family friend steve who grew up with reader but never really saw each other like that until they both went through puberty and steve started taking an interest in reader and then fast forward get married (both of their moms wished for this to happen since they were around 10) basically a bunch of fluff and maybe a fluffy smut!
GENIUS i actually love this,, enjoy!!!!!
steve harrington x reader
18+
NOT PROOF READ
pretend nancy and steve was never a thing ok? and pretend steve's mom's name is linda and she's actually being a mom ok? ok.
you’re maybe ten the first time you hear it without really hearing it.
your mom and steve’s mom are in the kitchen, summer sun slanting through the window over the sink, both of them sipping iced tea while you and steve are sprawled on the living room carpet building the world’s most unstable lego tower. you’re arguing about whether the blue knight gets the sword or the red one (you think blue obviously deserves it; steve insists red is cooler because fire). your voices are loud, overlapping, neither of you noticing the soft laughter drifting from the other room.
“look at them,” your mom says, voice low like she’s sharing a secret even though you’re only ten feet away. “they fight like an old married couple already.”
steve’s mom — linda, always linda, never mrs. harrington to you — covers her mouth to keep from laughing too loud. “i’ve been saying it since they were in diapers. soulmates. just wait.”
your mom hums, stirring her tea. “wouldn’t that be something? growing old together. same street, same schools, same everything.”
they don’t say it again that summer. not out loud. but you catch the way their eyes meet sometimes when you and steve are racing bikes down the driveway or when he shoves the last popsicle toward you because “you like the orange ones more anyway.” it’s quiet, that wish. tucked behind smiles and refilled glasses. they never push. they just… hope.
you don’t notice. neither does he.
~
at twelve you both get braces on the same month. yours silver and bright, his the clear kind his dad insisted on because “harringtons don’t look like metal mouths.” you tease him mercilessly anyway.
“shut up,” he mumbles around a mouthful of rubber bands, cheeks pink. “at least i don’t look like a robot.”
you stick your tongue out. the elastic snaps. it hurts. you both end up laughing until your moms have to separate you so you don’t choke on your own spit.
~
at fourteen he grows six inches in one summer and suddenly his voice cracks every other sentence. you still climb trees together behind his house even though you’re both getting too big for it. one branch snaps. you both plummet into the soft grass. he lands half on top of you, elbow in your ribs, and for one stupid heartbeat neither of you moves.
then he scrambles off like you’re on fire. “sorry—shit—sorry—”
you wheeze out a laugh. “you’re heavy, dingus.”
he shoves your shoulder. you shove back. normal. safe.
his mom watches from the kitchen window. your mom joins her. they don’t say anything. they just sip coffee and let the moment sit.
~
at sixteen you’re both different.
he’s on the basketball team now, hair stupidly perfect, always surrounded by people who want something from him. you’re quieter, buried in books and your walkman, still the girl he’s known forever but suddenly… not invisible. he starts looking longer. you catch him once in the hallway between classes — eyes on your mouth while you’re talking to nancy wheeler about some project. he blinks hard and looks away when you turn.
you pretend you don’t notice the heat crawling up your neck.
he starts driving you home after school even though your house is only a ten-minute walk. says it’s on his way. it’s not. you don’t call him out.
~
one rainy afternoon you’re both soaked from running to his car. he blasts the heat, tosses you his letterman jacket without asking. it smells like him — cedar and whatever cheap body spray all the boys are using. you pull it tighter.
“you’re gonna stretch it,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.
“good. it’ll look better anyway.”
he laughs. soft. different.
that night your mom finds his jacket on your desk chair. she doesn’t say anything. just smiles into her tea.
~
then 1983 happens. the upside down. demodogs. demogorgons. will byers missing. you and steve are juniors — seventeen, tangled in the mess because hawkins is small and trouble finds everyone. you help where you can. steve swings the bat. you keep the kids calm. dustin starts looking at you like you hung the stars, calls you “sis” one day after you bandage his scraped knee and it sticks.
