Emilie

₊˚⊹♡ 5:46

₊˚⊹♡ Emilie, she/her, twenty-one, belgian, drew starkey’s lover, spoiled bimbo, vanilla scent, cheetah print, pumpkin spice latte, mean girls, juicy couture, pink, dogs mom, men-hater

₊˚⊹♡ Masterlist ₊˚⊹♡ Taglist ₊˚⊹♡ Pinterest ₊˚⊹♡ c.ai

Firefighter!Rafe x Female!OC CHAPTER 6

Emily almost canceled.

She stood in front of her bathroom mirror longer than necessary, fingers braced against the cool porcelain of the sink as she stared at her reflection like it might give her permission to leave, or a reason not to.

Her apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears and forced you to listen to your own thoughts. Outside, the city moved on as it always did, unaware that she was standing at a crossroads that felt far bigger than a casual coffee date.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her sweater. Too simple? Too trying? She tugged at the hem, then sighed and changed it. Then changed again. Eventually, she gave up and chose comfort over pretense.

It’s just coffee, she told herself for the hundredth time.

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

It was the first thing in weeks, maybe months, that didn’t feel like an audition. No expectations. No judgment. No silent measuring of worth.

Her phone buzzed softly on the counter.

Rafe: I’m here. Take your time.

She smiled despite herself.

No pressure. No countdown. No disappointment waiting behind the door.

That was what finally got her moving.

The café was exactly the kind of place Emily loved but rarely allowed herself to linger in.

Small. Warm. Quietly alive.

The windows were fogged slightly from the contrast between the cold outside and the steady warmth within. The smell of espresso and cinnamon wrapped around her as soon as she stepped inside, grounding her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

She spotted him immediately.

Rafe stood near the counter, hands wrapped around a paper cup like he was anchoring himself. He looked different in the daylight, less shadowed, less guarded. Still solid. Still steady. But softer around the edges.

When he saw her, something shifted in his posture. His shoulders loosened, his expression easing into a smile that wasn’t practiced or careful.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied, suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the way her heart sped up, the warmth creeping into her cheeks, the way he was looking at her like she mattered.

They hovered in that small moment of hesitation, the awkwardness of beginnings, before he gestured toward the counter.

“Can I get you something?”

“Coffee,” she said. “Definitely coffee.”

He paid despite her protest, shaking his head gently. “Let me.”

It wasn’t possessive. It was instinctive.

They found a small table by the window. Sunlight spilled across the worn wood, catching dust motes in the air. Outside, people passed by with purpose, unaware of the quiet intimacy forming inside.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Rafe watched the steam curl up from his cup. Emily traced the rim of hers with one finger.

“So,” he said finally, voice low, careful. “How are you really?”

The question landed heavier than she expected.

Not “How’s your day?”Not “How’ve you been?”

Really.

Emily inhaled slowly.

“I had a casting yesterday,” she said.

Rafe nodded, eyes attentive, open.

“It didn’t go well,” she added, a faint, humorless smile touching her lips. “They rarely do.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

She shrugged, though the motion felt hollow. “I’m used to it.”

Something in his expression tightened. “You shouldn’t have to be.”

Her gaze dropped to her coffee. “That’s kind of the deal with dreams like this.”

They sat in the silence that followed, not uncomfortable, just honest.

“What about you?” she asked after a moment. “You always look like you’re carrying something.”

Rafe let out a soft breath, leaning back slightly. “Firefighters don’t really get to put things down,” he said. “Not all the way.”

She studied him then, really studied him, the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the way his jaw tightened when he spoke about work.

“I wanted this job my whole life,” he continued. “And I still do. I love it. But some days…” He paused, choosing his words. “Some days it feels like you save everyone else and forget how to save yourself.”

Emily’s chest ached.

“I think that’s what I noticed that night,” she said quietly. “At the fire.”

His gaze flicked up to hers. “Yeah?”

“You looked… alive,” she said. “But tired. Like both things at once.”

He swallowed. “That’s pretty accurate.”

She hesitated, then spoke before fear could stop her. “I wanted to be a model. Since I was a kid.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I still want it,” she added. “I just don’t know if I’m allowed to anymore.”

“Allowed?” he repeated softly.

She laughed, but it broke at the edges. “Sometimes it feels like the world decides who gets to dream and who doesn’t.”

Rafe leaned forward slightly. “That doesn’t mean you failed.”

Her eyes lifted to his. “Easy to say when yours worked out.”

The words came out sharper than she meant.

She immediately regretted them. “I’m sorry—I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he said gently. “You’re not wrong.”

He paused. “I got lucky. And I know it. A lot of people don’t.”

The honesty disarmed her completely.

They talked longer than they realized, about music that made them feel understood, about childhood memories that shaped them without asking permission, about the quiet fear of becoming someone you didn’t recognize.

Time moved differently with him.

When they finally stood to leave, the café had filled and emptied again, sunlight shifting across the floor.

“I’m glad I didn’t cancel,” Emily said softly.

Rafe smiled. “Me too.”

They stepped outside together, the city wrapping around them once more.

“We should do this again,” he said, a little tentative.

“I’d like that,” she replied.

They parted without touching, without rushing, just a look shared between them, something gentle and promising.

That night, Emily sat at her desk, scrolling through old photos from shoots she’d once loved. The familiar ache was there, but softer now.

Her phone buzzed.

Rafe: You okay?

She smiled.

Emily: Yeah. Just thinking.

Rafe: Good thoughts?

She glanced at her screen, then typed:

Emily: For once… yeah.

Across the city, Rafe leaned back against his couch, phone resting in his hand, feeling something he hadn’t allowed himself in a long time.

Hope.

Quiet. Unrushed. Still burning.

thank you omg ! love you guys 🩷🩷🩷

Steve Harrington x Henderson!reader Warnings : MDNI ! 18+ heavy touching (f! receiving), dry humping, heavy making out, Steve and reader getting caught

Hawkins in the summer was a sticky, humid mess, but nowhere was hotter than the interior of Steve Harrington’s BMW when the windows were rolled up.

It had been going on for three months. Three months of stolen glances across the room at Family Video. Three months of hands brushing against each other a little too lingeringly when passing popcorn bowls to the kids. Three months of sneaking out of your window, or him sneaking into yours, figuring out exactly which floorboards in the Henderson house creaked and which were silent.

To the world, you were just Dustin’s older sister. The cool one. The one who actually understood D&D references even if you didn’t play, and who drove the kids to the arcade when Steve was "off the clock."

To Steve, you were... well, you weren't entirely sure what you were yet. But judging by the way his hand was currently sliding up the inside of your thigh while he kept his eyes on the road, you were definitely more than just "Dustin’s sister."

