media training, (young!homie)
(more) media training
(even more) media training
(not so much) media training
(too much) media training
(other than) media training
(pause in the) media training
dating pre-batshit, headcanons, (req)
wordcount: 1196
summary: Fresh out the lab and into his new superhero persona, Homelander needed more than a little help getting his social queues in line.
warnings: fluff/crack, gn!reader, young homelander, (might be ooc for him because i love a goofy young homelander instead of the batshit version of him) he's a bit oblivious to social queues, could be implied as an eventual homelander x reader, basically training him like a dog– think that’s it !!!
The first thing Homelander said to you was: “Are you here to replace the crying woman?”
You blinked. “The… crying woman?”
“The last publicist” He tilted his head like he was genuinely trying to remember her name, simple and unbothered. “She cried in the elevator” An awkward pause. “They said it was because I yelled” He said it casually– thoughtfully, even, like someone recalling the weather.
You looked down at the folder tucked under your arm. HOMELANDER — IMAGE REHABILITATION ASSIGNMENT. Temporary– six weeks they said. Hazard pay included. (You were starting to understand why) You looked back up at him carefully.
Homelander looked… younger than you expected. Not softer– no, definitely not softer. There was something unsettling about the way he stood too still, too perfect, watching you with an intensity that felt borderline invasive in those steel blue eyes. But younger– like someone had taken the all-American poster boy and forgotten to teach him how to behave around actual people.
A sigh escapes you as you set down the folder. “Okay” You flip the files open. “Ground rules”
His eyebrows lifted. “You have rules?” A pause. “For me?”
“Yes”
“Interesting” That somehow felt vaguely threatening but you decided to ignore it.
“Rule one: we don’t yell at employees”
“I wasn’t yelling”
“The woman cried” You retorted, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow– clearly not buying his half-assed excuse for a single second.
“She cried after, there’s no proof it was related to my yelling”
You stared at him. He stared back– completely serious, like he genuinely believed his argument made sense to anybody else that wasn’t him. You pinched the bridge of your nose while taking a deep breath. “Rule two: we don’t say things that make normal people uncomfortable”
He frowned. “How am I supposed to know what makes people uncomfortable?”
Oh.
Oh, this was so much worse than you thought.
“How am I supposed to know what makes people uncomfortable?” You slowly closed the file– then reopened it, then closed it again. Meanwhile, Homelander continued staring at you, patiently– disturbingly patiently, like this was a perfectly reasonable thing to admit out loud.
“You seriously don’t know?”
“No one tells me” He shrugged. “Usually they just look concerned”
You blinked. “That sentence alone is concerning”
“You do look concerned” He pointed out in a simple hum.
“I am concerned” You inhaled sharply through your nose. Six weeks– you could survive six weeks. (Probably) “Okay” You finally said, dragging a chair out from the conference table and taking a seat. “We’re starting over” His eyes flicked toward the chair. “Sit”
His eyebrows raised. “You’re giving me orders?”
“Yes”
Another pause. Then, to your surprise– he sat. Immediately. Perfect posture, hands folded, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone currently being treated like a national threat.
You narrowed your eyes. “That was… weirdly easy”
“You sounded confident” He hummed simply, but that… somehow explained absolutely nothing.
“Right” You muttered. “New method” Grabbing a scrap piece of paper from inside the file and scribbling a couple things across the top of it.
Homelander leaned forward, trying to take a peek. “You’re making me a list?”
“Yes again”
“I’ve never been given a list before” He hummed with a hint of satisfied surprise. Something about the way he said it almost sounded– No. You were not feeling sympathy for America’s most awkward social experiment after merely ten minutes of knowing him.
“Question one” You said, slipping into what you hoped resembled professionalism. “If someone says they’re tired, what’s an appropriate answer?”
He answered instantly, truly sure of himself as he nods. “You look weak”
You stared– he stared back. “…No” His forehead creased as you carefully continued explaining as best as you could. “Because that’s rude”
“Oh” He actually looked surprised.
You blinked. Was this man being serious right now? You reached into your bag, pulled out a sheet of gold star stickers left over from your niece’s birthday party, and placed one dramatically onto the table. Homelander looked at it– then at you, then back at the stickers.
“What’s that?”
“A reward system”
“For what?”
“For normal-ish behaviour” Silence, just a couple of icy eyes staring deeply at him. “You get a star every time you answer correctly” His expression did something strange– not offended, not amused. Interested. Yes– you managed to peak his interest, that was progress. Slow progress– but progress nonetheless. “Anyways, next question” You slid a mock interview card across the table. “What do you say if someone tells you they’re nervous to meet you?”
He thought about it. Longer this time, he almost got you excited thinking he was going to make it normal and reasonable. Then… “I don’t plan to hurt you” You slowly lowered your head into your hands.
“No star?”
“No star”
Three weeks later, against all known odds, Homelander was improving. Marginally, questionably, concerningly– but improving nonetheless. The first major sign had been when he stopped telling nervous civilians things like: “Statistically, you’ll probably survive this” The second had been when he somehow– somehow, managed an entire interview without threatening anyone, insulting humanity, or describing people as ‘fragile’ in comparison to him. Vought nearly threw a party, you even got an email titled: INCREDIBLE PROGRESS. Nobody believed the change was real at first– which honestly? Fair. Because if someone had told you three weeks ago that America’s strongest supe responded positively to gold star stickers, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.
And yet–
“There” You hummed, dramatically peeling another shiny gold star from the sheet in your hand. Homelander stood beside you in the elevator, still in costume after an interview that had gone suspiciously well given who he was. “No threatening reporters– ” You counted off. “ –no weird comments about mortality, no calling the mayor ‘genetically disappointing’...”
“He was…” Homelander muttered, still holding out his hand for you to place the sticker on it.
“John” You call his name in a calm warning.
A pause.
“…I didn’t say it out loud” He replies– a hint of childish defense to his voice. You narrowed your eyes but still placed the gold star onto the back of his hand. His expression immediately shifted. Subtle, yet unmistakably pleased. Like a dog that had just been told he was the smartest, goodest boy alive. A smile reluctantly tugs at your lips despite your better judgement. The elevator doors opened, interrupting the moment as three Vought employees stepped in. They stopped, stared, slowly looked down at the glittering gold star stuck to Homelander’s glove– then back at you, then back at him.
Homelander looked at them. Then, oddly enough– smiled. A normal smile, practiced. The kind you’d spent actual hours teaching him. “Good afternoon” He nodded politely.
The employees looked seconds away from fainting– too scared to show their genuine shock but also too scared to reply as if nothing happened. You stared as Homelander looked at you expectantly. “…What?” He asked.
You slowly reached into your bag, pulled out another gold star.His eyes lit up. “Oh” He hummed quietly, a small spark fluttering inside him. “Oh, I’m getting another one” God that boyish grin was gonna ruin you.
thinking about stevie fulfilling your breeding and mommy kink 🧠🧠
“god you feel so fucking good” he whines, squirming around above you. his arms shake as he thrusts into you, pussy squeezing him so tight. your nails dig into his back bruisingly hard, leaving his skin red and bothered. “just for you stevie, gotta make you cum” you coo, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. his cock twitched and his cheeks pinked poor boy was flustered all over. “please mommy i’m close” he almost whispers, voice too whiny to hear properly. you clench around him at the use of your favorite name, pulling a pathetic moan out of him. shivers ran up your spine as he fucked you harder, thrusts sloppy as he rutted into you. “oh—god fuck please let me cum inside please i can’t pull out i can’t—” he babbles, nearly drooling over you. his eyes were blown with lust and his voice was hoarse from repeated use. god it was all so pathetic. your hands pull his pink sweaty face towards you almost nose to nose to stabilize him, as he was nearly falling apart above and inside you. “gotta make mommy cum first stevie don’t be silly,” you frown, caressing his cheeks. he could whine and pout all day but deep down you both knew he wouldn’t dare cum before you. “i-i’m trying please god i need it.” skin slapping rings in your ears as you throw your head back, his fat tip hitting your spot perfectly, he was making you feel his determination. he brings a shaky hand down to your clit to rub quick circles to get you there. his stomach clenched as he held back his orgasm, struggle evident on his pretty face. “fucking shit baby i’m cumming, fill me up stevie,” you moan, throwing your hands around his neck. he gasps as your walls fluttter around his cock, spilling your cum all over him. “fuck, thank you mommy,” he breathes, hips stuttering as he fills you up, hot cum painting your walls.
steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort
warnings: yearning steve harrington. steves pov. mostly done in the form of letters. will they wont they......... happy ending. (I CAVED. THEY BEGGED ME OKAY THEY WERE NOT GONNA DO IT BUT...) SMUT. NOTHING CRAZY soft sex. a little spit i couldn't help it.
words: 12k
summary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.
a/n: oh.... so? this is the last chapter? this is the end of the arc besides the epi luigi.... hot shot and steve are...? wow. i have no words. this fic was probably the most taxing thing i've ever written. but so many of you guys encouraged me to keep going. it's you, the readers who kept me to continue even if you guys are insane.
masterlist | Rules/Playlist
Chapter 18
3 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
I just got back from dropping off Robin at the bus station for Boston. You know I’m a tough guy. I can handle not being invited. Ha…
I was thinking about the first time Robin introduced us. Spring of 87’. I wasn’t having a good night. But I remember her shouting, “She came?” Before I knew it you were in front of us and I could only stupidly think…Pretty.
That night I was supposed to meet up with a girl, and I can’t even remember who. All I remember is you.
You were dancing with Buck. You were both so drunk, stumbling into each other and laughing. But Buck must have been worse off because he threw up all over your shoes. I was only a pledge at the time, but I remember all the guys around me tensing up, getting ready for you to lay into him. Apparently this was a common thing with Buck—he'd get too drunk and puke on people, and they'd lose it on him.
So it was a surprise to all of us when you didn't even yell at him. You only took off your shoes and gave him some water. Told him to sit down and breathe. I got stuck cleaning up the mess because that's what pledges do, and I heard you jump up and pull Robin to the floor when "Hot Stuff" came on.
As you were dancing with Robin, both of you screaming the lyrics, I thought: who the hell is she rooming with? You were only wearing your socks and dancing, and now that I think about our conversation at the lake, you really don't know how to dance. You were all arms and no rhythm, and somehow that made it better.
So then I decided you were pretty and weird.
I like that you're weird, apparently, because I was pathetically asking Robin about you nonstop after that night. Where were you from? What were you studying? Did you have a boyfriend? (You didn't, thank god.) Were you always that nice to people who threw up on your shoes?
I like that you're kind too. And god, you're so selfless. I beat myself up every day about how I took advantage of that. How I let you think you weren't good enough when really I was the one who wasn't good enough for you.
If you haven't noticed by now... I miss you.
I’m going to try my hardest not to call and check in every hour this weekend. I hope you enjoy the cookies I sent with Robin. My mom made them. I helped, so they might be extra sweet. Max says I’m too corny… I guess maybe I’m the weird one.
I told my mom about you, and she said, “The pretty one, right?”
Maybe one day I can be lucky enough to be weird with you. Where we can badly dance in our socks together.
Sincerely,
Your handsome weird friend
.-.-.-.
6 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
I don’t have much to say. Again, not a whole lot going on besides Family Video. Today, however, I tried to teach Max how to drive. Maybe the next time I see you I can tell you how this punk once drove my car when she was thirteen. I should have known better.
At least I survived.
Mrs. Henderson’s petunias not so much.
How was Boston? Robin won’t tell me a whole lot. I'm trying not to be jealous that you're hanging out with everyone except me, but I'm doing a terrible job of it.
Sincerely,
Steve
P.S. Max found this mixtape I had made for you months ago, made fun of me, and then convinced me to send it to you or she would. Never thought I’d be blackmailed by a seventeen-year-old who doesn’t know how to drive.
.-.-.-.
8 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
Robin told me you’ve been reading my letters.
I feel... I don't know what to feel. A part of me wishes they got lost in the mail and you never saw them, that I could take back everything I've said because it's too much, too honest, too pathetic. Then there's the other part of me—the bigger part—imagining you reading them. I wonder if it's the same way you read your books.
I think it's cute how your eyes move across the pages when you're reading, completely engrossed in whatever story you're in. How your nose scrunches when you're focused on whatever's happening in the plot. Sometimes your lips move, reading whatever out loud to yourself without realizing you're doing it.
Not that I'm staring at your lips.
OK, I look at your lips an appropriate amount of time. Can you blame me? I mean, they killed me constantly. Every time you'd bite your bottom lip when you were thinking, or smile that smile that made your whole face light up, or—
Yeah, I'm not going to finish that thought.
I always had a hard time studying when I was around you and you were like that, lost in whatever you were reading. Because then I wanted to know what was going on in your book too, wanted to understand what had you so captivated. And because I wanted to kiss you. Still do, if I'm being honest. Which I guess I am, since that's kind of the whole point of these letters.
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
9 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
You know when things changed for me? The moment I knew I really didn’t want anyone else?
Valentines Day.
I couldn't stop thinking about you that day. From the moment I woke up to the moment I fell asleep and even after, in my dreams.
You were so sick, and I remember thinking... can she get any prettier? Which is insane because you had a runny nose and messy hair and you kept sniffling. But you were wrapped up in a blanket, curled against me on your bed, and I'd never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
I don't know what did it for me specifically. Your runny nose or your messy hair or the way you kept apologizing for being gross when you weren't gross at all. I do know that when you laid your head on my chest and fell asleep, I felt my stomach tie into knots. The good kind. The kind that made me think: oh no, this is it, I'm done for.
Nothing was the same for me after that moment. Every time I hooked up with someone after that, I felt guilty. Like I was cheating on you even though we weren't together. Like I was looking for you in other people and obviously never finding you because you're you and they weren't.
Maybe it had never been the same. Maybe from that first night when you danced in your socks, I was already gone. Maybe I was always meant to meet you.
God, I hope so.
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
12 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
Did Eddie tell you Polly dumped him? He's been OK, I think. Or he says he's OK, which probably means he's not OK but doesn't want to talk about it.
Last night we went to Hawkins' finest establishment—The Hideout. It's this dive bar that smells like stale beer and cigarettes, but Eddie and his band play there a lot. Except since his breakup, he's been kind of in a rut. He says he has "inspiration constipation." I call it sulking.
Then I thought… is this how Eddie and Jonathan thought about me all those months? When I was moping around about you? They both can smell my "bullshit" a mile away... ha. Guess I wasn't as subtle as I thought I was being.
Besides Eddie being a downer, I had a good night. It would have been better if you'd been there. Nancy came too, and even though her and Robin are still careful in public, I feel happy they can look at each other freely now. No more hiding. No more pretending.
The news of the "break-up" here in Hawkins was gossip for weeks. Apparently the whole town had an opinion about it. My mom's friends kept calling to check on me, asking if I was OK, if I needed anything. It's fizzled out by now, though. People found other things to talk about.
Kind of humiliating how much of a big deal we made it out to be. All that stress and lying, when we could have just been honest from the start.
The Hideout has billiard tables. If you ever decide to grace us… me… with a visit to Hawkins, maybe I can take you to play. Can you hear the desperation in my handwriting? That I kind of really want to see you?
I’m not sure how I can be more patient when the others… even Dustin? Have heard from you.
But I’m trying. I really am.
I guess I’m sulking too.
Sincerely,
A desperate man
.-.-.-.
15 June, 1988
Dear Steve,
Thank you for the letters. As for billiards. Do you remember what happened the last time we played? I don’t think you’re ready for round two.
And thank you for the cookies. That was sweet of you and they were delicious.
-Your friend
P.S. I am glad to hear about your glasses.
.-.-.-.
20 June, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
Is it true you're coming to Hawkins for Independence Day? Robin mentioned it, but I wanted to make sure before I got my hopes up.
I can't deny that I cannot wait to see you, but I want to make sure you're OK with me being around. If you're not, I will literally chain myself to my bed until you leave town. Lock myself in my room. Avoid all public spaces. Whatever you need.
For my sake, not yours. I don't think I could handle seeing you and not being able to talk to you.
I'll be OK though. I promise.