~
by 1984 you’re seniors. seventeen turning eighteen. dustin’s got this weird lizard-thing he calls dart and he’s freaking out. he shows up at steve’s door because “you’re everywhere, man, and she’s the only one who doesn’t treat me like i’m five.” you’re there too — obviously — and the three of you end up in the shed trying to figure out what the hell it is.
you’re gentle with dart at first. coaxing. talking to it like it’s a scared puppy. dustin watches you wide-eyed. steve watches you too — longer than he should — thinking how soft your voice gets, how patient, how you’d be with a kid of your own someday. his chest does something funny. he pushes it down.
the party meets you properly then. mike grumbles but listens when you tell him to chill. lucas teases but grins when you ruffle his hair. max rolls her eyes but secretly likes that you don’t baby her. el shows up later — quiet, powerful — and you just offer her a blanket and hot chocolate without asking questions. they all start crashing at your place or steve’s when things get weird. you become the one they call when they need someone steady. big sister. safe place.
steve notices. every time dustin hugs you goodbye or max leans against your shoulder during movie nights, he pictures it — you with a baby on your hip, smiling that same gentle smile. it hits him hard. he wants that future. with you.
~
graduation comes fast.
he kisses you for the first time two weeks after the ceremony, behind the bleachers at the fairgrounds while fireworks crack overhead. it’s clumsy and tastes like cotton candy and nerves. his hands shake where they cup your face. yours fist in his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.
when you pull back he’s red from his ears to his collarbones.
“been wanting to do that since… god. forever, probably.”
you laugh against his mouth. “took you long enough.”
he kisses you again. slower. surer.
~
your moms cry at your wedding.
not loud, dramatic sobs — just quiet, shiny tears they try to hide behind handkerchiefs. linda keeps squeezing your mom’s hand like she’s afraid it’s a dream. your mom keeps whispering “i told you” every time steve looks at you like you hung the moon.
the ceremony is small. backyard. string lights. late june. you wear white with tiny embroidered daisies because you used to pick them for him when you were eight and he’d tuck them behind your ear like they were treasure. he still does it now — one daisy tucked into your hair right before you walk down the makeshift aisle. his fingers tremble.
vows are simple. yours are mostly giggles because you keep getting distracted by how stupidly pretty his eyes look in the golden light. his are earnest. a little cracked at the edges.
“i’ve loved you since we were fighting over legos,” he says, voice rough. “and i’m gonna love you when we’re fighting over who gets the remote at eighty. promise.”
you’re crying by the end. so is half the backyard.
the first dance is to some old springsteen song his dad used to play on repeat. steve’s arms are around your waist, yours looped around his neck. you sway more than dance.
“mrs. harrington,” he murmurs against your temple.
you hide your face in his shoulder. “still sounds fake.”
“get used to it.”
reception is chaos in the best way. dustin tries to give a speech and cries halfway through — “you’ve been my big sis since dart tried to eat me, and now you’re making steve less of a dingus forever!” robin films the whole thing. max and lucas slow dance like they’re forty already. the rest of the party hoots and throws confetti. your moms sit at the same table the whole night, heads bent together, laughing like teenagers.
you and steve sneak away early.
not far — just to the little guest house behind the main one. your parents rented it for the night so you wouldn’t have to drive anywhere. honeymoon starts tomorrow. tonight is just… yours.
he carries you over the threshold even though it’s not technically your house. you squeak. he laughs.
door shuts. world quiets.
he sets you down but doesn’t let go. hands slide to your hips, thumbs brushing the silk of your dress.
“hi,” he whispers.
“hi.”
kissing him now feels different. slower. hungrier. like you’ve both been waiting years for permission to really touch.
your fingers find the buttons of his shirt — fumbling at first, then faster. his find the zipper at your back, dragging it down inch by inch so he can feel every shiver. fabric pools at your feet. skin meets skin. he’s warm, solid, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache and your thighs clench.
he walks you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed. you sit. he kneels between your legs, hands on your knees, sliding up slow — torturously slow — fingertips tracing the sensitive insides of your thighs until you’re trembling.
“you’re shaking,” you say, voice breathy.
he huffs a laugh against your inner thigh, lips brushing skin. “yeah. you too. fuck… you have no idea how long i’ve thought about this.”
you are. bad. heart hammering.
he kisses higher. open-mouthed. hot. you thread fingers in his hair — still stupidly perfect even after a whole day of dancing and hugs — and tug just enough to make him groan low in his throat.
“steve—”
“i know, baby. i know. let me… just let me taste you first. please.”
he doesn’t wait for an answer — noses along the damp cotton of your panties, inhales like he’s memorizing you, then hooks fingers in the waistband and tugs them down. you lift your hips to help. he groans again when he sees you — bare, glistening, aching.