"Eyes on the road, Harrington," you murmured, though you didn't push his hand away. You leaned your head back against the headrest, watching the trees blur by.

"I am an excellent driver," Steve scoffed, his fingers tightening just slightly against your denim shorts. "I could drive this road blindfolded. Also, stop distracting me."

"Me? I'm just sitting here."

"Yeah," Steve breathed, glancing over at you, his eyes dark and dilated. "Exactly."

The kids were occupied. It was the golden hour of opportunity. Dustin, Mike, Lucas, and Will were entrenched in a ten-hour campaign in Mike’s basement. Max and El were at the mall. For the first time in weeks, the Harrington house was empty, the parents were out of town (as usual), and the babysitting duties were suspended.

Steve turned the car into his long driveway, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. The engine hadn't even fully cut out before he was unbuckling his seatbelt.

"Coast is clear?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

"Clear," Steve confirmed. "Nobody is coming by. I told the little gremlins I had a date."

You raised an eyebrow as you stepped out of the car, the humid air hitting you instantly. "A date? With who?"

Steve walked around the hood of the car, meeting you in the middle. He grabbed your waist, pulling you flush against him. He smelled like hairspray, expensive cologne, and the faint, sweet scent of cherry slushie.

"With a very hot, very secret mystery girl," he grinned, that signature Harrington charm in full force. "She’s kind of a pain in the ass, though."

"Is she?" You looped your arms around his neck, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Maybe you should dump her."

"Can't," Steve whispered, his voice dropping an octave, becoming rougher. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours. "I’m pretty obsessed with her."

He kissed you then, not a soft, sweet greeting, but a hungry, desperate collision of mouths that told the story of two people who had been pretending not to look at each other for six hours straight.

The door to the Harrington house slammed shut, locking out the humidity and the rest of the world. The air conditioning was humming, a blessed relief, but it did little to cool the heat rising between you two.

You barely made it past the foyer.

Steve had you pressed up against the wall before you could even kick your shoes off. His hands were everywhere, tangled in your hair, gripping your waist, sliding down to cup your ass to lift you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, a routine perfected in the dark corners of the Hawkins Lovers' Lane and his bedroom.

"Bedroom," you gasped, breaking the kiss for air. "Steve... bedroom."

"Too far," he groaned against your neck, finding that sensitive spot right below your ear that made your toes curl. He bit down lightly, soothing the spot with a swipe of his tongue. "Couch. Now."

He carried you into the sunken living room, the one with the pristine carpets that his mother obsessed over. He deposited you onto the plush sofa, following you down immediately, his weight heavy and grounding.

This was the part of Steve no one else really saw. Everyone knew Steve the babysitter, the guy who wielded a nail-bat and fought Demodogs. Everyone knew King Steve, the high school legend. But this Steve? The one who looked at you with half-lidded eyes, lips swollen, hair a mess because your fingers had been running through it? This Steve was yours.

He hovered over you, bracing his weight on his forearms. "You look so good," he murmured, one hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw. "God, you have no idea how hard it was to watch Eddie try to flirt with you earlier."

You laughed breathlessly, arching up to meet him. "Eddie wasn't flirting. He was asking for a ride to the stash house."

"He was looking at your legs," Steve argued, his voice dipping into a possessive growl. "I wanted to strangle him with his own bandana."

"Jealousy is a bad look, Harrington."

"Not on me."

He kissed you again to shut you up, and the playful banter evaporated, replaced by a heavy, electric silence filled only by the sound of friction and harsh breathing. His hands were impatient now, sliding under the hem of your tank top. His palms were warm, slightly rough from work, sending shivers racing up your spine as he mapped out your ribs.

You arched your back, helping him pull the shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere onto the floor. Steve wasted no time, his mouth descending to the skin of your collarbone, moving lower. You tangled your hands in his hair, guiding him, a soft moan escaping your throat as his stubble grazed your sensitive skin.

"Steve," you breathed, his name feeling like a prayer on your lips.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with intent. He sat back on his heels, shucking off his polo shirt in one fluid motion. His chest was heaving slightly, a sheen of sweat already forming.

"You okay?" he asked, checking in. He always checked in. For all his bravado, he was incredibly careful with you.

"Better than okay," you promised, reaching out to pull him back down.

He settled between your legs, the friction of denim on denim maddeningly good. You could feel the hardness of him pressing against you, a promise of what was coming. His hands fumbled with the button of your shorts, his movements slightly frantic.

"Damn buttons," he muttered, frustration leaking into his voice.

"Patience," you teased, brushing your thumb over his lower lip.

"I have zero patience left," he admitted. He finally popped the button, the zipper following with a harsh rasping sound. He slid his hands inside the waistband, his fingers warm against your hips, pushing the denim down.

The air in the room felt charged, thick with static. You kicked your shorts off, leaving you in just your underwear. Steve groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated in his chest. He leaned down, capturing your lips again, but this time it was slower, deeper. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, owning you.

His hand slid beneath the elastic of your underwear, finding the heat of you. You gasped into his mouth, your hips bucking involuntarily against his hand.

"So wet," he whispered against your lips, his voice wrecked. "For me?"

"Only you," you managed to choke out.

He began to move his hand, a rhythmic, teasing pressure that made your vision blur. You threw your head back into the sofa cushions, your hands gripping his shoulders, his back, needing to anchor yourself. He knew exactly what you liked, exactly how to touch you to make you unravel.

"Steve, please," you whimpered, the tension coiling tight in your belly.

"I got you," he soothed, kissing down your throat to your chest. "I’ve got you, baby."

He shifted, his hand leaving you only to fumble with his own belt. The sound of the buckle jingling was the loudest thing in the room. He was ready to take this further, to finally bridge the gap you’d been building toward all day.

He positioned himself, his face hovering inches from yours, eyes searching yours for that final confirmation. You nodded, breathless, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist.

"I love you," he whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

"I love you t—"

CRASH.

The front door didn't just open, it flew open with the force of a battering ram, hitting the wall with a deafening thwack.

"STEVE! CODE RED! IT’S A CODE RED! WE NEED THE—"

The voice was unmistakable. It was the voice that had narrated your entire childhood. It was a voice that was currently cracking due to puberty.

Dustin.

Time seemed to freeze.

Steve froze. He was hovering over you, shirtless, his belt undone, his pants unbuttoned, your legs wrapped around his waist, your shirt on the floor, and your bra on full display.

You froze. You were pinned beneath the former King of Hawkins High, looking thoroughly ravished, with your little brother standing in the foyer, clutching a walkie-talkie and looking like he’d just seen a ghost.

Dustin stopped mid-sentence. He stood in the sunken living room entrance, his curly hair wild, his hat askew. He looked at Steve. He looked at you. He looked at Steve’s hand, which was... well, placed rather compromisingly. He looked at your discarded shirt.

