thighs clenching together, mixing your fluids. “Not fair.”
But your body betrays you. The harder he sucks, the more you gasp and claw at his skin, and the more he teases you, whispering how perfect your tits feel, the more it turns you on.
Steve realizes quickly—this is your sweet spot.
Something he remembers for later.
Eventually, the room stops spinning. Your body trembles as the alcohol ebbs away, and Steve rests his head against your knees, pressing a soft kiss to them.
“Hi,” you breathe once you regain some control.
He smiles, a boyish grin. “Hi.”
He’s completely undone, face flushed, hair messy, loose strands falling into his eyes. And you’re certain that if you were to die, this would be the moment you’d replay in your head over and over.
It’s surreal this moment. From years of waking breathlessly from dreams that always left you wanting more of Steve, to now, reality: lying naked with your heart on display, and Steve Harrington holding it with hands so gentle they ache.
He grabs a rag to wipe you down, leaving soft kisses in his wake.
It almost hurts to feel something so pure.
He crawls up to your side, wrapping his arms around you.
From summer nights and Slurpees, smoking weed in the Beamer, movie screens with ice cream, and Robin’s constant bantering, to hushed, secret moments like this.
As his body melts against yours, humming with electricity, his touch almost feels like a melody.
His heartbeat thumps against your chest, wild and insistent, nearly bringing you to your knees.
Through tangled kisses, you savor the sweetness of his breath, clinging with desperate urgency, bracing for the instant when it all slips away.
You’re not sure what Hawkins will be like a week from now, but right now, none of that matters.
In Steve’s bedroom, the curtains drawn and soft moonlight washing over you, you feel completely content, your heart almost singing.
All you can feel is him pressed against you, his arms wrapped protectively around you. As you drift off to sleep, you know as long as you have Steve, you’re okay. You're home.
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.
summary ✶ steve harrington always wanted a family with you someday, even when that wish comes sooner than expected
warnings ✶ pregnancy, reader is the same age as steve, mentions of throwing up, steve parents being shitty as always, not proofread!!
masterlist
For Steve Harrington, the idea of starting a family with you had always lived in that quiet corner of his heart where he kept his fragile dreams. Not forgotten but carefully protected, too precious to touch too often.
Sure, you were still young. And yes, an interdimensional threat often ruined your days every time you thought you could finally have the peace of living like an ordinary couple. But even so, that longing never faded. The dream of settling down with you, of having those six little nuggets running barefoot around your own house, and seeing you with a ring on your finger that meant forever.
Steve just wanted a life far away from Vecna, from demogorgons, and from all the upside down shit. He just wanted you, him, and something soft and safe to call home.
That's why, when that stick showed two pink lines, his world came to a complete stop.
It wasn't just some ridiculous dream he had anymore; it was something real, it was a second chance to become the man he’d always wanted to be for you and for the tiny life growing inside of you. A good partner, and a loving father, everything his own cold, distant upbringing never gave him.
Fifteen months had passed since you’d defeated Vecna, since Hawkins was left scarred by those four massive fissures. And three months ago, the news of your pregnancy changed your priorities overnight.
After the Byers house was sold, they’d temporarily ──more like permanently── moved in with your family once they returned from California, thanks to Nancy and Mike's request. Since then, the house had never been quiet. You and Nancy shared a room, Joyce slept in Nancy's room, while Will and Jonathan stayed in the basement. Eight people, one house, and a pregnant you desperately craving some peace.
When you had told your mom, Karen, she reacted like only a mother would. First came the lecture for your lack of planning and the fact that you weren't even married, but then, her fierce protective and nurturing instinct took over. She was the one who had suggested you needed your own space, away from all the stress and noise, a place where you could properly rest.
Your dad, as always, hadn't said much. However, upon learning that Steve's parents had turned their backs on him, he quietly offered to help cover a big part of the deposit until you both found your footing.
The Harringtons had been clear, if Steve chose this life, he'd be on his own. At least they didn't disinherit him, but they slammed the door in his face, allowing him to take only his clothes, his car, and whatever he'd bought with his own earnings from the jobs he's had over the years.
