bonus:

steve gives his curious girlfriend her first hickey (ft. weird!girl reader hehe)

steve harrington x inexperienced!fem!reader, 1.2k words

“Hey, Steve?”

Steve hums, idly turning the page of the comic book he’s reading on your bedroom floor. “What, babe?”

“I was wondering…what does a hickey feel like?”

Steve freezes. You ask him a lot of questions, and odd ones at that, but this was the last thing he was expecting. He supposes he should’ve seen it coming, him being your new-ish boyfriend and all, and you having little to no experience with romantic relationships. But then again, you’d never asked him what it was like to kiss someone, it sort of just happened. He assumed it would be the same for everything else.

He sits up, his back clicking as he goes. “You’ve never had one?”

You’re watching him from your bed, sitting criss-cross apple sauce with a mess of beads and cord strewn across the duvet in front of you, a half-made bracelet in your lap.

You shake your head. “No. Have you?”

Steve thinks it’s cute how oblivious you are sometimes. You’re not dumb, it’s just that sometimes you have better things to think about. You spend a lot of time with your head in the clouds. It’s what he likes most about you.

you're exhausted. your eyes are drooping shut, your legs feel abnormally heavy, you swear your skull is shrinking in size at the pain of your headache, everything hurts and all you want is sleep.

and suguru, ever the gentleman that he is, refuses to let his baby do anything while in this state. (← or in general at that.)

he starts by carrying you from the car to inside the house, cooing as you begin to fall asleep. he steps inside the bathroom with you nestled in his arms and places you on the toilet, meticulously undresses you, ridding your body of any clothes jewelry or accessories.

he sets you in the tub, delicate as ever, making sure all he thinks about is how fragile you are and how much care he must handle you with, and cleanses your entire body for you; whispering soft: “no no, baby. you get your rest, i'll take care of everything.” every time you so much as think to lift a finger.

he would be so tender when drying your body, kissing all along your body as he goes while murmuring quietly into your skin: “you're so beautiful... so perfect.”

he rubs a vanilla scented lotion into your skin afterwards , using that as an excuse to litter your body with even more kisses before picking you up and strolling off to your shared bedroom.

he doesn't get you dressed, something he insisted wasn't necessary: “sleeping naked is much more intimate, my dove.” or something like that. (you were half asleep when he said it) however, he does pick you out an outfit for tomorrow and folds it up neatly on your dresser.

you're laying in bed, quickly losing consciousness as he does that until you're startled by him gently tapping your cheek: “no no, lovely. i still need to brush your hair. sit up for me?”

he doesn't give you time to respond, already slowly hoisting your body upward into a sitting position, cautious not to startle you too much.

he then brushes through your locks, starting from the bottom and making his way to the top, kissing the back of your head then whispering: “doesn't that feel nice?”

God, thinking about hair stylist! Suguru who just pampers you endlessly whenever you're in his chair. You’ve known each other since childhood, and even then, he was constantly playing with your hair, violet eyes bright with excitement as he begged you to let him try new styles or colors - requests you playfully denied until he earned his professional license.

Well. Now he’s licensed.

The salon practically worships him, clients lining up just for the chance to sit beneath those skilled, tattooed hands. Just to catch a glimpse of the way the light catches in his silky, dark hair, always tied back into a loose, low bun, or how the sun glints off the silver and gold piercings lacing his ears, giving him that ethereal look. that screams, out of your league.

There’s a bowl tucked behind the reception desk, filled with phone numbers scribbled on receipts and café napkins. Mostly women. A few bold men. He never throws them out. Claims he’s “not a heartbreaker,” says it with a foxlike smile and a shrug, as if he’s the one being courted against his will.

Yet, no matter how overbooked his schedule gets, no matter how many influencers, models, or high-paying clients beg for a slot, he always makes room for you.

Always.

Even cancels on celebrities from time to time. Especially one in particular, with annoyingly white hair and a cocky grin.

“I told him I had someone prettier to take care of,” Suguru says easily, lips twitching into a little smile as he greets you at the door. "He didn't take it well." As he pulls you to his chair, violet eyes meet yours in the mirror as he drapes the cape over you.

You blink. “Satoru?”

Suguru hums. “Didn’t say that.”

His fingers slide into your hair, his touch gentle, slightly sensual, and lingering between sections. “You’re my favorite client, princess,” he muses, gaze softening as he combs through your strands. “The usual?”

Before you can reply, he tuts, already inspecting your ends with mock dismay. "You haven’t been using the leave-in I gave you, have you?” His voice like silk, but there’s a scolding tone as he reaches for the product. “What am I gonna do with you?”

You try not to get distracted by the way the sunlight catches on his earrings, the gentle glint of his rings as his hands move expertly through your hair. But it’s impossible not to watch him, his focus, his elegance, the way he bites the inside of his cheek when he’s trimming. Causally measuring the strands, the soft brush of his fingers on your cheek when he's looking at you so intently.

And then he tilts your chin up with two fingers, knuckles brushing against your skin. “Look here for me, princess,” he says lowly, voice dipped in honey. You meet his gaze, heart skipping when his thumb strokes the line of your jaw.

“Perfect,” he whispers, mostly to himself.

You barely recover before he adds, casual as ever, “You always make my chair look good. Practically the prettiest girl I know.” You flush. Suguru grins.

And then comes the massage while he's washing your hair. His broad fingers working slow, hypnotic circles into your scalp, coaxing little sighs from your lips. It’s impossible not to melt. His touch borders between sinful and affectionate.

“So,” he murmurs, voice teasing at your ear, “seeing anyone special lately?”

When you say yes, there’s a pause. Barely noticeable. But you’ve known Suguru too long not to catch it. His hands still for a second too long. His smile tightens, almost imperceptibly.

“Is that right?” he echoes, leaning down until his breath fans your skin. “They must be so lucky…” Another pause. His voice lowers, warm and smug. “Though I can’t imagine anyone appreciating you quite like I do.”

You barely manage a sound as he shifts gears again, moving to blow dry your hair, playful but professional, brushing a curl behind your ear, only to messily tuck another strand back, pretending to fix it with a smile. “You’re impossible to improve,” he murmurs. “But I’ll keep trying anyway.”

Suguru doesn’t rush with you. Never has. He moves with the kind of care that makes time feel like it stretches, each moment a little sweeter than the last. His fingers glide through your hair, gentle as possible, his voice low as he murmurs between motions:

“Let me get this just right,” or, “Only perfection for my girl.”

And when he finally spins the chair around, revealing your reflection in the mirror, already moving behind you. tousling your hair a little to really showcase his work before his hands rest gently on your shoulders, thumbs grazing the fabric of your cape with the softest touch. His midnight gaze meets yours in the mirror, warm, and so unflinchingly soft it makes your stomach do a small flip.

“Beautiful,” he says, voice quiet, meant to be under his breath.

You make a small, flustered sound, and you’re grateful, almost embarrassingly so, when the door opens behind you. His next client. Saved by the bell. Nearly jumping to pack up your things.

Suguru steps back with a soft chuckle, already calling out a lazy greeting over his shoulder, but not before giving you a little wave. That same slow, familiar wave he’s always given you since you were kids.