The silence that stretched between the three of you was heavier than the Upside Down.

Dustin’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. His face went through a complex journey of emotions: Confusion. Recognition. Horror. absolute, unadulterated repulsion.

"OH MY GOD!" Dustin screamed. It was a scream that could shatter glass.

Steve scrambled backward so fast he nearly fell off the couch. He tripped over his own unbuckled belt, flailing wildly as he tried to cover himself with a throw pillow.

"Dustin!" Steve yelled, his voice cracking higher than it had since 1983. "Dude! Knock! You have to knock!"

"MY EYES!" Dustin yelled, turning around and covering his face with his hands, but then immediately spinning back around to point an accusing finger. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THAT IS MY SISTER! THAT IS MY BLOOD RELATIVE, STEVE!"

You grabbed the nearest blanket, an afghan Steve’s grandmother had knitted, and pulled it up to your chin, your face burning so hot you thought you might actually combust. "Dustin, get out!"

"GET OUT?" Dustin screeched. "I WALK IN ON... ON... THIS AND YOU TELL ME TO GET OUT? STEVE IS NAKED!"

"I am not naked!" Steve shouted, holding the pillow over his crotch like a shield. "I have pants on! Mostly!"

"YOU WERE EATING HER FACE!" Dustin looked like he was going to be sick. "I thought you were my friend! I thought you were my brother! You betrayed me! You’re sleeping with the enemy!"

"I am not the enemy!" you yelled from the couch.

"You are now!" Dustin retorted. "This is a violation of the bro code! Subsection C, Paragraph 4: No sisters! Especially not my sister!"

Steve stood up, trying to regain some semblance of dignity despite his disheveled hair and unbuttoned pants. He held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Henderson, listen to me—"

"No! Don't you 'Henderson' me!" Dustin paced frantically in a circle. "How long? How long has this been happening? Is this why you were 'busy' last Friday? Is this why you smelled like her perfume at the arcade?"

Steve and you exchanged a guilty glance.

"Oh my god," Dustin whispered, the realization dawning on him. "It’s been months. You guys have been... you’ve been..." He made a vague, disgusted hand gesture toward the couch. "On my spot! That is my D&D spot!"

"It’s my couch, Henderson!" Steve snapped.

"I sit there!"

"Okay, okay, calm down," you said, trying to inject some authority into your voice despite the situation. You stood up, wrapping the blanket around you like a toga. "Dustin, take a breath. You’re hyperventilating."

"I am traumatized!" Dustin yelled. "I need bleach! I need to scrub my corneas!"

"Dustin," Steve said, stepping forward. He looked serious now. The panic was fading, replaced by that protective instinct he always had for the kid. "Look, man. I know it’s weird. I know. But... I really like her."

Dustin stopped pacing. He peered through his fingers at Steve. "You what?"

"I like her," Steve said firmly, glancing back at you with a soft, apologetic look before turning back to Dustin. "Like, a lot. I’m not just... messing around. I care about her."

You felt your heart squeeze. Amidst the chaos and the shouting, Steve Harrington was standing there, half-dressed, declaring his feelings to your little brother.

Dustin lowered his hands. He looked at Steve, searching for the lie. He looked at you, seeing the blush on your cheeks and the way you were looking at Steve.

The silence returned, but it was less explosive this time. Just awkward.

"You... you like her?" Dustin asked, his voice skeptical. "Like, girlfriend like?"

"Yeah," Steve said, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, girlfriend like."

Dustin grimaced. He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the floor. He let out a long, suffering sigh.

"Jesus," Dustin muttered. "If you guys get married, that makes you my brother-in-law."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," you said quickly.

Dustin pointed a finger at Steve. "If you hurt her, Harrington, I will end you. I know where you sleep. I know your fears. I have Suzie, and she can hack into your bank account."

Steve chuckled, a nervous, relieved sound. "I believe you, Henderson. I’m not gonna hurt her."

Dustin looked between the two of you one last time, shook his head, and turned toward the door. "I’m leaving. I’m going to Mike’s. I’m going to try to forget I ever saw Steve’s nipples."

He grabbed the doorknob, then paused.

"By the way," Dustin said without turning around. "The code red? Lucas got his braces stuck on a Coke can. But I guess you guys are... busy."

He opened the door and marched out, slamming it behind him.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The echo of the slamming door faded, leaving only the hum of the air conditioner.

Steve let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging. He dropped the pillow onto the floor and looked at you. "Well. That went... poorly."

You couldn't help it. A giggle bubbled up in your chest. Steve walked over to you, wrapping his arms around your blanket-covered form. "He threatened to have Suzie hack my bank account. The kid is terrifying."

"He’s protective," you smiled, leaning your forehead against Steve's bare chest. "And he loves you."

"He hates me right now."

"He’ll get over it. Especially since you told him you... you know."

Steve went quiet. He pulled you closer, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head. "I meant it, you know. What I said."

You looked up at him. The playfulness was gone, replaced by that intense, warm gaze that made your knees weak. "I know. I love you too, Steve."

He kissed you then, sweet, slow, and full of promise. It wasn't the frantic, heated desperation of earlier. It was something solid. Something real.

"So," Steve murmured against your lips. "Dustin is gone. Lucas has a can stuck to his teeth. And we have the house to ourselves again."

You smirked, letting the blanket slip just a little. "Are you suggesting we continue where we left off? On Dustin's 'D&D spot'?"

Steve grinned, lifting you up into his arms effortlessly, making you squeak.

"Absolutely not," he said, carrying you toward the stairs. "We’re going to my room. I am not having Henderson walk in on me again. I don't think my heart can take it."

"Good plan," you agreed, burying your face in his neck as he carried you up the stairs.

The secret was out. The chaos had descended. But as Steve kicked his bedroom door shut and laid you down on his bed, you decided that dealing with Dustin’s drama was a small price to pay for this.

Ruining the aesthetic

Steve Harrington x virgin!bimbo!reader Warnings : MNDI ! 18+, virginity loss, p in v, fingering, praise kink (?)

The vanity mirror in your bedroom was bordered by round, glowing bulbs, casting a bright, unforgiving light on your workspace. To anyone else, the array of products scattered across the glass surface, tubes of frosted pink lipstick, pots of glitter gel, three different cans of hairsprays, and an arsenal of brushes, might have looked like chaos. To you, it was an armory.

You were Hawkins High’s resident "doll." You were the girl who wore heels on tuesdays just because, the girl whose notes were color-coded in pastel gel pens, the girl who unironically loved horoscope columns and smelled permanently of vanilla cupcake batter and expensive perfume.