I don’t really like fireworks, if I’m being honest. They’re too loud. When I was a kid I used to cry everytime they went off. Eventually my parents just started leaving me home with a babysitter on the Fourth of July so they didn't have to deal with it.
Remember that story Max told you about me accidentally popping a Hopper in the ass with a firework? It’s because I jumped at the noise.
Anyway, I'm also trying to act cool about the fact that you wrote back and that I haven't totally read your letter over and over again... or memorized your handwriting... or folded it up and put it in my wallet so I can take it out whenever I'm missing you most.
To paint the picture… it's a lot. I take it out a lot.
Robin caught me reading it at work yesterday and made fun of me for another twenty minutes. I'm never going to hear the end of this.
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
24 June, 1988
Dear Steve,
Yes, I'm coming to Hawkins for Independence Day. It didn't take much for Robin to convince me. She says there's a huge carnival with rides and games and apparently the best funnel cake in Indiana? It sounds like a lot of fun.
I’d hate for you to miss something fun.
I can’t wait to properly catch up!
-Your friend
.-.-.-.
Steve has never been this nervous since he kissed you in the tent back in March.
Back then, he kept thinking over and over about how long it had been since he had really kissed someone—not counting that makeout session at the Mardi Gras party, which barely counts anyway. Sure, he'd kissed you then, but after confessing he only wanted you, after everything that's happened since, it had felt like his first kiss all over again. Like he was thirteen and terrified and has no idea what he's doing.
Now, his stomach is tied in knots, twisting and clenching every time he so much as glances in your direction.
You're sitting across the pool at his parents' house, and he can't stop staring.
Everyone is here to swim—the kids are running around screaming, cannonballing into the deep end and playing chicken in the shallow end. Max and Lucas are floating on inner tubes, holding hands when they think no one's looking. Dustin keeps trying to dunk Mike, who's protesting loudly. Jane is sitting on the pool steps with Will, both of them talking quietly and watching the chaos. Jonathan and Nancy even came in for the weekend, lying on lounge chairs and looking more relaxed than Steve's seen them in months.
Everyone is here, but to Steve, he's forgotten they exist.
He feels like a schoolboy with a crush. Like Tommy H. in eighth grade when he got obsessed with Carol, following her around like a puppy and blushing every time she talked to him. Steve had made fun of him for it then. Karma's a bitch.
You're trying to be polite, making an effort to talk to him. But every time you do, he stumbles over his words like an idiot, then walks away to grab another beer from the cooler just to have an excuse to escape. He's on his third beer and it's only two in the afternoon.
It's the day before the Independence Day carnival, and all Steve can think about is how much he loves you.
He was terrified you'd come to Hawkins and tell him you'd gotten over it. That the distance helped you realize you don't actually want him, that you're better off without him, that being friends is all you can manage. But the moment you walked in the door with Robin yesterday—his heart already racing because Dustin had warned him over the walkie-talkie that you'd been spotted at Benny's Burgers with Robin and Nancy—he met your eyes, and he could see it.
The flash of softness. The way your lips upturned at the sight of him. The slight hitch in your breath that he caught even from across the room.
He felt himself blush, felt his hands start to sweat like he was back in high school asking someone to prom.
But then there was another flash—recollection, memory, pain. Letting him know there's still hurt there, still wounds that haven't fully healed.
You look like nothing but sunshine right now. Feet dangling in the pool, sitting next to Max on the pool deck, talking about something that keeps making both of you laugh. Steve can't help but look at the tattoo on your hip—"Hot Shot" in slightly crooked letters, visible when your swimsuit shifts. And god, why is it the sexiest thing in the world to know that his nickname is permanently marked on your skin? His girl. Even if you're not his girl yet. Even if you might never be his girl again.
He can't help but notice how your thighs press against the pool deck, how the flesh of your ass mushes slightly on the concrete, how your shoulders are changing color from the sun despite the sunscreen you applied. He hopes his sunglasses hide the way his eyes are glued to your every move, the way he's cataloging each smile and laugh and gesture like he's studying for a test.
He wants to make you laugh again, wants your hand to fall carelessly on his shoulder like it used to. Wants to see your eyes twinkle the way they do when you're really happy—like the stars themselves, bright enough that there's no need for the sun or moon or artificial light. Like you contain all the illumination the world needs right there in your irises.
He's been a little lonely since he came home for summer, if he's being honest with himself.
His dad has begrudgingly talked to him—short, clipped conversations about Steve's GPA and his major and whether teaching is "really what you want to do with your life, son." The disappointment hangs heavy in every word his father speaks, and Steve's stopped trying to defend his choices. There's no point. Not to mention the whole lying about his long-term relationship with Robin.
He doesn't go over to Robin's house as often anymore. Her parents are accepting and understanding, they really are, they've been great about everything, but it's still a fresh wound for everyone. The revelation, the lies, the year-plus of deception. Robin doesn't come over to Steve's as often either, only showing up when everyone else is there too, when it's a group thing and not just the two of them.
It's weird. In a sense, it does feel like a real breakup. Without all the awkwardness and tension that comes with romantic breakups, but with the same sense of loss, of figuring out who they are beyond the roles they played. Trying to remember how to be just friends when they've been "dating" for so long.
It's been ages since Steve's been actually single. Technically single and not sleeping with anyone. He can admit there have been a few girls from high school who stuck around Hawkins—girls who come into Family Video and flirt with him, twirling their hair and asking for movie recommendations in voices that suggest they're not really interested in movies at all.
But he doesn't know how to reciprocate anymore. Doesn't know how to flirt back when he's not interested, doesn't know how to let them down easy without being an asshole about it.
Least to say, Keith says Steve's the worst at customer service now and makes Robin handle most of the customers. Which is probably fair.
Back at college, it was easy to fall into the confidence that comes with flirting fueled by lust. By knowing you're going to hook up with someone and that's all it is—bodies and pleasure and nothing deeper. But when he discovered the part of him that loves someone, really loves them, it rewired every bit of his brain. There's something more dangerous about approaching a girl—approaching you—with the heavy feeling of aching and longing to be something more. It rattles him, makes him nervous and awkward in ways he hasn't been since middle school.
Steve tries not to be jealous when Eddie pulls you into the pool, both of you splashing and laughing, Eddie picking you up and threatening to dunk you under. Steve knows Eddie wouldn't do anything— Eddie knows how Steve feels. Eddie's a good friend even when Steve hadn’t been for the past few years.
But Steve can't help the tightness in his chest. The same tightness he felt when you kissed Eddie as a dare in the basement of the Pike house, even though he had no right to feel jealous then either. It was just another moment to catalog— Steve Harrington being a dingus and not seeing the truth of his feelings.
Steve gets up from his pool chair, his thighs slick with sweat, the hair there clinging to his skin. He walks inside to cool down from the summer heat, lifting his sunglasses up to rest on top of his overgrown, messy hair that badly needs a cut.
He knows he's sulking. He knows it would be unfair to pout in front of you, to make you think he wants to rush you into forgiving him before you're ready. But he can't stop thinking that maybe there's hope. That maybe the way you looked at him yesterday when you first walked in means something.
He goes to his mom's tea room—a small sitting area off the kitchen with floral wallpaper and too many decorative plates—and sits on the piano bench, pulling the blind aside slightly to see the view of the backyard through the window.
He notices you're not out there anymore. And he's annoyed with himself that he's relieved to see Eddie is still in the pool, now terrorizing the kids by threatening to throw Dustin's hat into the deep end.
"Thought you told Nancy you were getting another drink?"
Your soft voice filters in from the doorway, and Steve's heart nearly stops.
He twists around awkwardly on the bench, already smiling before he can stop himself. He's not sure what to do with his hands—they move around uselessly before he finally settles them between his legs, gripping the edge of the bench, looking up at you.
You're wearing denim shorts now, cut-offs that are frayed at the hem, and an oversized t-shirt over your swimsuit. Your hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends from the pool water. He can smell the sun on your skin, that particular scent of sunblock mixed with chlorine and something underneath that's purely you. The smell gets stronger as you walk into the room, looking around at all the different collections his mom has accumulated—teacups on shelves, decorative plates on the walls, a shelf of crystal figurines that Steve's been terrified of breaking since childhood.
You smile at him again, and his stomach flips. You point at the spinet piano against the wall. "That's cool. Does your mom play?"
Steve looks over his shoulder at the ivory keys, yellowed slightly with age. He smirks, quirking an eyebrow. "Why do you assume my mom?"
You laugh—that beautiful laugh that makes his chest expand, that makes him feel like he could float right off this piano bench. You tilt your head, crossing your arms. "Your dad doesn't really strike me as someone who could tell what a musical note is if it hit him in the face." You pause, probably thinking about that disastrous dinner. "And I only met your mom once, but... I feel like even though she likes nice things, she wants to enjoy them. Not just own them."
Steve smiles, genuinely pleased that you saw that in his mom. "She used to play. Not much anymore. It's probably out of tune by now." He pauses, choosing his words more carefully. "Robin and her would do duets when we started..." He trails off. Being friends, he finally settles on. Not dating. Not in a relationship. Because it wasn't real, and he doesn't want to treat it as such now.
He thinks for a moment, then adds, "But I took lessons when I was seven. For about six months. Never practiced, though, so it was okay because then my dad said it was a useless talent for a boy to have anyway."
Your eyebrows furrow, and Steve wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth the crease with his thumb. He clasps his hands tighter between his legs to stop himself.
"Do you remember any songs?" you ask.
He cracks a smile, falling back into the safety of humor. "You kidding? In high school I'd bring chicks over and play them a few chords of 'Chopsticks' and they'd think I was Mozart."
You throw your head back laughing, corners of your eyes crinkling, and Steve thinks he's won at life just being able to hear it. Probably the prettiest sound in the world, better than any music the best piano player could make.
Then you say, walking closer, "Okay. Show me."
Steve's mouth falls open. He rubs the back of his neck, closing one eye nervously. "I was kidding. I don't actually remember anything."
You giggle, that softer laugh, more intimate, and walk over to the bench. He watches your eyes fall on his bare chest, then down to his stomach. The way he's sitting, the soft skin spills over the top of his swim trunks slightly, creating a small roll.
In most cases, he'd feel self-conscious. Most girls he's been with, he's always turned off the lights or kept his shirt on or made sure there was minimal interaction with his body. Billy used to call him soft, would poke at his stomach in the locker room, and even though Steve knows Billy was an asshole, the words stuck.
But with you, he wants to be seen. Wants you to look at all of him—the parts he's proud of and the parts he's not. He watches how your pupils dilate slightly, how your breathing changes when you look at how his stomach flexes as he adjusts his position. You notice. And he always wants you to notice him, wants your eyes on him like this.
You look shy now, a flush creeping up your neck as you walk to the other side of the bench and slide in, facing the piano. Steve follows suit quickly, turning to face the keys.
He's patient, or trying to be, but he still scoots a little closer, making his thigh touch yours. If you move away, he won't try again. Won't push.
He feels you tense for a moment, but you don't make an effort to move. That has to mean something, right?
"Okay," you say softly, and he can hear the slight tremor in your voice. "Put your two fingers here."
Steve looks at you instead of the piano, taking in the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek, the way your eyelashes cast shadows. Then he does as you said, placing his pointer and middle finger on the keys you indicated.
He hears you take a deep breath in, and then you grab his wrist.
His brain stops working at the touch. It's been so long since your soft hands have met his skin—not since that night on the swings, and even then it was brief, careful. He remembers when you slapped his cheek in Miami, then a few weeks later put your hand on the same cheek in comfort at the bonfire, telling him you love him. It still burns, both memories. The sting and the tenderness.
You start pressing his fingers down on the keys, creating a simple melody he vaguely recognizes. Maybe "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" or something equally basic. But he starts laughing because he keeps slipping his fingers on purpose so the note comes out wrong, and you have to start over.
"Steve," you say, trying to sound annoyed, but you're laughing too. "You're doing that on purpose."
"Am not," he lies, grinning.
"Are too."
"Prove it."
You laugh again and grab his wrist tighter, repositioning his fingers with exaggerated care. He's finding every excuse to be held by you, to have your skin on his, even if it'll be gone in a moment. Even if this is all he gets.
He really is a dingus.
When the song is over—played correctly this time because you wouldn't let him sabotage it again—you let out a happy sigh. Slowly, carefully, you take your hands away from his wrist. You scoot over slightly, just an inch or two, so his bare thigh is no longer pressed against yours.
The loss of contact feels like a physical blow.
You're looking at the keys, not at him, and Steve makes no effort to hide that he's staring right at you. Drinking in your profile, memorizing the way the afternoon light comes through the window and illuminates your face.
He could do what he really wants to do. Could ask if you've forgiven him yet, if you're ready to give him another chance. Could reach out and tilt your chin up with his finger, lean in and kiss your lips the way he's been dreaming about for months. He’s trying not to be selfish.
But instead, he forces himself to look straight ahead at the piano keys too. Swallows hard. "We should, uh... head back out, you know? Before they wonder where we went."
There's a flicker of disappointment in your eyes—he sees it, brief but real—but there's mutual agreement in the way you say, "Yeah. We should."
So you both stand up, and Steve steps to the side, offering an awkward half-hearted smile. He extends his arm in an exaggerated gentlemanly gesture, motioning for you to go through the door first.
As you walk past him, he gets a full breath of your shampoo—something floral and sweet—and the smell of chlorine and sunscreen that clings to your skin. His other hand hovers over your lower back, not quite touching but miming the gesture he wants to make, the way he used to when he wanted an excuse to touch you. But he can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
So he waits for you to walk completely out of the room, nearly back toward the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, before he follows several feet behind.
Dingus, he thinks to himself, shaking his head.
Max looks up when you both emerge outside, her eyebrows raised knowingly. Eddie glances over from the pool, treading water, and gives Steve a look that clearly says smooth move, lover boy.
Steve ignores them both and goes back to his lounge chair, grabbing his fourth beer of the day, and trying very hard not to watch you sit back down next to Max.
He fails miserably.
.-.-.-.
6 July, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
You left today. I'm sorry I couldn't say goodbye to you properly.
Stupid Keith scheduled me for a double shift and wouldn't let me leave early even though I told him it was important. He said, and I quote, "Your personal life is not my problem, Harrington." So that was fun.
I hope you enjoyed your stay. It felt like it had gone by too fast.
I know I didn't come hang out with everyone yesterday at the lake. I wanted to. I really did. But I guess I'm still figuring things out too. Figuring out how to be around you without wanting to pull you aside and kiss you senseless. Figuring out how to be patient when all I want is to be with you.
Can you blame me after the carnival? I mean, if you saw what I saw, you’d be in the same pathetic boat that I’m sailing right now.
I’m sorry I got all grumpy towards the end of the night, but I didn’t have the guts to ask to ride at least one ride with you, and then the closer we got to the time for fireworks, I was feeling anxious. I was even about to leave but then I looked up at the Ferris Wheel, and saw your smile.
I can always see your smile from a mile away, and it never fails to make my heart race and calm me down in equal measure. You looked like you were having so much fun up there with Max, both of you laughing, your hair whipping in the wind. Even though I wanted to be part of that fun, wanted to be the one sitting next to you in that cart, I felt my entire mood lift just watching you.
At that moment, my heart burst like the fireworks in the sky.
Hot Shot, I just want you to be happy. Even if it isn't with me. Even if you decide us being friends is all we can be after everything, I'd be okay watching you rise above me, smiling like that. I'd be okay knowing I at least got to see it, got to know you, got to love you even if you don't love me back the same way anymore.
Seeing you laugh with Max… I wish I hadn’t been so nervous. I wish I had asked you to ride the Ferris Wheel with me.
I hope next time I see you, I can see that smile again, up close, like it’s meant only for me. Your smile where it reaches all the way into your eyes and I don’t see the glimpse of how I’ve hurt you.
Can summer go by any faster?
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
11 July, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
I think my dad is really coming around about me being a teacher. He's still upset about the whole lying-to-him-for-two-years thing—brings it up at least once a week, usually over dinner when my mom tells him to drop it. But he's been asking more questions about what my new life timeline will look like. What schools I might want to teach at. What age group I'm thinking.