“god… look at you.” his voice cracks. “so fucking pretty.”
he licks a slow stripe up your center. you gasp — sharp, surprised. he does it again. deeper. tongue flat and broad, then pointed, circling your clit until your hips buck.
“steve—oh fuck—”
he pins your thighs open with strong hands. sucks gently. then harder. you’re moaning now — loud, unashamed — fingers twisting in his hair. he hums against you, vibrations making your toes curl.
“taste so good, honey… been dreaming about this pussy for years.”
you whimper. thighs shake. he slides one finger inside — slow, curling — then two. pumps them steady while his mouth works your clit. the stretch is perfect. the pressure builds fast.
“close—steve, i’m—”
“come on my tongue, baby. let me feel it.”
you do. hard. back arching off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat. he doesn’t stop — laps you through it until you’re twitching, oversensitive, pushing at his head with a breathless laugh.
he pulls back finally. chin shiny. eyes dark. wrecked.
he stands. kicks off the rest of his clothes. you watch him — cock hard and leaking, flushed dark at the tip, veins standing out. he strokes himself once, twice, eyes locked on you.
“you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.
you reach for him. “come here.”
he settles over you — careful, reverent. kisses you deep so you taste yourself on his tongue. you moan into his mouth.
“tell me if it’s too much,” he says again, voice rough.
you nod. pull him closer.
he notches himself at your entrance. pushes in slow. slow. slower.
your breath catches — the stretch intense, burning sweet. his forehead drops to yours.
“f-fuck,” he breathes, hips stuttering. “you feel— jesus, honey… so fucking tight. warm. perfect.”
you clench on instinct. he jerks forward — deeper — curses sharply.
“sorry—shit—did i—”
“no,” you gasp. “more. please, steve—need you deeper.”
he groans. bottoms out. stays there a second — both of you panting, foreheads pressed, breathing each other in.
“you okay?” he whispers.
“yeah. move. please.”
he does. pulls back slow — almost all the way — then thrusts back in. deep. deliberate. you both moan.
“fuck… feel that?” he stammers. “how deep i am?”
“yes—god, yes—”
he sets a rhythm — steady at first, then harder. hips snapping. bed creaking under you. your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him closer. nails rake down his back — leaving marks he’ll feel tomorrow.
“you’re so—fuck—so good,” he pants. “taking me so well… like you were made for this cock.”
you whimper. arch. the angle hits that spot inside you over and over.
“there—right there—steve!”
he keeps it. pounds it. sweat beads on his forehead, drips onto your chest. his rhythm starts to falter — desperate.
“baby—i’m—fuck, i’m not gonna last—”
“don’t care,” you gasp. “come inside me. want to feel it.”
he moans — broken, wrecked. one hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing messy circles.
“come with me,” he pleads. “please—wanna feel you come on my cock—”
you’re close again. so close. the pressure coils tight.
“steve—i’m—oh god—”
you shatter. harder than before. walls fluttering, pulsing around him. you cry his name — loud — nails biting into his shoulders.
he follows instantly. hips slamming deep one last time. “fuck—fuck—baby—!”
he comes with a shuddering groan, spilling hot inside you, pulse after pulse. body shaking. face buried in your neck. whispering your name like a mantra.
neither of you moves for long minutes. just heavy breathing. clinging. hearts racing together.
then he huffs a shaky laugh against your skin.
“holy shit… i think i died for a second.”
you snort, still breathless. “you were shaking worse than me.”
“shut up.” he nips your shoulder. “you clenched so hard i saw stars.”
“because you kept talking dirty and stuttering.”
“i was overwhelmed!” he protests, propping up on elbows to look at you. hair destroyed. cheeks flushed. eyes soft and bright. “i’ve wanted you like this forever. sue me.”
you reach up. brush damp bangs from his forehead. “i love you.”
his whole face melts.
“love you more. so fucking much.”
he rolls off carefully but pulls you flush against him. legs tangled. sticky. sated.
“we’re married,” you whisper.
“yeah.” he kisses your temple. “and i just came inside my wife. unreal.”
you laugh softly. trace the freckles on his chest.
“our moms are probably still crying.”
he chuckles. “they’ve been crying since we were ten.”
“they were right, though.”
he tightens his hold. “yeah. they really were.”
you fall asleep like that — tangled, warm, stupidly happy.