People made assumptions. They saw the bleached highlights, the short skirts, and the wide-eyed, gum-popping smile, and they assumed there wasn’t much going on upstairs. You didn't mind. Let them think you were just air and sugar. It was easier that way. Being a "bimbo", as the burnout kids sometimes muttered when you walked by, was a shield. It was a soft, pink, impenetrable armor against a town that was often grey and scary.

But there was one person who looked at you and didn't just see the aesthetic. He saw the person who curated it.

A horn honked outside. Three short bursts. Steve.

You grabbed your purse and took one last look in the mirror. You were wearing a baby pink fuzzy sweater that stopped just above your navel, and a white mini-skirt that left very little to the imagination. Your lips were glossed to a high-shine mirror finish.

Perfect.

You bounded down the stairs, shouted a quick goodbye to your parents who were watching TV in the den, and stepped out into the humid Indiana evening.

Steve Harrington was leaning against the hood of his car. He was wearing his signature grey member’s only jacket over a yellow polo, his hair coiffed to impossible heights. He looked tired, he always looked tired these days, shadows lingering under his hazel eyes, but when he saw you, the exhaustion evaporated.

His jaw actually dropped. It was a reaction you worked hard for, and it never got old.

“Hi Stevie,” you chirped, walking down the driveway, your white heels clicking on the pavement.

Steve pushed off the car, meeting you halfway. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. He smelled like Brut cologne, hairspray, and faintly of cigarette smoke. It was the best smell in the world.

“You look…” He shook his head, a lopsided grin taking over his face. “I mean, look at you. You look like a movie star. A really hot movie star.”

You giggled, smoothing the collar of his jacket. “And you look like a very handsome babysitter. Rough day with the nuggets?”

Steve groaned, rolling his eyes toward the sky. “Henderson tried to build a radio tower in my backyard. Again. I spent three hours hauling scrap metal. I need a break. I need you.”

“Well, you’ve got me,” you said, going up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek, careful not to get gloss on him. “All night. No kids allowed.”

Steve opened the passenger door for you. “Best news I’ve heard all week.”

Dinner was in a small fancy restaurant. You sat in a booth in the back, picking at a plate of pasta while Steve devoured a burger.

The conversation was easy. This was why it worked. You talked about the new fall collection at the mall. You talked about which shade of nail polish suited your skin tone best (Cotton Candy or Ballet Slipper?). You talked about the drama between two cheerleaders Steve barely knew.

And Steve? He listened. He listened with a rapt attention that melted your heart. He watched you talk, his eyes tracking the way your hands moved, the way you twirled your straw. He treated your interests with the same seriousness he treated his monster-hunting. To him, your world of glitter and gossip was a sanctuary. It was normal. It was safe.

But tonight, there was an undercurrent of something else.

Steve’s hand kept finding yours across the table. His thumb rubbed over your knuckles, tracing the rings on your fingers. His gaze was heavier, darker. It wasn't just adoration; it was hunger.

“You okay?” you asked, tilting your head. “You’re staring.”

Steve blinked, shaking his head slightly. “Sorry. I just… I can’t believe you’re mine, sometimes. You’re just so… much. In the best way.”

You flushed, a genuine heat rising to your cheeks that had nothing to do with blush. “You’re sweet.”

“I’m not sweet,” Steve said, his voice dropping, becoming rougher. “I’m a guy sitting across from the most beautiful girl in Hawkins, trying to figure out how fast we can finish dinner so I can take you home.”

Your breath hitched. The air between you suddenly felt thick.

“I’m finished,” you whispered, pushing your plate away.

Steve signaled for the check immediately.

The drive to the Harrington house was filled with the sounds of Madonna and the rushing wind. Steve’s hand rested on your thigh the entire time, his grip firm, possessive. The heat from his palm seeped through your stockings, making your heart race.

You knew where this was going. You had been dating for three months. Three months of heavy make-out sessions in his car, of hands roaming over clothes, of breathless stops at the front door before your curfew.

But you had never gone all the way.

It was the one secret you kept hidden under the layers of lip gloss and bravado. Everyone assumed things about you. They saw the tight skirts and the way you clung to Steve and assumed you were experienced. They assumed you were "easy."

The truth was, you were terrified. You were a virgin. A total, complete, technical virgin. And tonight felt like the night that was going to change.

When you pulled up to his massive, empty house, the lights were off. His parents were gone. Again.

Steve unlocked the front door and you stepped into the cool, silent foyer. He didn't even turn on the lights. He just kicked the door shut, dropped his keys in the bowl, and pulled you toward him.

The kiss was searing. It wasn't the sweet peck from the driveway. It was deep, wet, and urgent. Steve groaned into your mouth, his hands tangling in your hair, messing up the perfect volume you had spent twenty minutes on. You didn't care.

He walked you backward until you hit the wall. He pressed his body flush against yours, his thigh slotting between your legs. You could feel how much he wanted you, the hardness of him pressing against your stomach. It sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

“Let’s go upstairs.” he murmured against your neck, biting gently at the sensitive cord of muscle there. 

You nodded, unable to speak.

He took your hand and led you up the stairs, his grip tight, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

His bedroom was messy, piles of clothes, a half-read book, old mixtapes scattered on the dresser. It smelled like him. It was your favorite place in the world.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you to stand between his knees. He looked up at you, his eyes dark and blown wide. He reached out, his hands resting on your waist, his thumbs stroking the soft fabric of your sweater.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered. “You know that?”

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your stomach through the sweater. Then, he looked up, a silent question in his eyes.

You took a deep breath. You reached down and grabbed the hem of your sweater. You pulled it over your head, tossing it onto the floor.

Underneath, you were wearing a sheer, baby pink lace bralette. It was flimsy, expensive, and made you look like a pin-up girl.

Steve let out a sharp hiss of breath. “Jesus… Y/N…”

He reached for the zipper of your skirt.

“Steve,” you said. Your voice came out small, shaky. A stark contrast to the confident girl who had walked into the restaurant.

Steve stopped immediately. His hands froze on your hips. He looked up, his expression instantly shifting from lust to concern. “What? What is it? Did I do something?”

“No,” you said quickly, placing your hands over his. “No, you’re perfect. It’s just…”

You looked down at him. The King of Hawkins. The guy who had dated Nancy Wheeler. The guy who presumably knew exactly what he was doing. And then there was you, all style, no substance, at least in this department.

“I have to tell you something,” you whispered. “And it’s… it’s kind of embarrassing. Because I know what I look like. I know what people say.”

Steve frowned, his brow furrowing. He stood up, towering over you, but he kept his distance, giving you space. “Hey. Who cares what people say? Talk to me.”

“I’ve never done this before,” you blurted out.

The silence in the room was deafening for a split second.

Steve blinked. “Done what?”