He even helped me get some volunteer hours at the Boys and Girls Club for summer baseball. Which is huge for him. He’s actually making phone calls on my behalf instead of just criticizing my choices.
You'd get a kick out of these kids, Hot Shot. They're hilarious. They call me "Coach Steve," and they take it very seriously. One girl, Via, brought me a dandelion from the outfield yesterday and made me wear it tucked behind my ear for the rest of the game. All the other kids thought it was hilarious. I looked like an idiot, but it made her so happy I couldn't take it off.
I can’t believe you were right that I’m good at this sort of thing. I’m glad you were right.
It led me to think about what my mom said about girls. “Make sure you know if your girl likes flowers or chocolates. It makes a difference.”
So, are you a flower or chocolate type of girl?
I’d round up the moon for you, Hot Shot.
Anything you want. I’ll give it to you.
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
18 July, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
I received my class schedule for this upcoming semester today. Looks like I've got Intro to Kinesiology on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Educational Psychology on Mondays and Wednesdays, and some other classes I'm already dreading.
I know I haven't written in a week. I’m sorry about that. Work's been crazy and I've been helping my mom with some stuff around the house. But I wanted to remind you to buy your textbooks if you haven't already.
Sincerely,
Steve
.-.-.-.
27 July, 1988
Dear Steve,
I finally got around to reading your last few letters. I've been working a lot. Extra shifts to save up money for textbooks, which I have now ordered. Thank you for the reminder.
I have been thinking a lot since my visit to Hawkins. Mostly thinking about you. About us.
I must admit something, the day I left Hawkins, I went to Family Video to come see you. I never liked goodbyes, but I really wanted to say bye to you. I never went inside, but like the weirdo I am, I sat in my car across the street and watched you through the window. You were helping some woman find a movie, and then you were at the counter ringing someone up, and then you were restocking shelves.
I thought you looked handsome in that green vest.
I also thought how badly I wished you had asked me to go on the Ferris Wheel with you. I had asked Max instead because I knew you hated the fireworks and I didn’t want you to be miserable.
When my mom saw me reading the letters, she asked what I was smiling so big about. She said she had never seen me like that before. So, I told her sort of the truth.
I told her the boy I like has been writing to me all summer. I also told her you like me too.
She got very excited and started asking a million questions. What's his name? What's he studying? When can she meet him? I answered what I could, and then she insisted on making you a care package.
So there might be no going back now, Steve. My mom knows about you. She's sent you Boppers and Sour Patch Kids and probably some other stuff I don't know about because she sealed the box before I could see everything.
-Yours truly
P.S. I listened to the mixtape, finally. Careless Whisper? Really, Steve?
P.P.S. Chocolate. Definitely chocolate.
.-.-.-.
31 July, 1988
Dear Hot Shot,
I first and foremost need to clarify something, sweetheart. I do not like you.
I love you.
Yes, there is a difference. So the moment you read this, you tell your mom I love you. Better yet, call me, and let me talk to her, and tell her that I love her daughter. I know you asked Robin for my phone number a few days ago.
If you don't want me to call and talk to your mom, maybe I can drive to your house and stand outside your window and yell it loud enough for her to hear. Or for you to hear. Or for the whole neighborhood to hear. I don't care who knows anymore.
You invented love for me, Hot Shot. Before you, I thought I knew what it was. I thought I loved people. But it was nothing compared to this. If I could, I'd write this entire page with nothing but "I love you" over and over until the words lost meaning and then kept going until they gained new meaning.
Better yet….
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
I’ll learn it in all the languages of the world so you know I don’t get tired of saying it.
Love,
Steve
.-.-.-.
It's the middle of a September evening, and campus is slowly buzzing back to life after summer break.
It's been two weeks since school started, but three weeks of Steve getting the Pike house back in order, organizing rush week, managing a new pack of pledges who don't know the difference between a keg and a trash can.
But finally, finally, the rest of his evening is free. And the moment he has the chance, he gets in his car and drives the short distance to Hall 11.
He slips through the open door, catching it just as some girls are leaving, laughing about something and not paying attention to him. Even though it's past curfew, past nine on a weeknight, technically against dorm rules, he sees Tessa at the RA desk.
During his fake relationship with Robin, Steve became acquainted with all the RAs. They all thought he was the perfect boyfriend, always bringing Robin food and flowers and showing up for study sessions. Tessa always looked the other way when he snuck in after hours, probably thinking it was romantic.
She waves at him now, phone pressed to her ear, mid-conversation with someone. She mouths go ahead and turns her attention back to her call.
Steve rushes up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and nearly skips down the hallway to the door he's been waiting to get to for what feels like forever. He's whistling, actually whistling like an idiot, because he's been waiting all day for this moment.
After his last letter, a few days later when he got home from work, his mom told him a girl had left a message for him. She'd had this knowing smile on her face, the one she gets when she thinks she's figured something out. "Sounds like the cookies worked," his mom had said, handing him a piece of paper with a phone number written in her neat handwriting.
Steve had rushed to his room, not even bothering to get out of his work clothes. He was still wearing the stupid green Family Video vest and his polo shirt and jeans that smelled like plastic and VHS tape dust. He picked up his phone with shaking hands and dialed the number.
When he heard your soft, familiar voice say "Hello?" his tongue went completely dry.
He panicked and hung up.
What the fuck was he going to say? He hadn't had a proper conversation with you in weeks beyond the letters. And the last thing you'd heard from him was his undying love written out thirty times on a piece of notebook paper. He'd exhaled heavily, stared at the phone like it had personally wronged him, then dialed again.
"Hello... again?" you'd said, and he could hear the smile in your voice, the amusement.
"H-hey." He'd cleared his throat, trying to sound normal and not like he'd just hung up on you like a creep. "Hey, Hot Shot."
And suddenly he'd heard your grin widen over the line, heard you adjusting, hopefully laying in bed, hopefully thinking about him the way he was thinking about you. "Are you home?" you'd asked. "I mean, wait... I guess you're home since you're calling me. I meant are you home from work?"
Steve had chuckled, looking down at his green vest, at the name tag pinned crooked to his chest. He'd kicked off his shoes somewhere in his room, not caring where they landed. He adjusted himself on his bed, sitting up against the headboard. "Yeah. What about you?"
"I worked earlier today." He could hear you wrapping the phone cord around your finger, that nervous habit you have. "Got off around three."
"Cool," Steve had said, then immediately cringed at himself. "Cool, yeah. Did you have a good day?"
He'd taken a deep breath, settling in, and said, "I want to hear all about it. Everything."
And you'd smiled—he could hear it in your voice when you said, "Everything?"
"Everything."
So you did. You told him about your shift at work, about a rude customer who yelled at you over nothing, about your coworker who covered for you when you took an extra-long lunch break. You told him about the book you were reading, about calling Max earlier that day, about how you'd burned dinner and had to eat cereal instead.
You talked for two hours about everything under the sun, and Steve listened to every word like you were reciting scripture.
He heard you yawn around midnight, heard the shift of your body against sheets. He could imagine you curling up with the phone still pressed to your ear, eyes fighting to stay open. "Are you sleepy?" Steve looked at his clock and winced. "Shit, it's almost midnight. Didn't you say you have to wake up early?"
You hummed sleepily. "Yeah. I should probably sleep."
"Yeah, okay." Steve bit his bottom lip, cringing at his awkwardness. This used to be so easy, talking to girls, flirting, knowing what to say. "So... goodnight. Yeah."
"Steve?" you'd mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.
"Mhm?"
"Call me tomorrow?"
And he did. He called you every single day after that.
Some nights it would be the two of you talking about your days—the mundane details that somehow felt important when you were sharing them. Sometimes you'd tell each other stories from childhood, from high school, from the year you'd spent navigating this complicated thing between you. Some nights you'd both tune in to watch ALF at the same time, phones pressed to your ears, listening to each other laugh at whatever you found funny. Sometimes Steve would bite back his own laughter because he liked the sound of yours better.
Some nights Steve would keep you talking until you finally gave out, your words getting slower and slower until soft snores came through the line. He could never bring himself to hang up. He'd lay the phone down on his pillow and close his eyes and imagine you were lying next to him, breathing in sync, sharing the same space.
There was one night— a week before Steve would leave to go campus early for rush week— when you were both sleepy and Steve had been the one to say he needed to go to bed or Keith would kill him if he was late again. By kill, he meant make him do something humiliating like clean the staff bathroom floors with a toothbrush.
"Steve, wait," you'd said, and something in your voice made him pause.
"Mhm?"
He'd heard you laugh softly to yourself, a gentle exhale. And then you'd said, so gently it made his heart stop: "I love you, Steve."
And he knew then that you'd forgiven him. He knew then that you were his, and he'd always been yours, even when you weren't ready to admit it.
He'd smiled so wide his face hurt. "Hot Shot, I love you. Always." He'd grinned, gripping the phone tighter. "How about I come see you this weekend? Let me take you on a date. A real one."
"Okay," you'd said, and he could hear your smile matching his.
And now he stands outside your dorm, knocking on the oak door with barely contained excitement.
Robin opens it, toothbrush in her mouth, toothpaste foaming at the corner of her lips. "What?" she mumbles around the toothbrush, looking annoyed at the interruption.
Steve leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms so his henley rides up slightly, exposing a strip of stomach. He smirks. "I'm here to see my girlfriend."
Robin rolls her eyes so hard he's surprised they don't fall out of her head, but she kicks the door open wider to reveal the room.
You're on your bed with a book in your hand, and when you see Steve standing there, you smile. Wide and genuine and so beautiful it knocks the breath from his lungs. You're still in your regular clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, almost like you've been waiting for him.
He knows you've been waiting for him.
Your eyes land on his glasses immediately, then fall to his midriff, to the exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up, and Steve catches it. So he lifts his arm higher, resting it against the doorframe, giving you a better view. Let you look your fill.
You jump off the bed immediately, going to grab your shoes from under your desk. But Steve's inside the room before you can put them on, making you sit down in your desk chair. He kneels in front of you and slips them on your feet himself—first the left, then the right—tying the laces carefully with steady hands.
"You never did that for me," Robin says, but she's smiling as she climbs into her own bed.
Steve gives Robin a look of pure attitude, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, because you don't—" He looks up at you, his girlfriend, and god, he's never going to get tired of that word. Girlfriend. You're his girlfriend, and he's your boyfriend. Steve Harrington is an actual boyfriend in an actual relationship that's real. So real he has the hickey on his bicep from last night's makeout to prove it.
You're looking down at him with amusement, but your eyes are narrowed and one eyebrow is raised in warning. Steve has never been studious or all that smart, but he knows not to finish that sentence.
It doesn't matter anyway because Robin throws a pillow at him. "Will you take your girlfriend and leave already?" She's smiling, though, settling into her bed. "Some of us have eight a.m. classes tomorrow."
You have your fingers tangled in Steve's hair already, and his hands find your waist naturally, like they belong there. He's still kneeling in front of you, looking up like you're something sacred. "Don't worry, I'll bring her back at a reasonable hour."
"Mhm, like last night and the night before? Right." Robin pulls her blanket up, getting comfortable. "I'll believe it when I see it."
Steve chuckles, pressing his glasses up his nose, leans up and makes a soft peck against your lips. It’s brief, chaste, a promise of more later, before standing and walking over to Robin's bed.
Robin looks up at him, cautious, her expression turning warning. "Steve, don't you dare—"
He grins from ear to ear, then leans down and grabs her, planting a wet kiss on top of her short hair. "C'mon, Rob. You know I still love you."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, dingus." She waves him off, but her smile is fond, genuine. "Go be gross and in love somewhere that isn't my room."
Steve notices how the freckles on her face seem to glow, sun-kissed from summer. Her eyes are a little brighter blue lately, less weighed down. All things he knows because she's in love. And it's not with him.
At one point in his life, Steve thought Robin's love was enough. That he could handle being known only in a platonic sense, that it made no difference whether someone loved him romantically or as a friend. Robin could see him and know things about him, and he wouldn't be lonely. That was enough.
He never thought he'd be so happy to discover how wrong he was.
He feels your arm loop through his, casual and comfortable. You lean against him, your head falling naturally to rest on his shoulder. "Come on," you say, pulling at him gently. "Let's go."
"Night, Rob," Steve says.
As you pull him toward the door, he reaches over and flicks off the overhead light. The lamp on Robin's nightstand stays on. It’s the one he'd gifted her one Christmas, green-shaded and casting soft shadows against the wall. The girl who was there for him when his life literally burned to the ground. The one who carries a different piece of his heart, a piece that will always belong to her no matter what.
She smiles at him knowingly, and he understands. She loves him too. Even though things are different now, even though they're not pretending anymore, even though she has Nancy and he has you—she will always love him.
"Goodnight, dingus," she says softly.
You and Steve don't get in his car. There's no need for that anymore. No need to hide behind trees or meet in secret or make out in the backseat where no one can see. Not that you don't still do that sometimes, because you definitely do, but nights like tonight, Steve thinks, why waste a chance to show off his girl?
His girl.
Your arm drops slowly from around his, hand running down his forearm—soft touch, deliberate—until finally your fingers lace with his. Palm to palm, fingers intertwined, exactly where they belong.
And like every time you hold hands, you giggle. You look up at him, smiling that goddamn smile that makes his knees weak and his heart race and his entire world feel right. You don't say anything, but you don't need to. He knows what the smile means.
They continue walking in comfortable silence, passing other students on the sidewalk. Some wave at both of you—people from classes, from parties, from Pike events. A few girls from your classes call out "cute couple!" and you wave back, not embarrassed or shy about it.
It was hard not to announce you as his girlfriend the second he got back on campus. He'd wanted to shout it from the Pike house roof, wanted to tell every single person he passed. But he'd needed to make sure people understood the real story first— or a version of it—that he and Robin weren't happy together, that their families wanted the relationship more than they did, that sometimes people pretend because it's easier than being honest.
Most people shrugged and didn't care. Some were supportive, understanding. But sometimes you still get one or two judgmental looks, whispered comments about Steve moving on too fast or you being the reason for the breakup.
Steve tries not to let it bother him.
With his free hand, Steve runs his fingers through his hair and looks down at you. You're already looking up at him, and when your eyes meet, a grin breaks out across his face. He can't help it. He leans down and kisses your cheek, right there in the middle of the sidewalk with people around, then continues walking like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Because it is.
This is his life now. Holding your hand, kissing you whenever he wants, being allowed to love you out loud.
And he's never been happier.
There's no surprise that even though Steve's car is parked all the way back at your dorm, you've managed to walk to the Pike house instead.
Subconscious or not, neither of you made an effort to turn around and head back so he could get you to the dorm at a reasonable hour like he'd promised Robin. Your feet just carried you here, following the familiar path Steve's walked a thousand times, and he didn't stop you. Didn't suggest going somewhere else.
You've only been dating a little less than a month, but it feels longer. Maybe it's because you did everything backward—had sex before dating, said "I love you" before being together, knew each other's bodies before you really knew each other's hearts. He's not sure. But he's okay with not trying to figure it out, because all that matters is that when you walk into the Pike house now, you can walk hand in hand.
His brothers are scattered throughout the common room—some getting ready for bed in their pajama pants and t-shirts, some having late-night snacks like cereal eaten straight from the box, standing at the kitchen counter. They all wave when they see you both come in.
"Hey, Harrington!"
"What's up, man?"
"Hey, Hot Shot!"
Steve rubs his thumb across your knuckles, admiring the way you light up and ask his brothers about their day. Unlike Robin—who was always polite but never truly invested in Pike life—you genuinely want to know his brothers. You ask Buck about his Econ exam, congratulate AJ on making the intramural basketball team, laugh at George’s terrible joke about their philosophy professor.
You're still not afraid to make a face at Steve whenever they say or do something stupid. Once you whacked Buck upside the head for a sexist comment about a girl from Delta Zeta. But his brothers love you for it. They respect that you don't take their shit, that you can give it back as good as you get it.
Eddie is out with god knows who, but Steve's pretty sure it might be Polly again. They've been on-and-off since the breakup.
There's no stopping Steve from leading you upstairs, gently breaking you away from your conversation mid-sentence. "Sorry, guys, stealing her now," he says, pulling you toward the stairs.