Now, after weeks of talking, doubting, and finally deciding, you were moving into a cozy two-bedroom house just off Maple Street, a place that was close enough to your parents in case you needed help, but far enough away to finally breathe.
“Do you need a hand?” Nancy appeared in the doorway, smiling softly, ready to help like she had been all week.
“Please. . .i didn't know i had so much stuff until now,” you sighed, leaning against the wall. The fatigue of your pregnancy was starting to show as the weeks went by.
“You should sit down for a bit, sweetheart,” Steve said instantly, looking at you with that mixture of adoration and panic he wore whenever you lifted anything heavier than a pillow. “You’ve been running around all day, and it’s not good for the baby.”
“I’m only twelve weeks along, love, i’m not going to break or anything,” you assured him, though you did let him guide you to the chair.
“Steve’s right,” your mom said, coming in with a tray of three cold lemonades and a chocolate and cheese sandwich, the strangest craving you’d had yet. “You don’t have to overexert yourself now that you’re having a baby.”
The rest of the afternoon unfolded like a quiet miracle of teamwork. Nancy took charge of loading the boxes with fragile items into Steve’s car, while Jonathan and Will helped Steve secure the mattress to the roof and by the time the sun began to set, everything was ready.
As you left the house after saying goodbye to your mom and younger siblings, you were grateful to know you could count on them whenever you needed them. And even if Steve no longer had the Harrington name backing him anymore, you knew he didn't need it, not when he had a home waiting for him just outside Maple Street.
The drive was short, but it felt like the most important trip of your lives. As Steve parked in front of the house, the silence was almost sacred. There were no longer radios blasting Tiffany or ABBA's entire discographies here, nor were there any arguments echoing through walls. There was only the sound of the wind blowing among the trees and the soft sound of the keys jingling in Steve's hand.
“Welcome home,” Steve murmured, opening the front door.
The house smelled of paint and fresh wood. For Steve, who grew up practically in a mansion that always felt empty, this place felt like a palace.
Thanks to everyone’s help, the boxes were already in the living room and the mattress was already in place. Everything you needed was right where it should be.
“This is perfect, Steve,” you said, resting a hand on your belly, feeling that typical first-semester fatigue weighing on your eyelids.
“I know there’s still a lot to unpack, but. . .” your boyfriend gestured to the second unused bedroom with an unusual shyness, “I was thinking the baby’s crib could go there, and maybe a comfy chair for when you need to feed them. It’s the room that's farthest from the street, so it’ll be quieter for them when they sleep,” he said softly.
Your heart clenched at how carefully he’d thought of everything.
“Your mom told me she’d come early tomorrow, said that she's saved a few things for us,” he added, starting to make the bed. “I think she likes me more now that i’m going to be the dad of her grandchild than when i was just the guy dating her daughter.”
You let out a small laugh, until a wave of nausea hit you hard, your face said it all without you having to say a word. Steve was already by your side in a second, holding your hair and gently stroking your back as you threw up in the bathroom.
After a few minutes of throwing up almost everything you’d eaten that day, Steve helped you rinse your face with cold water.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, resting your head on his shoulder. “Not exactly the romantic first night you probably expected.”
“Hey, don’t say that,” he said, kissing the top of your head as he wrapped his arms around you. “I’d much rather be here, taking care of you and our little one in our own home, than be alone at my parents house. This is everything i’ve always wanted,” he finished, giving you a soft, sweet kiss on the lips.
You both went back to the room, lying down on the bed that had once been yours but now belonged to the both of you. Steve wrapped an arm around you as he rested a protective hand on your growing belly like it belonged there.
“I love you, Steve,” you managed to say before sleep overtook you.
“I love you more,” he whispered, staying awake just a little longer, watching over you as the moonlight spilled through the window of your new home.
a/n ✶ hope you liked it! i'm not very satisfied with my writing, but i tried my best 😭😭 i just love dad!steve