“This,” you gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Sex. Everything. I’m… I’m a virgin, Steve.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for him to laugh. Waiting for him to be disappointed that the "hot bimbo girlfriend" didn't come with the skills he probably expected.

Instead, you felt warm hands cup your face.

You opened your eyes. Steve was looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite place. It was tender. It was surprised, yes, but mostly… he looked awestruck.

“You’re a virgin?” he repeated softly.

You nodded, biting your lip. “I know. It’s stupid. I look like this, and I—”

“It’s not stupid,” Steve interrupted firmly. He ran his thumbs over your cheekbones. “It’s… wow. Okay. So, I’m the first?”

“You’re the first,” you confirmed. “If you… still want to.”

Steve let out a breathless laugh, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. “If I still want to? Baby, are you crazy? Of course I want to. I want you more than anything.”

He pulled back to look at you, his hazel eyes serious now. “But this changes things. We have to… I want to make sure you’re okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. We can stop. We can just make out.”

“I want to,” you said, reaching up to thread your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I really, really want to, Steve. I trust you.”

That broke him. You saw the moment his resolve crumbled into pure, molten affection.

“Okay,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss you gently, so much softer than before. “Okay. Then I’m going to take care of you. I promise. I’m going to be so good to you.”

The shift in dynamic was palpable. Before, it had been a race. Now, it was a slow, deliberate worship.

Steve undressed you like you were made of spun glass. He unzipped your skirt and helped you step out of it. He unclasped your bra, his fingers brushing against your skin with a reverence that made you shiver. When you were finally standing before him in nothing but your lacy pink panties and stockings, he just looked.

“You are perfect,” he murmured, his gaze traveling over every curve. “Like a doll. My perfect doll.”

He stripped off his own clothes quickly, the jacket, the polo, the jeans, revealing a body that was lean and scarred from battles you only half-knew about. He looked strong. He looked capable.

He picked you up, lifting you effortlessly, and laid you back against the pillows. The sheets were cool against your skin. Steve hovered over you, bracing his weight on his elbows so he wouldn't crush you.

“Tell me if anything feels bad,” he said, brushing hair out of your eyes. “Tell me if you want me to stop. I mean it, Y/N. Even if I’m… in the middle of it. You say stop, I stop.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Kiss me, Stevie.”

He kissed you. He kissed your mouth, slow and deep. He kissed your jaw. He kissed your neck, sucking a bruise there that you’d have to cover with makeup tomorrow. He moved down your body, kissing your collarbone, the slope of your breast, your stomach.

“You’re so soft,” he groaned against your skin. “You smell like frosting. I could eat you up.”

His hand slid down your stomach, slipping beneath the lace of your panties. You gasped, your hips bucking instinctively.

“Easy,” he soothed, his voice low and rumbling. “I’ve got you.”

He used his fingers first, prepping you, stretching you. He watched your face the entire time, gauging your reactions. Every time you moaned, a smirk played on his lips, a mix of male pride and genuine happiness that he was making you feel good.

“You like that?” he whispered, his thumb circling you.

“Yes,” you breathed, your hands gripping the sheets. “Steve, please.”

“You’re so wet,” he praised, leaning up to kiss you again. “You’re so ready for me. God, you’re so pretty when you’re like this. All flushed and messy.”

He removed your panties slowly, sliding them down your legs. Then, he reached over to the nightstand for a condom. He fumbled a bit, his hands were shaking, which somehow made you feel better. He was nervous too. The King of Hawkins was nervous because of you.

When he was protected, he settled between your legs. He nudged your knees apart wider, stepping into the cradle of your hips.

“Okay,” he breathed, his face hovering inches from yours. “I’m gonna come in now. It might hurt a little at first. Just breathe for me.”

You nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist. You felt the heavy, blunt pressure of him against your entrance.

Steve pushed forward slowly. He was agonizingly gentle. He entered you inch by inch, giving your body time to adjust to the intrusion. It burned, a sharp, stretching sensation that made you wince and dig your nails into his shoulders.

Steve stopped immediately. He held perfectly still, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back. He kissed the sweat from your forehead.

“You okay?” he gritted out.

“Yeah,” you panted. “Just… give me a second.”

“Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

You took a few deep breaths, focusing on the weight of him, the heat of his chest against yours. The pain began to fade, replaced by a feeling of fullness. You looked into his eyes. They were wide, vulnerable, and full of love.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Keep going.”

Steve pushed deeper, sliding past the barrier until he was fully sheathed inside you. He let out a long, broken groan, dropping his forehead to your shoulder.

“Oh my god,” he mumbled. “You feel… you feel incredible.”

He stayed still for a moment, letting you get used to him. Then, slowly, he began to move.

It wasn't fast. It wasn't rough. It was a slow, rolling rhythm. He pulled almost all the way out and then glided back in, hitting deep.

“Steve,” you whimpered. The sensation was overwhelming. It was too much and not enough all at once.

“I know,” he whispered, peppering kisses over your face. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

He began to pick up the pace, just slightly. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to the mattress. You found yourself moving with him, your instincts taking over. You arched your back, meeting his thrusts.

“That’s it,” he praised, his voice rough. “Just like that. You’re doing so good. You’re taking it so good.”

Hearing him praise you flipped a switch in your brain. You wanted to be good for him. You wanted to be the best he’d ever had.

“Does it feel good?” you asked breathlessly.

“It feels like heaven,” Steve groaned. “You have no idea. Being the first one inside you… knowing no one else has touched you like this… it’s driving me crazy.”

He thrust harder, hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur. Pleasure coiled in your stomach, hot and tight.

“Steve!” you cried out.

“I’m here. Let go, baby. Come for me.”

He reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing in time with his thrusts. That was the tipping point. The friction, the fullness, the smell of him, it all crashed together.

You fell apart. You cried out his name, your body clamping down around him as waves of pleasure washed over you.

Feeling you climax was too much for Steve. He groaned, a guttural sound deep in his chest. He drove into you hard, once, twice, three times, before burying himself deep and freezing there. His body shuddered against yours, his arms crushing you to him as he poured himself into you.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of harsh breathing and the whir of the ceiling fan.

Steve collapsed on top of you, his weight heavy and comforting. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing slowly returning to normal. You ran your hands up and down his sweaty back, tracing the line of his spine.

After a few minutes, he lifted his head. His hair was a disaster, a messy halo around his head. He looked exhausted and incredibly happy.

“You okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of regret or pain. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you said softly. “It was… perfect. You were perfect.”

Steve let out a sigh of relief and rolled off you, pulling you into his side. He pulled the duvet up over both of you, cocooning you together.