That's one thing he's learned about you—you love to be chatty, even if it's about nothing important. You could talk for hours about the weather, about a weird dream you had, about the pattern on someone's shirt. He loves that about you.
You go inside his room and he closes the door behind you, the click of the lock loud in the quiet space.
Before you were together—back when this was still secret and forbidden and temporary—it was always rushed. Clothes removed frantically, lips on skin desperately, because it was meant to only last a few hours. To get Steve's fix and your fix and then part ways, pretending nothing happened.
But now he can't get enough of you. Wants to take his time, memorize every detail, make it last.
To be fair, the first time he slept with you he couldn't get enough either. He'd replayed that night over and over in his head for weeks—the sounds you made, the way you looked underneath him, the feeling of being inside you. In his dresser, tucked all the way behind his socks, he still has your panties from that first night. He's kept them like a talisman.
And he'd admittedly brought them out on occasion.
Like when he tried to sleep with Polly for the first time after you. He was lousy—barely present, only half harde, had to pretend he even finished. He'd faked enthusiasm while getting her off with his fingers, and afterward Polly had patted his head sympathetically and said, "Not everyone is perfect all the time, Steve. It's okay."
But his mind had immediately settled on you. The dip of your lower back, the swell of your ass and breasts, the curve of your hip. The way your plush lips say his name when he's inside you, the way your nails dig into his skin hard enough that he imagines part of his DNA living under your fingernails permanently.
When Polly left, he'd taken your panties out of their hiding place, holding them with one hand while pumping his cock with the other. So fast, eyes squeezed shut, imagining it was your soft hands instead of his own rough ones. He'd come so hard—thick white ropes shooting against his stomach, sticking to his happy trail—and he'd imagined you licking it off him, cleaning him up with your tongue.
He'd panted your name into the empty room, still gripping your panties.
Fuck, he'd really been such an idiot back then, huh?
Steve watches as you let go of his hand and immediately go to his record player. He'd finally gotten around to showing you his full collection last week, spreading albums across his floor and letting you flip through them all. Now you know exactly where everything is.
He takes off his shoes, neatly placing them by the door. Yours go right next to them. They’re side by side, like they belong there.
You're already putting a record on It’s his Queen "A Day at the Races" album. It's not even his favorite Queen album, but you love it. You always place the needle exactly where "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" starts, have the position memorized by now.
When he'd driven to see you for your first official date a few weeks ago, when he'd had to leave that night and drive back to Hawkins, you'd kissed him on the cheek and handed him a mixtape you'd made. "For the drive," you'd said shyly. This song was the first one on it. He'd listened to the entire tape three times on repeat during the drive home, grinning like an idiot the whole way.
You're humming along now, turning around to face him, but he's already close. His hands finding your hips like they're magnetized. "I have something for you."
Your eyes brighten immediately, and you reach up, adjusting his glasses that have slipped slightly down his nose. Your fingers are gentle, careful, and you smile at him before saying,"Oh yeah?"
He nods, melting when you run your fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. He clears his throat, reaching behind you to grab something from his desk. He picks up a small black box. It’s nothing fancy, just a simple jewelry box he got from the store in town.
He knew if he'd wrapped it, he would've been bouncing on his feet watching you peel the paper off. He's already doing that now anyway, shifting his weight nervously as you carefully take the lid off.
Your eyes look at the contents, squinting slightly, then look up at him. He crosses his arms, thumb pressed against his bottom lip, downturned eyes staring at you hopefully.
Inside is a sterling silver chain with a charm. ΠΚΑ—Pike's Greek letters in delicate sterling silver, dainty and shimmering in the lamplight.
He clears his throat. "Yeah, so... it's kind of a thing. That a member's girlfriend wears the letters." The words tumble out faster. "It's like a whole tradition, and it means I'm serious about us. I guess it'd make you like an unofficial sweetheart even though you're not in a sorority, and you can totally not wear it if you don't want to, or—"
You giggle, smiling wide, reaching up to kiss him gently on the lips. "Steve. Shut up." You pull back just enough to look at him. "Will you put it on for me?"
Steve blushes, smiling dopily, nodding too enthusiastically. He takes the necklace out of the box with careful fingers, and you turn around, lifting your hair up and exposing the nape of your neck.
Steve's breath hitches at the sight—the delicate skin there, the small birthmark he's never noticed before, the soft baby hairs that curl slightly. He carefully drapes the chain around the front of your neck and clasps it at the back, his thumb brushing over the clasp to make sure it's secure. His fingers trail down—over your shoulder blades, down to you ribs, dangerous close to the sides of your breasts.
He steps closer, pressing his body against yours, and kisses the clasp. His lips find skin, warm and soft, and he can't stop himself from kissing lower.
You tilt your head to give him better access, and he takes over holding your hair to the side, kissing down your neck with increasing intent.
His breath catches when he sees your fingers come up to brush the letters resting against your collarbone. You're his. Really, truly his.
You've made out plenty since you've been back together. Done a lot of heavy petting, put your lips in all kinds of places, brought each other to the edge with hands and mouths. But Steve had suggested waiting to have sex again. He wanted to show you that this part meant something different to him now. Wanted to prove that it wasn't the sex that made him fall in love with you. It was simply you.
And he never thought you'd be struggling more than him with this agreement.
Like now when he feels you arch backward, pressing your ass against him deliberately, but then you quickly realize what that does to him and start to put distance between you again.
This time, Steve grabs your hips firmly, fingers digging into flesh, and pulls you back against him. He sighs at how you feel—perfect, right, his.
"Steve?" you whisper, voice breathy. "Are you sure?"
Steve hums against your neck, kissing the skin softly, reverently. "I love you," is all he says.
He can hear your smile. He can feel it in the way your body relaxes against him. It makes him smile too, teeth grazing your skin.
You turn to face him, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans, pulling him toward the bed. You're the one to kiss him this time, and he closes his eyes as your mouths slot together in a slow, agonizing kiss.
You always kiss pretty. Soft and thorough, like kissing him is something you want to savor.
And there you go again. Your hands immediately on his stomach under his henley, palms warm against his skin, wasting no time. You squeeze the plush skin, massaging, it sends chills up his spine and his blood moves southward.
He wastes no time either, slipping his own hand under your shirt, the other squeezing your ass, then trailing up your back to feel bare skin. Up to your breasts, squeezing and massaging through your bra. Down to your belly, caressing.
You walk him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sits down heavily. You're standing between his spread legs, and you drop to your knees without hesitation.
"Hot Shot," he breathes, watching as you work open his belt, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room.
You unbutton his jeans, unzip them, and he lifts his hips so you can pull them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, already hard, and you lean forward immediately.
But instead of taking him in your mouth, you press your face into the soft flesh of his lower stomach. You kiss his happy trail—that line of dark hair leading down from his navel—then lick it. Suck at it. Your tongue traces patterns against his skin, and Steve's head falls back, eyes closing.
"Fuck," he whispers.
You look up at him through your lashes, still pressing kisses to his stomach, and the sight nearly kills him. Your eyes are dark with want, lips wet and swollen, and you're worshipping the part of him he's always been most self-conscious about.
He leans down, kissing you.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your lips. "Every part of you."
You bat your eyes, “Show me?”
When he calls you meek, he doesn’t mean for it to sound like you’re below him, or weak even. There’s just no other word to describe the gentleness of your voice, how shy you get. And your shyness only belongs to him. No one else sees you like this, but him. It nearly makes him come undone right there, thinking about it.
Steve's heart clenches. He reaches down and cups your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Come here."
You stand, and he pulls you into another kiss, deeper this time, more urgent. His hands find the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head. Your bra follows. Then your jeans and underwear until you're standing naked in front of him.
He takes a moment to look at you. All of you. The curve of your hips, the softness of your thighs, your breasts, the tattoo on your hip that belongs to him, the necklace resting against your collarbone that marks you as his.
"Come here," he murmurs, pulling you closer until you're standing between his spread legs again.
His hands slide up your thighs, rough palms against soft skin, until his fingers reach your center. You're already wet—have been since he first touched you—and when his fingers brush against you, you gasp and grip his shoulders for balance.
"Steve," you breathe.
He circles your clit slowly, watching your face as pleasure flickers across your features. Then he slides one finger inside you, groaning at how warm and tight you are. "Christ, baby."
You whimper, hips rolling into his hand, seeking more. He adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, remembering how it's been months since you've done this.
He crooks his fingers, finding that spot inside you that makes your knees buckle, and you cry out softly. Your hands tighten on his shoulders, nails digging in.
"God, you're so wet," he says, voice rough. He can feel you clenching around his fingers, can feel how ready you are for him. "So beautiful."
He pumps his fingers slowly, trying to be patient, trying to take his time preparing you properly. But it's been so long—too long—and the feel of you, the sounds you're making, the way you're looking at him with half-lidded eyes...
"I can't wait," Steve says suddenly, withdrawing his fingers. He looks up at you, desperate and needy. "I'm sorry, I know I should—but I can't. I need you now."
You nod immediately, breathlessly. "Yes. Please, Steve. I need you too."
Relief floods through him. "Yeah?"
"Yes," you say firmly, pushing him back on the bed. "Now."
And he's never loved you more than in this moment—understanding what he needs, wanting it as much as he does.
"Lie down," he says softly, his voice rough with want.
You do, crawling onto his bed and sprawling out underneath him, hair fanning across his pillow. Steve kicks off his jeans the rest of the way and pulls his henley over his head, then climbs over you. His glasses slip down his nose slightly, and you reach up with a smile, pushing them back into place with gentle fingers.
He kisses down your body—your neck, your collarbone where the necklace rests, between your breasts. When he gets to your stomach, he presses soft, quick kisses all over. Little pecks that make you giggle and squirm beneath him.
"Steve," you laugh, trying to push his head away. "That tickles."
"Good," he says, grinning against your skin. He kisses your hip bone, then lower, but you pull him back up to you.
"I need you," you whisper. "Now. Please."
Steve nods, sitting back on his heels between your spread legs. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him, and the sight of you like that—sprawled out on his bed, chest heaving, necklace glinting in the lamplight, eyes dark with want—makes his cock throb.
He wraps his hand around himself, pumping slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and he groans at the sight.
"You're so beautiful," you whisper, eyes still fixed on his hand moving over his length.
Steve throws his head back, eyes rolling behind his glasses, whimpering. He pumps himself a few more times, thumb swiping over the head where precum is already beading. Then he leans forward, positioning himself over you, he spreads your legs wider and spits directly onto your pussy, a string of saliva dripping wet from his tongue, glistening as it falls.
You gasp at the sensation. It’s warm and wet and filthy in the best way. He uses his fingers to spread it around, mixing with your own wetness, making sure you're slick and ready for him.
"Fuck. Baby," you breathe, head falling back.
He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and pauses for just a moment. Your eyes meet his, and there's understanding there—this is different, more intimate, nothing between you.
"I love you," he says, looking into your eyes.
"I love you too," you breathe.
He pushes in slowly—so slowly, watching your face as he fills you inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, back arching slightly, neck elongating as your head presses back into the pillow. You let out a high-pitched moan that goes straight to his cock.
"God," Steve groans when he's fully seated inside you. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, savoring the feeling of being this close to you. "Baby you feel perfect."
He starts to move. It’s slow, deep rolls of his hips that make you gasp beneath him. This isn't fucking. This isn't even having sex, not really.
This is lovemaking, and he knows you or Robin would probably make fun of him for calling it that, for being so sappy and romantic. But that's what it is to him. He's not trying to get off or make himself feel good. He's worshipping you, showing you with his body what his words can't fully express.
He buries his face in your neck, pressing kisses there, breathing you in. "I love you," he whispers against your skin. "I love you so much."
"Steve," you moan, hands clutching at his back. "I love you."
He keeps whispering it. Over and over like a prayer, like if he says it enough times you'll feel exactly how much he means it. "I love you. I love you. I love you."
The room fills with sounds—skin against skin, the creak of his bed frame, your breathy moans, his low groans, the wet slide of him moving inside you. How his hips slap against your ass.The music still plays from his record player, Freddie Mercury's voice a soundtrack to this moment.
After a while, Steve sits up, pulling you with him. You end up in his lap, straddling him, and he guides you up and down on his cock with his hands on your hips. One hand braces on the bed next to him for leverage so he can thrust up into you, meeting your movements.
Your arms are around his neck, holding him close, and you're clutched together so tightly there's no space between your bodies. Sweat makes your skin stick together, and Steve can feel your heart beating against his chest—fast and hard, matching his own rhythm. Your pants and moans mixing together in harmony.
You're looking at him, mouth parted, breathing heavily. Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, tender and gentle even as pleasure builds between you.
"I love you, Steve," you say clearly, deliberately, holding his gaze.
Steve falters, his rhythm stuttering.He kisses you fiercely, possessively, his glasses bumping against your face. He starts moving more intensely—faster, harder, deeper.
"Say it again," he demands against your lips.
"I love you," you gasp.
He uses his large hand to cup your chin, tilting your face so you have to look at him. You can see yourself reflected in his lenses. "I love you," he says back, and it comes out rough, wrecked. "I love you so fucking much."
The intensity makes you lean back slightly, back arching, and Steve groans at the sight. Your breasts bounce with each thrust, nipples hard and begging for his mouth. Your eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from kissing. You look completely gone, lost in pleasure, and he knows he looks the same. It’s desperate and needy and so in love it hurts.
He leans forward and kisses the charm of your necklace where it rests against your skin, then your collarbone, sucking a mark there that will bloom purple by morning.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close again, burying his face between your breasts. He can feel the way you pant and whine into his hair, can feel your body starting to tighten around him. He can hear himself whimpering your name against your sweaty skin.
"Baby, I'm—I'm close," you gasp.
"Me too, baby. Me too."
He reaches between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. That's all it takes—you cry out his name, clenching around him, and the feeling of you coming sends him over the edge too.
He comes with a groan muffled against your chest, hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you. You ride it out together, holding each other through the aftershocks, foreheads pressed together and noses nudging.
When you can both breathe again, you press soft pecks to his lips. Once, twice, three times. Sweet and unhurried.
Steve smiles, tucking your hair back behind your ear with gentle fingers. "I'm happy," he says genuinely, searching your face. "Are you happy, Hot Shot?"
"Yes, Steve. I'm more than happy."
And he believes you. He sees it in your eyes, in the way you're looking at him like he hung the moon and stars. He grabs your hand and places it over his heart, wanting you to feel what he’s thinking without saying it.
He loves you.
You kiss his lips again, soft and lingering. When you pull back, your irises are glimmering, searching into his own. He sees stars twinkling in them—actual constellations reflected in the depths of your eyes. He kisses your nose, then your forehead.
And like the sun itself rising, splitting across your face, you smile. Wide and genuine and so full of love it makes his chest ache.
It doesn't matter anymore how it all led up to here—all the lies and hurt and confusion and heartbreak. None of it matters because you're here now, in his arms, wearing his letters, saying you love him.
Finally.
Finally, Steve Harrington gets to keep something good.
summary: Your parents booked the perfect college graduation present: a luxury cruise. But because they're lying schemers, they secretly invited the Harringtons to join.
More importantly, Steve fucking Harrington.
You know—your former best friend, almost-something, and the guy you haven’t spoken to in four years.
Now you're stuck on a ship for three days together with nothing but meddling parents, a single room, and a whole lot of unresolved history.
And unfortunately, Steve still knows exactly how to unravel you.
tags: [second chance] [childhood best friends to lovers] [modern day cruise ship au] [rich families] [luxury] [only one bed] [eventual smut] [angst with a happy ending] [meddling parents] [high society] [college age steve]
CHAPTER ONE: Day 1
CHAPTER TWO: Day 2
CHAPTER THREE: Day 3
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE - Day 1
{On a luxury cruise, you find yourself tangled up in a scheme to marry Steve Harrington. Only problem is: you hate him.}
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This is the shit.
The sun beats down from high above your lounger on the ship, and your skin soaks it up like a dry sponge. You’ve spent the last three weeks indoors studying for your college finals, and now your reward for crossing that stage in your white coat and being handed a piece of paper is a three-day cruise to the Caribbean.
The only downside is…your parents.
A public pool is not exactly their scene. So, naturally, that’s exactly where you gravitate towards.
Upbeat music bounces across the deck, drumming a happy buzz into your skull. When was the last time you were truly relaxed? Marine Biology is one bitch of a major. A boisterous kid’s laugh cuts through the music, pulling your eyes up. You raise your second margarita to your lips, the cool drink warming your belly in that way only alcohol does.
You’re definitely blaming the booze for the way your eyes linger on a muscled forearm as a man heaves himself over the edge of the pool.
It’s a slippery slope from there— strong hands lead to toned arms, to a smattering of chest hair, and finally to a pair of red swim trunks slung low on his hips. Water pours from him in rivulets, running down the long length of his legs.
You watch his abs flex as he laughs at something the kid calls to him, before his feet start moving your way.
Shit.
You may have had one too many of these Mango Meltdowns, because you were totally just staring at his—
“Hey, stranger.”
You freeze.
Oh God. You know that voice. It’s etched in your dreams. An echo you sometimes hear from across the room. And you always look up, even though you know it’s fruitless.
That thing about your parents being the only downside? Well, scratch that. Because the second one just walked up to you.
You lower your sunglasses slowly, and your vision fills with dripping hair and a teasing smirk.
Steve Harrington.
God, his brown eyes are just as captivating as they were back in in high-school. And middle school. And elementary—point is: Steve has great eyes. And you’ve thought that for as long as you’ve known him.
Which is a long fucking time.
“S-steve?” you stammer, finally finding your voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Me?” Steve snorts. “Pretty sure you’re the one crashing my vacation, Princess.”
Princess. Of course. How could you have forgotten? It’s only been four years since you’ve heard that nickname.
For some reason, Steve seems to take your stunned silence as a personal invitation to join you. He plops down on your lounger and rakes a hand through his hair, spraying cool droplets over your sun-warmed skin.
You hiss and push at his back with your foot. “Wha—Steve! Get off, you’re getting me all wet.”
He twists, sending you a wicked grin over his shoulder. “Oh, really?”
You roll your eyes. “Not like that, you perv. Get your own lounger!”
“There aren’t any left,” Steve says, nodding out toward the deck. “Look.”
He’s right. But that doesn’t matter.
“Okay, this is obvious what’s happening here. You know that, right? Where are Danny and Heather?” You sit up, scanning the pool deck for his parents. But you know they wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere that smells like sunscreen and cheap beer.
“I know,” Steve mutters. “I figured it out the second I saw you.”
You turn back to him. “Oh you did, huh? And when was that? Five seconds ago?”
Steve looks at you, then takes a long swig from—your—water bottle. His eyes hold yours as he swallows, daring you to stop him.
You look away. Coward.
“No,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and placing your water bottle back on the ground. He somehow manages to make it look hot. “Saw you the second you stepped on the ship.”
You scoff. “You did not.”
He shrugs, like he couldn’t give a shit whether you believe him. And for some reason, that makes you think it’s probably true. Now you just feel like an idiot.
And…there it is. That shift in the energy between you. You become acutely aware of every sway the ship makes underneath you as your gaze falls to your lap.
This is exactly why you’ve done everything in your power to avoid seeing Steve Harrington once over the last four years. Doesn’t matter that you used to be best friends growing up, or that you—at one point—thought there could be more.
It’s no secret that both your parents and his have been playing matchmaker your entire lives. Unfortunately for the both of you, it’s far less cupid’s arrow, and much more corporate scheme. With both of you being the the only children of wealthy families, the expectation that you would marry each other has been drilled into your heads since kindergarten.
Honestly, one would think all this elitist marry-your-children-off-for-status bullshit would be gone by now. Modern era and all. But, for your family—and the Harringtons—those were the glory days.
They are so unfathomably out of touch with reality.
“What did they tell you?” you ask, softer now. “College graduation trip?”
Steve nods. “Mandatory.”
You groan, tipping your head back against the lounger. It’s a fancy one. One of those fabric ones that dry instantly, but somehow never sag. The kind of luxury the biggest, best cruise ship in the world prides itself on. Only the best for your parents.
Unfortunately for you, the best includes Steve Harrington.
At one point, you agreed with them when it came to him. But not anymore. That all changed the summer before college.
Suddenly the air is too thick. Too charged. You fiddle with the strap of your bathing suit and look around for some excuse to leave.
“What’s with the kid?” You ask, gesturing to the curly headed boy who is waving his hat around trying to get Steve’s attention.
Steve turns. “Oh, that’s Dustin. Met him at the batting cages earlier. His parents asked me to keep an eye on him for a few minutes. An hour and a half later, I’m a goddamn babysitter.”
You wave at Dustin. He smiles a big, toothless grin and mimes for you to push Steve into the pool.
“Well,” you say, letting out a breath as you gather your things. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.”
Steve makes no effort to get out of your way when you stand, so you end up doing an awkward little shuffle thing to get around him. “I’m sure I’ll see you at dinner. How are we doing this? Same as always?”
“Oh, so now I’m getting a say?” His mouth quirks, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He leans back in your lounger and slides his sunglass down over his eyes. “Funny. Didn’t think that was part of the deal with us.”
You avert your eyes to the pool, and the sun glinting off the surface spears you in the eye. You replace your sunglasses as well before looking back down at him.
So, he is still angry. A small, selfish part of you always wondered if he was.
Well, it’s probably for the best. Considering how you’re still mad at him, too.
A lot can change in four years. But when it comes to you and Steve—some things never will.
“You look nervous,” your mom says.
You’re standing on the top of the stairs leading down to the luxurious dining room, waiting for the Harringtons to arrive. Live piano music drifts through the space, an antithesis to the way your heels pinch your feet and sweat beads on the nape of your neck.
Giant chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, sending a soft glow over crisp white linen and shining silverware. Mom’s auburn curls glint in the light as she leans in to try to fix your dress again.
“I’m not nervous,” you retort, brushing her hand away. You’re wearing an elegant evening gown. Deep blue. It’s pretty, but the thin straps keep falling off your shoulders. Instead of pulling them up, Mom keeps pulling them down. Insisting they look better that way.
You know the truth.
“It’s okay if you are, you know. It has been four years since you’ve seen each other.”
“Leave her alone, Emily,” your dad speaks up from your other side. “I’m sure the Harrington boy is more nervous than she could ever be.”
You huff out a breath. That Harrington boy is all he’s ever been to your dad. A last name. A title.
“He has a name, you know," you snap.
Dad turns to you, green eyes glinting beneath silver brows. His hair has grayed a lot in the last few years. His mouth tilts into a smirk beneath his trimmed mustache. It’s as perfectly put together as the suit he’s wearing. “You really are nervous, aren’t you? Emily, you're sure she said they'd meet us here?"
"Yes dear," Mom replies. "I do know the difference between the top and bottom of the stairs."
Irritation spikes, and you face forward again to hide your grimace. Just get this trip over with. It’s only three days. Then, you can forge ahead with the future you’ve built for yourself. The mission you’ve worked so hard for.
To make the world a better place to live.
“There you are!” A voice calls from the bottom of the stairs. “We were looking everywhere!”
Steve’s Mom, Heather, laughs loudly at the sight of the three of you waiting at the top. She’s a thin, slight woman with wavy brown hair that looks a lot like her son’s. Tonight, she’s in her usual two-piece set. It’s velvet tonight, and the color of a good merlot.
Wine. Now, there’s a thought. God, you need some wine.
Mr. Harrington – or, Danny, as Steve calls him, steps up beside his wife. His suit is a close match to your Father’s. To the untrained eye, they’d look identical in cut and expense. But Dad has never gotten over the fact that Mr. Harrington’s suit is threaded with silver, not silk like his.
It’s a small difference. But to the people in this circle…it’s an entire class divide.
“Got the top and bottom of the stairs mixed up again, Alan?” Danny calls with a smile.
You barely suppress the urge to roll your eyes.
Your parents start down the stairs, plastering on delighted smiles and chuckling about the little mixup, and you’re about to follow when Steve steps into view.
He’s standing at the landing, fiddling with the cufflinks on his navy suit. They seem to wink at you in the dim light of the chandeliers. Teasing you. Daring you.
His lashes brush his cheeks as he works. Faint freckles scatter his face. He always used to get them after playing baseball outside every summer. That thought makes a smile tug at your lips. He hasn't changed much at all. His hair is as tousled as ever, though it look like he’s run his hands through it a few times.
Is he nervous too? No. He’s still angry at you, remember?
You’ve barely started down the steps when his eyes lift.
You really try not to notice how his jaw slackens at the sight of you descending the staircase like a deep blue waterfall. The way his gaze sweeps over you, drinking you in like he hasn’t tasted water in months.
But you do.
Years of practice keep your footing steady, even with your heart jackhammering against your ribs. The sharp click of your heel against the mahogany echoes over the piano, a familiar soundtrack of the life your parents built for you.
When you reach the landing, you look up to find everyone watching you. The Harringtons. Your parents.
Steve extends a hand, and you don’t know why, but you take it. Maybe just to get the attention off you.
Whatever the reason, it works.
our parents and his exchange a heavy, knowing look, but the hostess steps forward, pulling the focus away from you both.
Steve’s looking at your joined hands, and your chest tightens when you notice his shirt sleeve still hanging open, the edges of the crisp linen brushing your wrist.
“Here,” you mutter under your breath, reaching for it.
Your nimble fingers work quickly, securing the cufflinks with practiced ease. You’ve done this many times for him over the years. You used to think he never chose to learn how on purpose.
Because every summer, it gave him an excuse to ask you.
You feel him looking down at you, his gaze a weighty, warm, tangible thing. But you keep your eyes on your task. Because if you look up, even for a second, you’re not sure what you'd do.
The hostess leads the way towards your table, and when your group starts to move, you and Steve follow out of habit.
But for some reason, even after his cufflink is firmly in place, you can’t bring yourself to let go of his hand.
“I can’t believe it’s been this long!” Heather exclaims halfway through dinner.
You tear your eyes away from the window behind the table at the sound of her voice. Even over the clink of silverware and low murmurs of conversation, you can still hear the distant roar of the water as the ship forges through the night.
The depths call to you — a siren song that’s pulled you under completely for the last four years. You drowned willingly, though, wanting to forget.
“I agree,” Dad says, stabbing a piece of steak with his fork and dragging it through the last of the caper sauce on his plate. “We should set sail more often. You know, like we used to.”
Memories are a funny thing.
You would think, since you spent most of the year away from Steve, that you’d have more memories without them in it.
But no.
Your memories are filled with him. You and Steve didn’t live by each other, but you spent a good chunk of the summer together every year. Cruises and resorts were popular with your parents, but your favorite summers were the ones when the Harringtons came to stay at your beach house in South Carolina.
In every stage of your life, he was there. From picking up shells on the shore, to picking each other up for beach parties, he was with you.
Back when everything was good between you.
Until that night, where things were too good…
You reach for your wine glass again.
“Easy there, Princess.” Steve mutters under his breath from his seat beside yours. “At this rate, they might as well just bring you the bottle.”
“Good idea,” you mutter, clinking your glass lightly against his before downing it.
“Those were the days,” Danny chimes in. His hair is slicked back in it’s usual style. If Steve gelled his hair like that, he’d look a lot more like him.
You snort into your glass at the thought. Steve would probably rather cut off his pinky than do that.
God, are you drunk? Already?
Steve drapes an arm around the back of your chair and leans in. He smells good. Familiar. Like hairspray, and that ancient, cheap cologne he always insists on wearing. It’s from a drugstore, you’re pretty sure, which is practically a crime in his family.
Strong, powdery and slightly sweet.
You’ve always liked it.
“We’ve still got two courses to go, you know,” he reminds.
His warm breath ghosts over your ear. You can hardly breathe with him so close to you like this. Maybe you're just drunk off his proximity. That must be it.
“Shut up.”
You hate it when he tells you what to do. Even so, you set your glass down and pick up your fork. You really do need your wits about you—especially if you don’t want to start thinking about dangerous things. That’s what the wine was for.
But it might actually just be making it worse, because now, all you’re left with is a warm belly and a hazy brain that keep replaying the feeling of Steve’s lips on your neck. Your hands in his hair. The way his throat looked in the moonlight, tipped back like that, and the moan that escaped him when you—
Steve’s elbow nudging your ribs jerks you back to reality.
You look up to find the table staring at you.
“Sorry. W-what?” you stammer.
Heather smiles at you, but all you see is a row of pearly whites behind red lipstick. “We were just discussing plans for port tomorrow.”
You nod hesitantly. “I already have plans.”
This isn't your first rodeo.
Avoiding Steve Harrington at all costs and dodging your parents at every opportunity—that is your plan for tomorrow.
Mom and Heather exchange a look across the round table. You know that look.
“We thought it would be nice for you and Steve to get out together,” Mom says. “So, we booked you an exclusive excursion!”
You nearly choke on your wine. Steve shifts in his seat, but says nothing.
Heather nods enthusiastically. “You’ll take a private charter in the morning. I thought snorkeling would be suitable. It’s a youthful activity, and it gives you a chance to share with Steve what you’ve been learning lately. You know, since you study all those exotic fish!”
You go to set your glass down but misjudge the distance, and it scrapes along your plate. The sound echoes too loud through the silence at your table.
Of course. Leave it to this crowd to diminish your education in marine biology and planet conservation to the cute little hobby of memorizing colorful fish.
Sometimes, if you play your cards exactly right, you can finesse your way out of things. But one look at the set of Mom’s jaw—and Heather’s satisfied smirk—and you know.
This is happening whether you want it to or not.
“Thanks,” Steve chimes in easily. “But I was actually just hoping to catch the game tomorrow—”
“Nonsense!” Danny says, pointing his fork at him. “You’re going. End of discussion.”
And that’s how it is with Steve’s family. How it’s always been. There is no discussion.
Ever.
He is ordered around like a chess piece. Nothing but a pawn in his families’ games of status and expectations.
At least you got the freedom to choose your own career.
Steve was required to major in business. Just like his Father. So he could take over the family company. Carry the name.
The same last name that – if your parents have their way – will soon become yours.
There’s something wrong with your key card.
The door to your room won’t open. The lock just keeps flashing red every time you press it to the reader. You try it again. And again. And again.
Finally, with a frustrated sigh, you give up and head down to the front desk.
There you learn, as it turns out, your room has been upgraded. Mysteriously. Anonymously. Oh—and according to the concierge, it just happens to be their exclusive honeymoon suite. He congratulates you as he hands you the key. After profusely correcting him, you drag yourself into the elevator and ride it up to the penthouse floor.
When you tap your card to the reader on the door labeled The Haven, it opens immediately. And as you step into the grand entryway, you already know who you’ll find inside.
“I can’t believe them!” you call, slamming the door behind you.
“I know,” Steve replies instantly, voice carrying from deeper inside the penthouse. “They’re getting desperate.”
You groan in response, kicking your heels off angrily. They clatter onto the marble floor, lying there on their side as if disgraced. Your parents should be disgraced.
“I mean…a fake-out room?” You huff, stomping further into the dimly lit space. “Seriously? I mean, really…where are you? This place is bigger than the Pacific.”
“In here,” Steve calls.
You pass a bedroom, a bathroom, and kitchenette decorated in creams and navy, complete with gold accents that catch the light as you pass. He’s not in any of them.
“Not helpful.”
He sighs, annoyed. “In the living room. I think.”
Finally, you find the space he’s talking about. It’s simple. Plush couch. Glass coffee table. And a gigantic sliding glass door spanning the far wall. The glass has turned into a mirror against the night sky, catching the soft glow of the room and turning it into muted golds and shadows. Beyond it, the ocean is almost invisible. Just a deep black suggestion of movement under the starry sky. You can just make out a private deck, complete with a hot tub.
Steve’s sprawled across the couch. His suit jacket is gone, shirt creased, tie loose. His hair is mussed, and a cold beer dangles from his hand. A baseball game plays on the TV, an announcer talking excitedly about a recent play, but he’s not watching it.
He’s looking at you.