He looked at you, taking in the smeared lip gloss, the messy hair, the flushed skin. The "bimbo" aesthetic was ruined, dismantled by his hands. And yet, he looked at you like you were even more beautiful now than you were when you walked out of the house.

“You’re a mess,” he teased gently, tracing your lower lip with his thumb.

You laughed, snuggling closer to his chest. “You did this.”

“Guilty,” he grinned. He kissed the top of your head. “Hey, Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice serious again. “For trusting me. For giving me… that. It means a lot. More than you know.”

You rested your hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat steady and strong beneath your palm. You knew people saw you as the airhead and him as the washed-up King. But in this bed, in the dark, you were just two people who had found a safe place to land.

“I love you, Steve,” you whispered.

Steve tightened his arm around you. “I love you too, doll. So much.”

He reached over and clicked off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“Now,” he mumbled sleepily into your hair. “If you think you’re getting out of this bed anytime before noon tomorrow, you’re crazy.”

You smiled, closing your eyes, surrounded by the smell of Brut and the warmth of the only man who mattered. “Totally fine by me.”

Knight!Steve Harrington x Princess!reader Alternative universe

part 1 - part 2 - part 3

The mist that rolled off the Duesbury harbor was not the romantic, gossamer fog of the poets. It was a heavy, suffocating shroud that tasted of brine, rotting kelp, and the desperate sweat of a thousand men who had come to this wretched city to disappear.

You stood in the deep recess of a crumbling alleyway, the stone wall behind you slick with damp moss. The hood of your cloak was pulled low, but the cold air still found its way to your neck, raising gooseflesh that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Against your chest, in a sling woven from old fishing nets and soft wool, Elodie slept. Her breathing was a rhythmic, warm puff against your collarbone, the only peaceful thing in a world that had turned into a hunting ground. At your knee, four-year-old Leo stood silent as a statue, his small hand gripping the fabric of your trousers so tightly his knuckles were white. He had learned the game of "Invisible" too young.

Steve stood three paces ahead, at the very edge of the shadows.

He didn't look like a fisherman anymore. The disguise that had kept you safe in Lenora for years, the hunched shoulders, the dull gaze, the localized accent, had evaporated the moment you fled the cottage. In its place stood the man you had fallen in love with in the gilded halls of Hawkins Castle.

He was exhausted. The flight from Lenora had been a grueling three-day trek through brambles and backroads, moving only under the cover of a moonless sky. His eyes were rimmed with dark, bruised circles, and a three-day stubble darkened his jaw. But his posture was rigid, his hand resting perpetually on the heavy, distinct lump beneath his cloak where the morningstar hung.

"He's late," you whispered, the sound barely audible over the lapping of the dirty water against the pilings.

Steve didn't turn. His eyes were scanning the docks, dissecting the fog, watching the shifting silhouettes of drunken sailors and dockworkers. "He’ll be here. He likes an entrance."

"If he doesn't come soon, Steve... the patrols. We saw the torches on the ridge."

"I know," Steve said. His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together. He turned back to you then, and the hardness in his face fractured for a second. He reached out, his thumb brushing your cheek, wiping away a smear of dirt. "I know. But we can't go back, and we can't stay here. This is the bottleneck."

"Are you sure about him?" you asked again, the anxiety twisting in your gut like a knife. "A smuggler? A pirate?"

"He’s not a pirate, he’s a... freelancer," Steve corrected dryly, though the humor didn't quite reach his eyes. "And he’s the only captain in this godforsaken port who won't sell us out to the Crown for a bag of silver. He hates Henry almost as much as I do."

Suddenly, a low, melodic whistle cut through the damp air. It wasn't a birdcall, it was a tune. A jaunty, mocking little melody that felt entirely out of place in the gloom of Duesbury.

Steve stiffened, his hand tightening on his weapon. "Stay here. Keep the kids completely covered. If things go south, you run for the sewer grate we passed. Do not wait for me."

"Steve—"

"Promise me," he hissed, his eyes fierce.

"I promise," you lied. You would never leave him. Not again.

Steve stepped out of the alley and into the pool of dim light cast by a sputtering oil lantern on the pier. You watched from the darkness, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Out of the fog, a ship materialized. It was a sleek, dangerous-looking sloop, painted a black so deep it seemed to drink the light. The sails were furled, but the figurehead, a skeletal demon screaming into the wind, was unmistakable.

The Hellfire.

A plank was kicked down from the deck, hitting the wood of the pier with a clatter. A figure strolled down it with the casual arrogance of a king, though he was dressed in a patchwork of leather, velvet, and denim that would have given the Royal Tailor a stroke.

Captain Eddie Munson.

He had wild, curly dark hair that fell around his face in a chaotic halo. He wore rings on every finger, and a scimitar curved wickedly at his hip. He stopped halfway down the plank, leaning on the railing, peering into the gloom.

"Well, well, well," Eddie’s voice boomed, theatrical and loud enough to make you winch. "If it isn't the King’s favorite headache. Steve 'The Hair' Harrington. I heard a rumor you were dead. Drowned in a fishing accident. Tragically eaten by a shark."

"Keep your voice down, Munson," Steve snapped, closing the distance but keeping his hands visible.

"And yet," Eddie continued, hopping off the plank and landing on the dock with a flourish, "here you are. Looking terrible, I might add. Fatherhood has given you wrinkles, Stevie."

"I have the gold, Eddie," Steve said, cutting through the banter. He pulled the heavy leather pouch from his belt, the entirety of your life's savings, plus everything you had stolen from the castle years ago. "Full payment. Plus the 'risk tax' you quoted."

Eddie’s eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian, flicked to the pouch. He didn't take it immediately. Instead, he looked past Steve, his gaze piercing the shadows of the alleyway where you stood.

"And the cargo?" Eddie asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing the theatrics.

"Safe," Steve said, stepping to block Eddie’s line of sight. "Do we have a deal or not?"

Eddie looked at Steve for a long, tense moment. You held your breath. In Duesbury, betrayal was a currency more common than gold. Eddie could easily take the money, kill Steve, and sell you and the children to the bounty hunters for a second payout.

Then, a slow, crooked grin spread across the pirate’s face.

"I always did love sticking it to the establishment," Eddie said. He snatched the pouch from Steve’s hand, weighing it. "Heavy. I like heavy. Welcome aboard the Hellfire, Harrington. Try not to get any noble righteousness on my deck."

Getting the children on board was a blur of hushed urgency. The crew of the Hellfire were a motley collection of outcasts, deserters, and rough-faced men and women who looked at you with indifference as you hurried up the gangplank. They didn't care that you were a former princess, to them, you were just freight that paid well.

Steve guided you down a narrow, creaking staircase into the belly of the ship. The cabin Eddie had assigned you was small, smelling of tar, old spices, and damp wood, but it had a lock on the door.