His eyes darken as you step forward, catching on the way your hips sway as you approach. You’re still in your evening gown. After the appropriate amount of time had passed, you excused yourself from dinner and wandered the deck for a long time. Your hair is probably a mess from the wind, and whatever buzz you had is long gone.
But he still looks at you like that. Like he used to.
Your stomach fills with butterflies.
To distract yourself, you lean down and grab the cold beer from him.
“You’re not going to like it,” he warns, but he lets you take it anyway, his fingertips brushing yours in the exchange.
Under his watchful gaze, you lift the bottle to your lips. Right where his mouth was. You watch his throat bob as you take a sip. The sour tang hits your tongue, and you pull away, grimacing.
Yep. Still hate beer.
He raises a hand up to take it back, but you turn and stride away, drink in hand.
“Wait—what?” He pushes up fast, catching you around the waist just before you reach the bedroom door. The heat of his hand burns through the thin fabric of your dress. “Hey! Give it back, Princess. C’mon—you already drank your weight in wine at dinner…”
You fling open the door to the bedroom and he follows close behind.
“Fine.” You shove it back into his chest. “I don’t like it anyway.”
“I know.” He huffs, taking the bottle and placing it on the dresser.
You fold your arms across your chest. He shoves his hands in his pockets. You glance at each other, then away. There are a thousand things left unsaid, but you have no idea how to say them. Or, if you even should.
“So this…excursion thing.” Steve says, watching you closely. “We doin’ it or what?”
You shrug, suddenly tired. “I don’t see how we don’t. They’re going to ask about it.”
“We’ve lied about stuff like this before.”
“Yeah, but my parents…” You trail off, unsure how to describe the recent shift in their behavior lately.
Steve just nods, like he heard you anyway. “Yeah. Somethin’s off with mine too. Can’t figure it out.”
You nod, relieved. “Right? I mean, they’ve always been pushy, but they’re really…rushing. And so tense—what is up with that?”
“Could be a timing thing.” He drags a hand through his hair, and your eyes follow the movement without really meaning to. Four years has changed him. He’s grown out of his boyish features. Broader shoulders. Sharper jaw. A hint of stubble on his chin even when he’s clean-shaven. He looks good. “Like, maybe they think it’s time for an heir or something. You know…biological clock and all that.”
Your jaw drops. All thoughts of how good he looks screech to a halt. “I just graduated college, Harrington! I’m not—”
He smirks. Oh.
“I’m joking, Princess,” he says with a grin, dodging easily when you reach out to slap his arm. “Relax. I have no idea what the hell they’re up to.”
“Okay, well there will be no heir making. Not if I have anything to say about it. Matter of fact— don’t come in my room.”
Steve shakes his head, a grin curling at the corner of his mouth. You have the most ridiculous, intense urge to kiss it off. “You know this is my room, too, right?”
You freeze. “What?”
“Yeah,” he gestures behind you at the single bed. “Only bed in the whole place.”
“Oh, perfect,” you say brightly, sarcasm dripping from your tongue. “That’s just…great.” You don’t know why you didn’t think about that sooner. But the honeymoon suite? Yeah, that tracks. “But wait, there’s a couch!”
Steve groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t fit on that thing. My feet hang off the edge. And no, it doesn’t convert into a bed, I checked.”
“Well, then it’s going to be a long night for you. Or, you could always go buy a new room with your parent’s credit card. But you won’t be sleeping with me.”
The light, teasing energy seems to dim under your words. The soft glow of the lamps grows darker somehow as he looks down at you.
“Don’t worry, Princess,” he breathes. “You keep your hands to yourself this time, and you won’t have to worry about that ever again.”
You gasp, eyes wide. “What did you just say to me?”
He opens his mouth like he might say something, but turns away instead, broad shoulder catching yours as he moves past you. “Forget it.”
But you don’t let him get far. Reaching out, you snatch his shirt and pull him back to face you like a man.
“No, Harrington, you listen to me,” you snap, fingers curling into the warm fabric, his heartbeat thudding against your knuckles. “You don’t get to turn that into this. We shared one night together. That was it. And you were the one who said it meant nothing the next day. So why don’t we just—”
“Me?” His eyes darken. “You told me I was just doing it because my parents told me to.” His jaw pulses. “Like I didn’t have a choice!”
You release him, dropping your gaze so he can’t see the tears springing to your eyes. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
You think about it too much as it is.
“Fine.” Theres a flat edge to Steve’s voice now and it makes your chest ache. His shoulders fall as he turns to leave. “Have it your way, Princess."
You toss and turn all night, and when the soft pink glow of morning spills through the windows, the other side of the bed is still empty.
a/n: hi. so, I went on a cruise over spring break, and I really tried to write a one-shot, but ended up writing a novella instead. sorry not sorry. feel free to come yell at me to finish my other ongoing fics before starting new ones. love u.
Summary: Two months ago you started dating your best friend of five years. It's weird sometimes. But you kind of love it.
CW: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, friends to lovers, fluff, piv smut, oral (r receiving), first time, cursing, pet names, smut portion is NOT proofread because i hate reading my own smut :)
@saradika-graphics for the divider!
inspired, of course, by ftsg - emma andersen :)
For five years, you and Steve were just friends. Strictly platonic.
And not even in a 'wink wink' type of way– you really were just best friends. Mutual harbored feelings aside, you acted like friends. Just good pals.
A semi-drunken kiss, months ago, changed all of that. You're still not sure about Steve; but you weren't really as inebriated as you had claimed to be that night.
Six months of intensely and unnecessarily dramatic pining later and you're staying the night at Steve's place more often than not. He's kissing you and touching you in ways previously off-limits. He's bringing you flowers and cooking you dinner and it's all so weird.
Because you still do all the same things you did when you weren't dating. He still drives you to and from work because you're too scared to get your license. He still makes you drench his popcorn in parmesan cheese before he'll eat it and he still tackles you to the floor when you play spoons with the rest of your friends.
But now you go home together afterward. You get ready for bed in the same bathroom and share each other's bodywash so you can always smell like the other when they're not around. You eat meals together and and climb under the same covers at night.
It's perfect.
It's everything you've spent the last five years doing and more.
And you think you might love him.
Tonight is another one of those perfectly strange moments. You're standing in nothing but his shirt and your underwear, rummaging around the clothes that live in his spare dresser drawer.
Steve's been in the bathroom for ten minutes. He insists on shaving at night before bed– instead of in the morning before leaving the house.
"It gives me the perfect amount of stubble when I wake up in the morning if I do it the night before!" He once explained to you when you'd questioned him about it.
"Baby, have you seen my aftershave?" He now yells from the sink of his ensuite.
Your heart kind of stops. He's never called you that before.
He's literally only ever called you your name. Or nickname adjacent variations of your name. Even after you started dating.
He says it now, in fact, after you don't answer him for a few moments.
"Hey, everything okay?" He asks when he sees your face.
"What did you just call me?" You ask, seemingly struggling to maintain eye contact. You're not totally sure why.
"...baby? Is that...not...?"
"Ew!" Admittedly not exactly the best exclamation to describe how Steve calling you that actually makes you feel, but you're coming up short for anything else.
"'Ew'? Seriously? What's 'ew' about me calling you 'baby'?" Steve questions, his voice rising in volume and pitch in that incredulous way.
"I didn't mean it like ew, I just meant it like. Ew."
"I don't– understand–?"
"It's just. I'm standing here in your room, in your clothes. And its all so domestic and kind of weird and I feel like I can't even talk straight and I think I'm probably in love with you–"
Except for the sound of you clapping your hand over mouth, the room falls completely silent. Steve stands, mouth slightly agape, and doesn't speak.
"You love me?" He asks simply.
"Well– I mean– I've always loved you." You clarify. "I just feel like I love you now... in a different way."
Steve nods slowly.
"We've been friends for years, but now you call me 'baby', apparently, and– and you hold my and kiss me and tell me that I'm pretty. It's all so new. And I love it, but it's odd sometimes. You know?"
"Yeah," he nods more confidently now, "Yeah, I get it."
"So, yes. Ew. But... a good ew," you grin stupidly, your eyes crinkling in the corner.
"Would you think it was 'ew' if I kissed you right now?" Steve asks, stepping closer with an equally dumb smirk on his lips.
"No..." you squirm.
"Good." He says, gently gripping your waist as he pulls you flush against him. Steve kisses you softly, his lips a ghost across your own.
He pulls back to look at you, then moves to your cheek. "Baby," he says against your plush skin before moving to the other cheek, "Baby,"
You laugh fondly, rolling your eyes as his smooching grows more frantic. A steady stream of 'baby's' leaving his mouth between every one he plants on your skin.
"Fuck," you tease, pushing him away, "that's so gross,"
"You love me," he reminds you, leaning into your space again to place open-mouthed kisses on your neck; beneath your ear.
Steve's hands begin to roam. From your shoulders to the small of your back, before brushing over your bottom. His palms find purchase in the apex where your thighs meet your ass.
His mouth finds yours once more, but this kiss is more urgent. With his hands supporting you, he lifts you up, urging your legs to wrap around his waist before carrying you to his modest full-size bed that's hardly big enough for both of you some nights.
You land with an oof and it makes Steve giggle where he planks above you, careful not to crush you with his weight.
The lightness of the moment is replaced by a hunger that overtakes Steve's honeyed eyes before he's ducking down to capture your mouth again. He makes soft noises against your lips that you swallow before they ever reach the air.
One of his knees nudges yours, separating your legs far enough for him to rest between them. "Is this okay?" He asks breathily.
'Yeah. Yeah, it's good,"
Steve settles his weight against your spread thighs, your pelvis' touching. It's a not necessarily a new sensation, but it's new in this context. He's half-hard on top of you. It sends your stomach churning with nervous desire.
He kisses you breathless for a while longer and it's familiar; what's not-so-familiar is the experimental thrust of his hips. You can feel that he's fully erect now, the pressure on your core is surprising and pleasurable all at once.
You gasp and Steve halts. His eyes are wide when he looks at you, "Sorry– was that okay?"
"Okay," he breathes– and does it again. Steve revels in your gasp; the way your back arches just slightly off of the bed and into him.
It all feels a little off-beat. You're still learning each other in this new way. You want to know what makes Steve tick. Steve wants to know what might make you do that pretty gasp again.
"Can I take these off?" He asks, hushed, as his fingers brush the skin under the waistband of your underwear.
You swallow thickly but nod.
"It's okay. If you don't want to." He brushes a lock of hair behind your ear and you know he means it.
"I do," you assure him, "I'm just... nervous,"
"You don't have to be," he smiles down at you, but it wavers. You can tell he's trying to put on a brave face– his 'macho Steve' persona, as you've affectionately branded it.
"Its okay, Steve," you giggle, "you can admit that you're nervous, too,"
"Me?" He scoffs, "Hawkins' Resident Womanizer Steve Harrington? Nervous to have sex with his– stupidly beautiful girlfriend? I doubt it."
You smack his chest and he laughs heartily, snatching your hand and bringing it to his lips.
"Maybe I'm a little nervous," he all but whispers into your knuckles.
"Awfully presumptuous of you to assume I'm having sex with you tonight," you tease.
"Oh, no?" His right hand snakes down your stomach, dipping below your underwear and cupping your heat.
"Oh–"
His voice dips, his mouth hovering just over your ear, "Does your pussy know that, baby? 'Cause you're already soaked."
Hearing Steve talk like this feels visceral. Its like wires being crossed inside your brain. Steve's always been a hit with the girls, but you've never been on the receiving end of the romancing. This Steve feels different than the one you grew up with; than the one you've spent so much time with– doing anything and everything together.
You thought when the time came that it might feel awkward, but now you're beginning to wonder why you haven't done this sooner.
Steve's fingers dip into the arousal pooling in the bottom of your underwear before traveling back to your clit with tantalizing circles.
"That feel good?" He asks. His voice sounds husky but you can tell that he's asking genuinely; still learning what you do and don't like.
"That's– yeah," you sigh, "that's perfect,"
His movements gain more confidence after that. He studies your face as he goes, cataloguing every miniscule reaction and adjusting where he needs to.
And it's so much, but still not enough. "Steve," you exhale, halting his rhythm with your hand on his wrist, "will you... would you go– down on me?" Your voice comes out small, like you're not sure how to ask for it.
Steve seems to take great pleasure in the request, his eyes taking on a mischievous glint, "Yeah? You want my mouth, honey?"
The new pet name makes you shiver, "Please."
"So polite," Steve praises, words muffled from where his mouth is pressed against the skin of your stomach as he trails his mouth lower lower lower– until he's exactly where you need him.
His tongue is hot and hesitant against you. He starts with barely there kitten licks before flattening his tongue entirely– moving with broad strokes from your entrance to your clit and making sure you're comfortable before incorporating his fingers again.
Your hand flies to his hair when he slides the first one inside of you, all the way to his last knuckle, "Fuck, Steve!"
The encouragement and the pull of your fingers threading through his hair elicits a ragged moan from his throat. You've never even imagined Steve making a sound like that. Another wave of arousal washes over you.
He works you over for what feels like hours and you're admittedly shocked to feel your pleasure cresting to a peak. You've never finished from a having sex with a partner before; you feel yourself beginning to tense.
"Steve– I'm close–" you whimper, head thrown back against his expensive down pillows that you know you're dampening with sweat.
"I know, baby, I can tell," he pauses, "it's okay– I've got you,"
His eyes never leave you as you come. He watches ever twitch of your abdomen– every squeeze of your hands twisted in the bedsheet. You can hear him murmuring praises the entire time– good girl, so good, baby, fuck–that's so hot– but it all sounds muffled. Like you're underwater.
You waste no time grabbing him by the jaw as we crawls his way back over your body and pulling him into a searing kiss. He tastes like a heady mix of your cunt and the spearmint toothpaste he was brushing his teeth with an hour ago.
Steve's tenting his boxers when you glance down between your bodies; just past him the sheets discolored with wet patches where he'd been rutting into the mattress.
Your legs hook behind his back and you pull him into you with a force that knocks the wind out of both of you. You're still sensitive from your orgasm.
"Do you want me to use a condom?" He groans as his clothed cock ruts against your bare folds. He can barely speak; feeling the warmth of you seep through the fabric.
"I'm on the pill," you tell him, "you could pull out just in case, but it's up to you,"
He ducks down to kiss you before responding. Steve kisses you like its as essential to him as air or water– a lifeforce that he needs or he'll simply cease to exist.
You take the opportunity to push his boxers off his hips and down his thighs as he licks into your mouth; his tongue tangling with yours.
Steve's cock is heavy and velvety soft in your hand as you pump him slowly. Your mouths part with a click as you bring your palm to his mouth. "Spit."
His previously heavy-lidded eyes grow wider, but he obliges. You bring your hand back down to stroke him again; this time with better lubrication.
"Holy shit–fuck, baby," he whines into your temple. His arms shake where he's still trying to hold himself up.
You feel yourself gaining confidence with every passing minute that the two of you are intimate, and it feels even better to take the reins back a little. You can't help but wonder what he would sound like– what he would look like– completely at your mercy. You decide to table the thought for another time.
"I need you," you whimper into his sweat-damp hair.
"I know, pretty girl," the thick head of his cock nudges your entrance, prompting you to take a deep breath in in preparation for his size.
"Hey– you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable or you want to stop, okay?" He waits for your nod, "Even if you just want to slow down, that's okay, too. I want you to make you feel good."
"I know," you smile up at him through your daze, softly petting the side of his face, "you do make me feel good,"
He kisses the side of your mouth– the gentlest his been with you all evening– as he pushes the rest of the way inside you. By the time he's at the hilt, you feel so full that it's hard to breathe. You can feel him everywhere.
Tears begin to prick the corners of you eyes once he starts to move; a slow rocking of your bodies into the mattress. You aren't sure the cause. Maybe it's how close you feel to him– maybe it's how he's perpetually grinding into your g-spot with every thrust.
"Fuck– I love you," he groans into the crook of your neck where it meets your shoulder. His teeth scrape the sensitive skin there like he might bite you, but he doesn't.