"We’re casting off in ten minutes," Steve said, kneeling to check Leo’s boots. "The tide is turning."

You sat on the edge of the narrow bunk, settling Elodie into a nest of blankets. She was starting to stir, hungry and fussy. "We made it," you whispered, the adrenaline beginning to crash, leaving you shaking. "Steve, we’re actually on the boat."

Steve stood up. He looked around the cramped cabin as if searching for traps. He was vibrating with tension, his warrior instincts screaming that it wasn't over yet.

"We’re not out of the harbor," he said tightly. "We’re sitting ducks until the sails are up."

"Eddie knows the waters," you reasoned, trying to soothe him, though your own hands were trembling. "He’s fast."

"He’s reckless," Steve countered. He walked over to you, placing his hands on your shoulders. The heat of his palms seeped through your cloak. "I need you to stay down here. Bolt the door. Don't open it for anyone but me or Munson. Do you understand?"

"Where are you going?"

"Topside. I need to watch the dock. I don't trust the fog."

"Steve, you’re exhausted. You haven't slept in two days."

"I'll sleep when we cross the horizon line," he promised. He leaned down, kissing you hard. It tasted of salt and desperation. "I love you. Guard the fort."

"I love you," you replied, gripping his forearms. "Come back to me."

He gave Leo a quick salute. "Sir Leo, you’re in command."

Leo nodded solemnly, pulling his small wooden sword from his belt. "Yes papa."

Steve slipped out the door. You threw the bolt immediately, sliding down to the floor with your back against the wood. You closed your eyes, listening to the thud of footsteps on the deck above, the shouting of orders, the creaking of timber.

Please, you prayed to whatever gods listened to runaways. Just let us leave.

Above you, the ship groaned. You felt the subtle shift in the floorboards as the moorings were loosened. You were drifting. You were leaving.

Then came the sound.

It wasn't the wind. It was a rhythmic, hollow thudding against the hull.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Arrows.

Then, a roar that penetrated the timber of the ship, a voice you had heard in your nightmares for four years.

"HARRINGTON!"

Your blood turned to ice. You scrambled up, grabbing Leo and pulling him into the bunk with Elodie. "Stay here," you hissed, your voice trembling. "Cover your ears. Do not move."

"Mama?" Leo whimpered.

"Hide, Leo! Now!"

You grabbed the dagger Steve had given you. You unbolted the door and ran for the stairs.

When you burst onto the deck, the world had descended into chaos.

The fog had been pierced by a dozen torches on the pier. The light revealed a nightmare. A squadron of armored soldiers, at least twenty of them, had swarmed the dock. They weren't the city watch. They wore the polished steel and green tabards of the Royal Guard.

And leading them, standing at the edge of the pier with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other, was Captain Sullivan.

"Cut the lines!" Steve was screaming. He was near the helm, wrestling with a thick hemp rope that was still tethering the stern to the dock.

"I can't!" Eddie yelled back from the bow. "We’re pinned! The wind is against us!"

Arrows whistled through the air like angry hornets. One struck the mast inches from Eddie’s face. Another thudded into the deck near your feet.

"Board the ship!" Sullivan roared. "Bring me the head of the traitor! Spare the woman for the King!"

The soldiers surged forward. They threw grappling hooks, the iron claws biting into the railing of the Hellfire, pulling the ship back toward the dock.

Steve saw it happen. He saw the gap closing. He saw the soldiers preparing to leap across. If they boarded, with your children below deck, it was over. You would be dragged back in chains, and Steve would be butchered before your eyes.

He made a choice.

"Steve, no!" you screamed, seeing the look in his eyes.

He didn't look at you. He looked at the encroaching steel.

"Take the helm!" Steve shouted at Eddie. "Get her out of here!"

"Harrington, don't be an idiot!" Eddie shrieked.

Steve ignored him. He vaulted over the railing, landing heavily on the wooden pier. He was one man against twenty. He had no armor, no shield. Just a thick fisherman’s coat and the morningstar he ripped from his belt.

The first two soldiers reached him instantly. They expected an easy kill, a tired, unarmored fugitive.

They were wrong.

Steve ducked a swinging broadsword with a fluidity that four years of hauling nets hadn't erased. He spun, the morningstar whistling a deadly song. CRACK. The spiked ball connected with the first soldier’s helmet, crumpling the steel like paper. The man dropped without a sound.

The second soldier lunged with a spear. Steve sidestepped, grabbing the shaft and jerking the man forward, slamming his forehead into the soldier’s nose.

"Cut the grapples!" Steve roared at the ship, swinging his mace to keep the circle of soldiers at bay.

You didn't freeze. Panic was a luxury you couldn't afford. You scrambled to the railing where the iron hooks were digging into the wood. You hacked at the ropes with your dagger, the blade sawing frantically.

"Help him!" you screamed at Eddie’s crew.

A few of the pirates fired crossbows into the crowd, buying Steve seconds, but they were outmatched.

On the dock, the circle was tightening. Sullivan pushed his way through his men, his face twisted in a cruel sneer.

"You have nowhere to run, pretty boy," Sullivan taunted, circling Steve. "You’re tired. You’re old. And you’re all alone."

Steve was breathing hard, sweat and blood mixing on his face. He had a cut above his eye that blinded him on one side. But he grinned, a feral, terrifying expression full of bloodied teeth.

"I'm not alone," Steve growled.

He swung the morningstar, forcing Sullivan back. But as he did, a soldier struck from behind, his sword slashing across the back of Steve’s thigh.

Steve roared in pain, buckling to one knee.

"NO!" you shrieked, finally severing the last grappling rope. The ship lurched, drifting away from the dock. The gap was widening. Five feet. Six feet.

Steve was on his knee, surrounded. The soldiers raised their weapons for the killing blow.

"Finish him," Sullivan commanded, stepping in for the honor.

Steve looked up. He looked at the ship moving away. He looked at you, leaning over the rail, reaching for him.

He wasn't going to die here. Not today.

He grabbed a handful of sand and ash from the brazier on the dock and threw it upward, straight into Sullivan’s face.

The Captain screamed, clawing at his burning eyes.

Steve used the distraction. He surged upward, ignoring the agony in his sliced leg. He swung the morningstar in a massive, clearing arc that sent three soldiers scrambling back.

He turned and ran.

He ran with a limp, blood trailing behind him. He ran toward the edge of the pier, toward the black water, toward you.

"Jump!" Eddie bellowed from the wheel.

The ship was eight feet away. It was an impossible jump for a wounded man in heavy boots.

Steve didn't hesitate. He launched himself into the void.

Time seemed to suspend. You watched him fly, his face contorted in effort.

He slammed into the side of the hull.