"I love you, baby–"
The shape of the endearment in your mouth awakens something nearly primal in Steve as he begins to fuck you that much faster. The headboard creaks where it repeatedly hits the wall behind you.
Strong biceps wrap around you, lifting you beneath the armpits as Steve hugs you in this horizontal position. You squeeze him back just as fiercly.
You feel your second climax approaching significantly quicker than the first had, but you need more. Pressing your fingers to Steve's mouth, he doesn't question your motive. He opens and closes around them obediently, slicking them for you.
He watches as you snake your hand in between your glistening bodies, "Yeah, there you go," his voice breathy and punctuated by his relentless thrusts, "touch yourself f'me, baby– good girl,"
It's almost too much. It's perfect. "Steve– I'm close–"
"Ah– me, too," he pants, forehead pressed firmly to yours, "come with me–"
Your entire body contracts as you finish and you're certain you've never came so hard in your life. Steve holds off until he's sure you're satisfied before pulling out just in time to spill all across your stomach with a long, low moan.
The last of his strength leaves him shortly thereafter; his trembling body collapsing against you.
Your combined skin is tacky and cool with sweat, but neither of you can bring yourselves to move.
The air in the room is thick with the scent of sex and the only sound comes from the crickets chirping through the open window and your shaking breaths. It feels like hours before Steve breaks the silence.
"You okay? Was that good for you?"
"'Good' would be the understatement of the century,"
"I can't believe we didn't do that sooner,"
"I was just thinking that earlier,"
The hushed conversation somehow feels just as intimate as the sex did.
"We can't fall asleep like this," you remind Steve, who very well may already be sleeping. You're getting Deja Vu from a conversation you once had with Nancy Wheeler.
"Why not?" He slurs. Okay, not sleeping then.
"Because I need to pee or else I'll get a UTI," you pause, thinking, "and your... jizz is all over my stomach."
"Don't call it 'jizz'," Steve admonishes.
It takes longer than you'd ever admit to get you both cleaned up, despite your constant reminders to Steve that– the faster you take care of the mess, the faster you can crawl back into bed.
Steve tells you he loves you approximately seven more times before he finally falls asleep.
ur weird as fuck for writing a man fucking a canonical lesbian btw
Isn’t it already weird asf that the whole community of tumblr writes smut for anyone? Let’s not even MENTION ao3… Btw the Pedro Pascal community is writing for a gay man. Count your blessings. ^_^
Request — Hi <3 I saw you're accepting requests. Could you write a Steve Harrington x reader story where the female reader is insecure about having small breasts? She thinks Steve finds them inadequate, because of his history with women, he doesn't acknowledge her insecurity until he notices she's acting strangely towards him. Then he confronts her, thinking she's angry with him and then it all ends in a delicious smut.
Synopsis Steve reminds the insecure reader why she has no reason to be insecure, leading to a steamy session in the backseat.
Content Warning Explicit sexual content including groping, oral stimulation, vaginal sex, and dirty talk; themes of body insecurity and self-doubt. Intended for mature audiences.
Tiff’s Note — so lmk if I’m doing good with this prestory stuff…like should I add an authors note?? I hope you like it T_T Should I make all my fics in small letters? I just want feedback fr
Masterlist
𐦔
I stood in front of the foggy mirror in my bathroom, the steam from the shower still clinging to the air like a humid blanket. I’d just stepped out, towel-dried my hair, and slipped into the outfit I’d picked out specifically for tonight—a low-cut top that hugged my frame, paired with my favorite jeans. It was supposed to be sexy, alluring, something to catch Steve’s eye when he came over after his shift at the radio station. Robin would probably tease him about it tomorrow, but I didn’t care. I wanted him to look at me and see desire, not… whatever this was.
I tugged at the neckline, adjusting it for the umpteenth time. The fabric dipped just enough to hint at cleavage, but on me? It looked flat, almost comical. Like a kid playing dress-up in her mom’s clothes. Why did I even buy this? I thought, staring at my reflection. If I had actual boobs, this would plunge perfectly, create that shadow, that curve that drives guys wild. But no, mine are barely there. A-cups at best, more like mosquito bites. I cupped my hands over my chest experimentally, pushing up what little I had. It helped a bit, but as soon as I let go, everything deflated back to nothing. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. How am I supposed to feel confident in this? It’s like the top is mocking me, hanging there with all this potential that’s wasted on my body.
Steve had dated girls with curves before—Nancy Wheeler, with her perfect figure, or those cheerleaders from high school who filled out their uniforms like they were made for them. I’d heard the stories, the way guys talked in Hawkins. Steve Harrington, King Steve, the guy who could have anyone. And now he was with me? He must be settling, my mind whispered insidiously. He probably misses the way bigger breasts feel, look, bounce. God, does he even notice mine during sex? Or is he just polite about it? Closing his eyes and imagining someone else? Someone fuller, more womanly? The thought twisted in my gut like a knife. I remembered the last time we were intimate; his hands had roamed, sure, but did they linger there? Or did they skip over, heading straight for other parts because there wasn’t much to appreciate?
I shook my head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they clung like the steam on the mirror, fogging up my confidence. I’d been feeling this way for weeks now, ever since I overheard some girls at the mall gossiping about their push-up bras and how it made their boyfriends go crazy. If I had that, Steve would be all over me the second he walked in the door. He’d drop everything—his keys, his jacket—and just stare, mesmerized. But me? I’ll be lucky if he even notices the outfit. He’ll probably think I look cute, like a little sister or something. Not hot. Not desirable. Instead, I felt inadequate, like I was serving him an appetizer when he deserved a feast. A full-course meal with all the trimmings. I smoothed the top down again, turning sideways to check the profile. Flat as a board. No silhouette, no allure. Maybe I should change. Wear something baggy, hide it all. Sweatshirt and pajamas. That way, there’s no disappointment. But no, I want him to want me. Desperately. I want to see that fire in his eyes, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters. Is that too much to ask? Or am I just delusional?
The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, each second amplifying my anxiety, reminding me Steve would be here soon. His shift at the radio station ended at 8, and he’d swing by with that easy grin, probably carrying a mixtape he’d put together during downtime—something with The Police or Duran Duran, tracks he’d spun on air earlier. Robin would have ragged on him all day about being lovesick, mocking his song dedications that were clearly about me, even if he denied it. I smiled at the thought, but it faded quickly, replaced by a wave of doubt. What if he’s getting bored? What if, during those long shifts surrounded by album covers of glamorous women—Madonna with her bold confidence, Pat Benatar with her curves—he’s thinking about someone else, someone with more to offer? Someone who doesn’t have to worry about filling out a top like this? I could picture him at the station, headphones on, flipping through records, his eyes catching those glossy images. Busty singers in tight outfits, exuding sex appeal. Does he compare? He must. How could he not? I’m just… me. Plain, small, insufficient.
I applied a bit of makeup, mascara to make my eyes pop, hoping it would distract from my chest. Focus on your face, your smile. That’s what he says he loves. Your laugh, your eyes, the way you crinkle your nose when something’s funny. But deep down, I doubted it. Guys were visual; everyone knew that. Steve was no exception. I’d seen the way his eyes lingered on album covers at the station when I’d visited, those voluptuous artists staring back with confidence I could only dream of. Or when we’d flip through his collection at home, his fingers tracing the edges as he talked about the music, but I caught the glances. He’s a guy. He notices. And with me, there’s nothing to notice. No wonder he doesn’t bring it up. He’s sparing my feelings. I added some lipstick, a bold red to draw attention to my mouth instead. Maybe that’ll work. Kissable lips over forgettable chest. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding?
As I blended the blush on my cheeks, my mind wandered back to our first date. He’d been so charming, picking me up in his BMW, radio blasting some hit he’d just played at work. We’d talked for hours, laughed until my sides hurt. But even then, I’d wondered: Why me? Out of all the girls in Hawkins, why the one with the boyish figure? It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried to improve things—exercises from magazines, creams that promised miracles but delivered nothing. Push-ups for my chest? Ha. All they did was make my arms sore. I stared at my reflection again, poking at my skin. Genetics screwed me over. Mom’s side, all petite and flat. Thanks a lot, family tree. The insecurity had been simmering, but lately, it boiled over. Every time I saw a billboard or a TV ad with curvy models, it hit harder. Steve sees that stuff too. At the station, callers requesting songs by artists like Whitney Houston, with her stunning presence. Does he fantasize? Wish I looked more like that?
I paced the small bathroom, the tiles cool under my bare feet. Stop this. You’re spiraling. He chose you. He stays with you. But the voice in my head wouldn’t quit. For now. Until someone better comes along. Someone who can wear this top and make it sing. I adjusted the straps, pulling them tighter, but it only emphasized the lack. Maybe a padded bra. But that feels like lying. And what happens when it comes off? Disappointment city. I’d tried one once, felt like a fraud the whole night. No, better to be honest, even if it meant facing the truth. But is he honest? He says I’m beautiful, but does he mean it? Or is it just what boyfriends say? Memories flooded in—his compliments on my legs, my hair, but never specifically on my breasts. Omission speaks volumes. He knows they’re subpar.
The steam finally cleared, revealing my full reflection. I looked okay, I guess. Cute, even. But sexy? Not a chance. I fluffed my hair one more time, trying to add volume up top to compensate. Distraction tactic number 47. The clock showed 7:45. Fifteen minutes until he arrived. What if I cancel? Say I’m sick. Avoid the whole thing. But no, that would worry him, and Robin would grill him about it tomorrow during their shift. I could hear her now: “Trouble in paradise, Dingus?” Steve would defend me, but inside, maybe he’d be relieved. No more pretending.
I sighed, leaning against the sink. Get it together. You’re more than your body. He loves you for you. But the doubt lingered, a persistent shadow. Does he, though? Or is love blind until it’s not? I straightened up, forcing a smile in the mirror. Fake it till you make it. Tonight, I’d try. For him. For us. But deep down, the insecurity gnawed, whispering that I wasn’t enough.
By the time I heard the knock on the door, my stomach was in knots. I glanced one last time in the mirror, fluffing my hair to draw attention upward. Here goes nothing.
I opened the door, and there was Steve, leaning against the frame with that signature grin, his hair still a bit messy from the radio booth headphones. He was in his usual button-up, sleeves rolled up, smelling faintly of coffee and static electricity from the station.
“Hey, you,” he said, eyes lighting up as they swept over me. “Ready for our big night out?”
I nodded, forcing a smile despite the knot in my stomach. Act normal. Don’t let him see the mess in your head. “Yeah, let’s go.”
He took my hand, leading me to his BMW parked curbside. The engine purred to life as we buckled in, and he fiddled with the radio dial, landing on a soft rock station—ironic, given his job. “Can’t escape the tunes even off the clock,” he joked, glancing at me.
I laughed weakly, my fingers already tugging at the hem of my low-cut top. It’s riding up. Or down. Does it look okay? Pull it higher—no, that makes it bunch. Lower? God, no, that shows even less. The fabric felt wrong against my skin, too loose where it should cling, too revealing of my flatness. I adjusted the neckline again, pulling it to the side, then centering it. Better? Worse? Why can’t I just leave it alone?
Steve pulled out onto the road, heading toward the diner on the edge of Hawkins—the one with the good milkshakes and booths where we could talk for hours. Streetlights flickered by, casting shadows on the dashboard. He chatted about his shift: “Robin was on fire today. Dedicate a song to some guy who called in about his crush, and she turns it into a whole comedy bit. Nearly knocked over the mic laughing.”
“Sounds fun,” I murmured, my hand drifting back to my shirt. I smoothed it down over my chest, pressing flat what was already flat. If I had more there, this wouldn’t be an issue. The top would sit right, curve just so. But no, it’s like draping silk over a plank. Tug. Adjust. Fidget.
He shot me a sideways glance, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for mine. But I pulled away to fix the strap that had slipped—had it? Or was I imagining? Stop. He’s going to notice. But maybe that’s good. Maybe he’ll say something, confirm my fears. The internal voice mocked me: Or he’ll pretend not to see, like always.
“You okay over there?” Steve asked after a minute, his tone light but probing. “You’ve been… fidgety.”
“I’m fine,” I said quickly, crossing my arms to hide my chest, but that only made the top wrinkle awkwardly. Uncross. Tug again. Liar. You’re not fine. You’re a bundle of nerves because you feel like a fraud in this outfit. The car hit a bump, and I used it as an excuse to shift, pulling at the fabric once more.
Steve’s brow furrowed, visible in the glow of passing cars. “You sure? You’ve adjusted that shirt like five times since we left. Is it itchy or something?”
Here it comes. The moment he points out how ridiculous I look. “No, it’s… comfortable. Just, you know, new clothes.” My voice sounded thin, unconvincing even to me. I stared out the window at the blurring trees, my fingers betraying me by yanking the neckline up an inch. Why won’t my hands stop? It’s like they’re trying to cover up the evidence of my inadequacy.
He chuckled softly. “If you say so. But if it’s bugging you, we can swing by your place and you can change. No big deal.”
Change? Into what? Something that hides me completely? Admit defeat? “No, really. I’m good.” But my traitorous fingers disagreed, fiddling with the hem again. The radio played some love ballad, the lyrics about perfect bodies and endless desire twisting the knife in my gut. That’s not me. Never will be.
A few miles down the road, Steve sighed, his patience wearing thin. “Alright, what’s going on? You’re messing with that top nonstop. If it’s not the shirt, then what? Did I say something wrong at work today? Robin mention anything?”
I shook my head, biting my lip. Don’t spill. Keep it inside. But god, it’s eating me alive. “It’s nothing. Focus on the road.”
But he didn’t. Instead, he slowed the car, pulling over to the shoulder under a canopy of trees, the engine idling softly. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating nothing but empty asphalt ahead. He turned off the radio, shifting in his seat to face me fully. “Nope. We’re talking. You’ve been off since I picked you up. Spill it.”
My heart raced, palms sweaty. Now or never. But what if he laughs? Or worse, agrees? I stared at my lap, fingers still twitching toward the shirt but frozen now. “It’s stupid.”
“Nothing’s stupid if it’s bothering you this much.” His voice was gentle, that Steve Harrington charm turned to concern. He reached over, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Come on, babe. Talk to me.”
I took a deep breath, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “It’s this shirt. This outfit. I put it on for you, to look… sexy, I guess. But it doesn’t. On me, it just looks wrong.”
He blinked, confused. “What? You look great. Hot, even. Why would you think—”
“Because of this!” I gestured wildly at my chest, the motion pulling the neckline askew again. I fixed it hastily. “I’m flat, Steve. No curves, no cleavage. This top is made for girls with boobs—real ones that fill it out, make it dip and shadow just right. But on me? It’s like hanging a curtain on a window with no view. Pathetic.”
There. Said it. Now watch him backpedal. My mind raced: He’ll say it’s fine, but his eyes will give it away. Remember those girls he dated? Busty, confident. Nancy with her fitted sweaters, always looking put-together. And me? Trying too hard and failing.
Steve’s expression softened, a mix of surprise and something like hurt. “Is that what this is about? Your… breasts?”
I nodded miserably, tears pricking my eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it forever. You never say anything, so maybe you don’t care, but I do. I see how guys look at girls with more up top. And you—you’ve had that. King Steve, right? Cheerleaders, popular girls who turned heads. I’m just… me. Small. Inadequate. Every time I wear something like this, it’s a reminder. If I had bigger boobs, I’d feel confident. You’d look at me differently, want me more.”
He unbuckled his seatbelt, turning fully toward me. “Hey, no. Stop that.” His hand found mine, squeezing gently. “First off, I love your body. All of it. Yeah, I’ve dated other girls, but that was high school crap. Superficial. With you? It’s real.”
Is it? Or is he just being nice? “But you must notice. During… you know, intimate times. Mine don’t even move. No bounce, no handful. You probably wish—”
“I don’t wish for anything else.” His voice was firm now, eyes locking onto mine. “Your breasts are perfect because they’re part of you. Soft, sensitive—god, the way you react when I touch them? That’s what turns me on. Not size. You.”
I scoffed, wiping at my eyes. Easy to say. “Then why don’t you ever comment on them? Compliment other parts, sure, but never that.”
He ran a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “Shit, I guess I didn’t want to make you self-conscious. Thought it was obvious I liked them. But if you need to hear it—your chest is sexy as hell. Small, yeah, but perky, fitting perfectly in my hands. No bra needed half the time, which is hot. And the nipples? So responsive. Drives me crazy.”
Really? Heat flushed my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and something warmer. “You’re not just saying that?”
“Swear on my hairspray collection.” He grinned, but his eyes were serious. “Look, I get insecurities. I’ve got my own—my hair, my job, feeling like I’m not the hero type anymore. But you? You’re everything. Curvy girls are fine, but you’re my type. Lean, athletic, real.”
I let out a shaky laugh. Maybe he’s right. Or at least, he believes it. “I just… overheard those girls at the mall. Push-up bras, boyfriends going wild. Made me feel like I’m missing out on that for you.”
“You’re not missing anything.” He leaned closer, his breath warm on my face. “If anything, I’m the lucky one. You chose me, flaws and all.”
His words hung in the air, wrapping around me like a promise, but the doubt still lingered in the corners of my mind. I searched his eyes, those deep brown pools that always seemed to see right through me, looking for any hint of insincerity. But there was none—just raw honesty and a spark of something hotter, more primal. My heart stuttered as his hand slid from mine to my thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles that sent tiny electric shocks up my spine.
“Steve…” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the idling engine. The car’s interior felt smaller now, the air thick with unspoken tension.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he closed the distance, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that started soft but quickly ignited. His tongue teased the seam of my mouth, coaxing me open, and I melted into him, tasting the faint hint of coffee from his shift. But even as heat bloomed in my chest, my insecurities whispered: He’s just comforting you. He doesn’t really crave this body.
As if reading my thoughts, Steve broke the kiss, his forehead resting against mine. “I need to show you,” he murmured, voice husky. “Right here, right now. How fucking much I love every inch of you. No more doubts.”
My breath hitched. “In the car? What if someone—”
“No one’s around,” he cut in, glancing at the empty road flanked by dark trees. “And even if they were, I wouldn’t care. I want you to feel it. All of it.” His hand squeezed my thigh, inching higher, and I felt a rush of wetness between my legs. God, he’s serious. The idea thrilled and terrified me, but the ache building in my core won out.
I nodded, wordless, and he grinned—that cocky, King Steve grin that made my knees weak. We unbuckled, climbing out into the cool night air before slipping into the back seat. The door clicked shut behind us, sealing us in our own little world. Steve pulled me onto his lap immediately, my legs straddling his thighs, the hardness of his erection pressing against me through our jeans. I gasped at the contact, grinding down instinctively.
“See?” he said, hands sliding under my top to caress my bare skin. “Already hard for you. Just from kissing you, from seeing you in this shirt.” He lifted the fabric slowly, inch by inch, exposing my stomach, then higher, until my small breasts were bared to him. No bra— I’d felt daring earlier, but now I felt exposed, vulnerable. What if he changes his mind? Sees how little there is?
But his eyes darkened with lust, not disappointment. “Fuck, babe,” he breathed, cupping them gently in his large hands. His palms were rough from work, the calluses scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin. Thumbs brushed over my nipples, and I arched, a sharp pleasure shooting straight to my clit. “These are perfect. So fucking perfect.”
He squeezed lightly, kneading the soft flesh, and I moaned, the sound echoing in the confined space. Oh god, that feels… incredible. Tingles radiated from his touch, my nipples hardening into tight peaks under his attention. He rolled one between his fingers, pinching just enough to make me whimper, the mix of pain and pleasure making my pussy clench.
“Look at how they respond to me,” Steve murmured, his voice low and gravelly. “Perky little things, begging for my mouth.” He leaned in, hot breath fanning over one nipple before his tongue flicked out, tracing a slow, wet circle around the areola. I shivered, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “That’s it, feel how much I want this.”
His lips closed around the bud, sucking gently at first, then harder, his tongue lashing against it in rhythmic strokes. Pleasure exploded through me—warm, pulsing waves that made my hips buck against him. So good… why did I ever doubt? The suction pulled deep into my core, each tug sending jolts of ecstasy down my body. His free hand groped the other breast, massaging firmly, fingers tweaking the nipple in time with his mouth.
He pulled back slightly, lips glistening, eyes locked on mine. “Taste so sweet, babe. Could suck on these all night.” Then he dove back in, alternating between licks and nips, his teeth grazing the sensitive tip just enough to make me cry out. “You like that? Feel how hard you make me? Grinding against my cock like that—fuck, you’re killing me.”
I rocked harder, the friction of his jeans against my damp panties building the pressure. “Steve, please…”
“Please what?” he teased, switching to the other nipple, latching on with a hungry growl. His hand slid down my side, dipping into my waistband, but he kept his focus on my chest, worshipping it. “Tell me you believe me now. These tits—god, they’re mine. Small, sensitive, fucking addictive.”
His words fueled the fire, melting away the last shreds of insecurity. He loves them. Loves me. Pleasure coiled tighter with every suck, every squeeze. My body trembled, arousal soaking through my underwear. He groped harder now, hands full despite my size, thumbs circling the wet peaks as he kissed between them.
“See? Fit perfectly in my hands,” he said between reattachments, his mouth never straying far. Lick. “No need for more.” Suck. “You’re everything I crave.” Bite—gentle, teasing. I keened, my clit throbbing with need.
“Steve, I need you… inside me,” I panted, fumbling with his belt. He helped, shoving his jeans down just enough to free his cock—thick, veined, precum beading at the tip. I stroked him, feeling him twitch in my hand, and he groaned against my skin.
“Fuck, yes.” He yanked my jeans and panties off in one swift motion, positioning me over him. “Gonna show you how good we fit. How much your body drives me insane.”
He guided the head to my entrance, rubbing it through my slick folds. I sank down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch burning deliciously. So full… perfect. He filled me completely, hitting every sensitive spot. We both moaned as I bottomed out, my walls clenching around him.
“Ride me, babe,” he urged, hands back on my breasts, groping as I started to move. Up and down, slow at first, savoring the drag of him inside me. Pleasure built in layers—the fullness in my pussy, the sparks from his hands on my nipples. He pinched them, rolling as I bounced, each thrust sending me higher.
“That’s it, feel me? Deep inside you because you’re fucking made for me.” His hips bucked up to meet mine, driving harder. The car rocked with us, windows fully fogged now. Sweat slicked our skin, his mouth latching back onto a nipple mid-thrust, sucking in time with our rhythm.
“Oh god, Steve!” I cried, the dual sensations overwhelming—his cock stroking my g-spot, his tongue laving my breast. Waves of ecstasy crashed, my orgasm building fast. He talked through it, words muffled against my flesh: “Come for me. Squeeze my dick with that tight pussy. Your tits bouncing like this—fuck, so hot.”
I shattered, climax ripping through me, walls pulsing around him. He followed seconds later, thrusting deep and spilling inside with a guttural moan, his hands never leaving my chest.
We collapsed, breathless, his arms wrapping around me. “Believe me now?” he whispered, kissing my sweat-dampened skin.
“Yeah,” I sighed, finally whole. More than enough.
But wait, that wasn’t the end. As our breaths slowed, Steve’s hands wandered again, tracing my curves—or lack thereof—with reverence. “We’re not done,” he said, voice still rough with desire. “I want you to feel this all night.”
He shifted us, laying me back on the seat, his body covering mine. The leather stuck to my skin, but I didn’t care. His cock, still semi-hard, pressed against my thigh as he kissed down my neck, collarbone, back to my breasts. “Round two,” he murmured, lips brushing a nipple. “Gonna make you come just from this.”
His mouth descended again, slower this time, savoring. Tongue swirling lazy patterns, teeth nipping playfully. I arched, already sensitive from before, pleasure reigniting like embers fanned to flame. How does he do this? Make me feel so wanted? His hands roamed, one groping my ass, the other teasing my other nipple.
“Steve… sensitive,” I whimpered, but my body betrayed me, pushing into his touch.
“Good sensitive?” he asked, pulling back to blow cool air on the wet peak. Goosebumps erupted, and I nodded frantically. “Thought so. Watch me worship you.”
He sucked deeper, hollowing his cheeks, the pressure intense. Jolts shot to my core, my pussy clenching on nothing. He noticed, sliding a hand between my legs, fingers circling my clit. “Wet again already? Fuck, babe.”
Two fingers dipped inside, curling to hit that spot, thrusting in time with his mouth on my breast. Pleasure doubled, tripled—overwhelming, all-consuming. I thrashed, hands clutching the seat, moans filling the car.
“You’re so responsive here,” he said between sucks, fingers pumping faster. “Love how your nipples get so hard for me. Pink and pretty.” Lick. “Gonna make you squirt if I keep this up.”
The dirty talk pushed me closer, his thumb on my clit rubbing circles. “Come on, give it to me. Soak my fingers while I suck these perfect tits.”
I exploded again, vision whiting out, liquid heat gushing over his hand. He groaned approval, lapping at my nipple through the aftershocks.
When I came down, he was hard again, sliding back inside me with ease. This time, slower, more intimate—making love, as he called it. But still filthy, his mouth never leaving my chest, murmuring praises between thrusts.
“Feel that? How deep I am? Because your body’s fucking heaven.” Thrust. Suck. “These tits—obsessed.” Grind. Nip.
We built together, sweat-slicked and desperate, until we shattered once more, clinging as waves crashed.
Finally spent, we dressed in the afterglow, his kisses gentle now. “Never doubt again,” he said.
Hi <3 I saw you're accepting requests. Could you write a Steve Harrington x reader story where the female reader is insecure about having small breasts? She thinks Steve finds them inadequate, because of his history with women, he doesn't acknowledge her insecurity until he notices she's acting strangely towards him. Then he confronts her, thinking she's angry with him and then it all ends in a delicious smut.
(If possible, I'd like it to happen while he's still working with Robin on the radio.)
Thank you for reading my request, thank you so much even if you can't fulfill it. Have a good week and a wonderful life. (◍•ᴗ•◍)✧*。
Plot: You ask your best friend to help you through your heat, but there is one problem. You ARE scared of being knotted.
+18, omegaverse, p in v unprotected, knotting, steve being a gentleman, fluff, smut, heat, a little of angst, reader being a nervous wreck
Full Masterlist of MMM26 here, an event from @stmarchmm
Reblog if you like, engagement is important.
DAY 1 - KNOTTING
You were scared.
You asked your best friend to spend your first heat with you, but you were still frightened by the thought of a knot inside of you. When you presented, you didn't think you would be an Omega, mostly because when you learnt about secondary genders, you were immediately uncomfortable when you saw just how big Alphas knots could enlarge.
It was impossible to take that. You were in shock when you heard stories about how good it felt, how amazingly pleasant it was to finally satiate that itch, that need. You scrunched your nose each time you heard them, because how could your inside stretch that much?
Hearing them say how the only thing they thought about was the knot, about being filled to the brim, and you really didn't know if you would feel any of that because of your fear. But Steve offered to help you through your heat, and he would make sure not to knot you at all. You didn't want a bad experience, and from what you knew, spending a heat alone wasn't the best thing to ever happen to an Omega.
And Steve cared for you. He cared deeply for you, and he wanted to protect you through everything, even from your designation and fear.
Now, this was the problem, you accepted without question because you held feelings for your best friend ever since you could remember. In some little space in your heart, you were grateful of being an Omega, because that meant you would have at least one chance with him. When he offered to help, you were pretty sure you heard angels sing all around you.
But in the present, your insides were burning, you were sweating, slick was coming out of you in gushes all over your sheets. You built a nest with clothes from your friends, and Steve was the one who brought them all in. Most of the clothes were from him, though. You felt more protected that way, more secure, and his scent made wonders for you to try to calm yourself.
"Sweetheart, I'm gonna start making you feel good, okay?" He was hovering over your naked body. In another moment of your life, you would have been ashamed, embarrassed, not good enough, but right now, all you needed was the Alpha above you to do something, anything.
"Please, please…" You whispered, choked up on your own sobs as you reached out for him. He was trembling, and when he pressed his lips against yours, you could feel yourself melting down into the mattress, wrapping your arms around his naked upper body. He was in his boxers only, having taken his clothes off as soon as he entered the room, your scent making his head spiral.
He kissed you senseless, merging his body against yours, and you could feel how hard he was, and fuck— You wanted it so bad. You needed it so bad. You craved it so bad. Your hips bucked against him, making him hiss out against you, but not complaining.
His lips were all over you, kissing his way down, making you come undone with his tongue and fingers. Those fingers that drove you wild each time they intertwined with yours while holding his hand over the table at a diner. You moaned his name, you moaned his designation multiple times, trying to get him to do more, trying to get him to give you what you needed.
"Oh, fuck…" He muttered when he finally slid inside of you, easily so thanks to your slick. You were so wet for him that it kept gushing and gushing out at each thrust he gave. You moaned, cried, and whimpered, feeling every ridge of him inside of you. He was breathing heavily as he moved his hips against yours, jerking you up and down into your bed, his lips kissing your left shoulder over and over again.
"Steve— Alpha, Alpha, more, more!" You cried out, and he was giving his all and yet it was not enough. The fire was not extinguishing, not even a little bit. Your insides were flipped almost, cramps in your belly that ached for something, for more, for anything, and your mushed brain was losing rationality.
"Omega, baby, I'm getting close— Jesus christ!" You came around him for the third time, crying out, and he huffed almost in pain as he sweated all over. His hair was sticking to his forehead, and you could feel him start to rut his hips into you. When you came down from your high, tears streamed down your face, shaking your head.
"Not enough, not enough, more, please—"
"I— I need to pull out, I'm going to knot, and you don't want—" Your eyes widened, your legs wrapping around his waist to lock him in. He gasped, eyes going wide, shaking his head desperately, but his hips didn't stop moving at all. "Omega, you said you didn't want my knot, I can't—"
"No! Please! I take it back! I take it back! Want it, please!" Your mouth was open, drool coming out from the side of it, and he was looking down at you almost painfully, trying to hold himself back. He made you a promise, and you were not thinking rationally at all. You were being driven by your heat, just like he predicted.
"I won't, fuck, I won't—"
"Am I not enough? Not good Omega? No?" You were blabbering, more tears streaming down, desperation in your tongue, and his hands were tight around your pillow, on each side of your head. He shook his head erratically, pressing his lips against yours, breathing against them.
"If I knot you, Omega, I won't be able to move on—" He whispered your name, and you nodded, hands going through his hair as his hips started stuttering, losing his tempo.
"Please, Alpha, please—" Your eyes widened as he moaned loudly, seething himself inside of you, and you could feel the stretch, your head falling back into the pillow with wide eyes. Your mouth hung open as you felt him grow against your walls, and fuck, you could feel the pressure, but also, the relief. The wave of relief just washed all over your body as he consumed you, locking himself inside of you.
And you came around him once more, milking him as he spurted his seed inside of you, a growl vibrating all around, and his teeth nipping tentatively against your neck, threateningly close to your mating gland. You clenched and clenched, to what it felt like an eternity, and then finally, you let go.
You were breathing heavily underneath him, a mess of drool, tears, sweat, and below, he was probably leaking all around you, mixing with your slick. He was trembling, holding himself up as best as he could so that he would not drop his body against yours.
And finally, clarity.
"Oh my god…" You whispered, and his eyes snapped open, panting, looking up at your face, getting himself away from your neck. He was red, choked up, and he shook his head at you with worry, with guilt.
"I— I am so sorry, I couldn't— I couldn't stop it, I tried, but you didn't let me, and you were crying and—"
"I am so stupid…"
"What?"
"It feels so good… God…" You sighed out of relief, feeling like a feather, and the heat was gone. You knew it would be temporary, but it was still such a good feeling. Your eyes were closed as a pleased and tired smile spread on your lips. You could feel him inside of you, almost pulsing, but being like this with him was pure bliss, and it made your heart content. He gulped over you, nodding.
"It does… You're not mad?" He asked, and you opened your eyes, smiling at him.
"No… Should I?" He looked at you, his body untensing, his eyes looking for yours, and finally—
"Is it a bad time to tell you I'm in love with you?"