He didn't make the deck. His chest hit the railing with a sickening thud, knocking the wind out of him. His fingers scrabbled desperately against the wet wood of the gunwale. His legs dangled uselessly over the dark water.

He began to slip.

"Grab him!"

You threw yourself over the railing, grabbing his left wrist. Eddie, having abandoned the wheel, was there a second later, grabbing the back of Steve’s coat.

"I’ve got you!" you sobbed, your muscles screaming as you took his dead weight. "Steve, look at me! I’ve got you!"

He looked up at you, eyes wide and terrified, his face pale as the moon. "Let... go..." he wheezed. "Too... heavy..."

"Shut up!" Eddie grunted, bracing his boots against the deck. "Pull, your highness! Pull!"

An arrow thudded into the wood inches from your hand. You didn't flinch. You dug your knees into the deck and pulled with a strength born of pure, hysterical love.

With a final, agonizing heave, you and Eddie hauled him over the rail.

Steve tumbled onto the deck, collapsing in a heap. He rolled onto his back, gasping for air, clutching his bleeding leg.

On the dock, fading into the fog, Sullivan was screaming in rage, impotently throwing his sword into the water.

The Hellfire caught the wind. The sails snapped full, and the ship surged forward, cutting through the waves, leaving the kingdom, the soldiers, and the past behind in the mist.

The adrenaline crash was brutal.

Once the ship was safely in open waters, Eddie’s crew took over. You didn't leave Steve’s side. You and Eddie dragged him into the captain’s quarters, it was larger and had better light than your cabin.

"Is it deep?" Steve asked through gritted teeth as you cut away the pant leg.

"Deep enough to need stitches," you said, your voice shaking now that the danger was over. "You stupid, reckless, heroic idiot."

"Hey," Steve managed a weak smirk, his head lolling back against the pillow. "I looked cool though, right?"

"You looked like a dead man walking," Eddie muttered. He was heating a needle over a candle flame, his face unusually serious. "Hold him down, Princess. This is going to sting."

You pinned Steve’s shoulders to the bunk. As Eddie worked, stitching the jagged wound, Steve groaned, his hand gripping yours so tight you thought he might break your fingers. You smoothed his hair back, whispering soft reassurances, kissing his forehead, wiping the sweat and grime from his face.

When it was done, and his leg was bandaged, Steve passed out from exhaustion.

You went down to check on the children. They were huddled together in the bunk. Leo was holding his wooden sword pointed at the door. When he saw you, he dropped it and burst into tears.

"Is papa dead?" he sobbed.

"No, baby," you gathered them both into your arms, the relief making you dizzy. "Papa is sleeping. He’s safe. We’re all safe."

Later that night, you went back up to the deck. The fog had cleared. The ocean was an endless expanse of stars and silence.

Eddie was at the helm, smoking a pipe. He nodded at you as you approached.

"He’s a maniac," Eddie said quietly. "You know that, right?"

"I know," you said, leaning against the rail.

"He fought off twenty of the King’s best with a stick and a bag of sand." Eddie shook his head, a begrudging respect in his tone. "I can see why you ran away with him. He’s got... grit."

"Thank you, Eddie," you said softly. "For coming back. For waiting."

Eddie shrugged, looking uncomfortable with the gratitude. "He paid me well. And besides... I couldn't let Sullivan win. That guy has a terrible mustache."

He passed you a flask. "Drink. You look like you need it."

You took a swig. It was cheap rum, burning all the way down. It felt like victory.

Three weeks later

The light in the Free City of Tyris was different. It was golden, warm, and unfiltered by the gloom of the northern kingdoms. The city was a sprawling, chaotic masterpiece of terracotta roofs, winding canals, and markets that smelled of saffron, roasting meat, and freedom.

There were no banners of the White Rose here. No patrols asking for papers. Just people living.

You stood on the terrace of the small, whitewashed house you had rented. It wasn't a castle. It wasn't even a manor. It was three rooms above a pottery shop, overlooking the sparkling azure of the southern sea.

Steve sat in a wicker chair, his injured leg propped up on a stool. He was healing well, though the limp would likely be permanent, a reminder of the price of admission.

He was peeling an orange, his movements slow and deliberate. The tension that had defined his silhouette for four years, the coil of a spring waiting to snap, was gone.

Leo was in the corner of the terrace, trying to fence with a shadow, using a baguette he had stolen from the kitchen.

"Pointy end forward, Leo!" Steve called out lazily. "And stop eating your weapon!"

"But it's crunchy!" Leo argued.

You laughed, setting a pitcher of iced tea on the table. You sat down opposite Steve, watching the wind play with his hair, which, miraculously, had regained its volume despite the sea air.

"You know," Steve said, popping a slice of orange into his mouth. "I went into the city today. While you were at the market."

"Oh?" You raised an eyebrow. "Should you be walking that much?"

"I needed to stretch it out. Anyway, I ran into the Captain of the City Watch."

Your heart gave a small, habitual jump. "And?"

"Nice guy. Name's Hopper. Big, grumpy, likes coffee." Steve shrugged. "He saw me handle a pickpocket who tried to snag my purse. Said my form was 'military grade.' Offered me a job."

You stared at him. "A job? As a guard?"

"Not a guard. A trainer. Teaching the new recruits how not to stab themselves in the foot." Steve leaned forward, his eyes bright. "It pays well. Regular hours. No oaths of fealty. Just... a job. Weekends off."

"Weekends off," you repeated, smiling. "That sounds... incredibly boring."

"Boring is good," Steve said earnestly. "I really, really like boring. I think I could be excellent at boring."

He reached across the table, taking your hand. His palm was calloused, scarred, and warm. He rubbed his thumb over the simple gold band on your finger.

"We did it," he whispered, as if saying it too loud might break the spell. "We’re actually free."

"We are," you agreed.

Steve looked at you, and the love in his eyes was so profound it knocked the wind out of you. "So, retired princess... what do you want to do with your weekend off?"

You looked at your son fighting bread-dragons, at the blue ocean that separated you from your past, and at the man who had burned down his life to keep you warm.

"I want to go to the beach," you said. "And I want you to teach Leo how to hold a sword properly. Before he eats the rest of our lunch."

Steve laughed, a true, unburdened sound that carried out over the rooftops of the Free City.

"As you wish." he said, bringing your knuckles to his lips. 

Firefighter!Rafe x Female!OC CHAPTER 5

The rest of the night refused to settle back into normalcy.

For Emily, the bar felt louder, brighter, more crowded than before, as if her senses had been turned up just enough to make everything overwhelming. She returned to her booth, but her body stayed half-turned, awareness tugging toward the space where Rafe stood with his friends.

He hadn’t stayed close. He hadn’t asked for her number. He hadn’t lingered.

And yet, something had shifted.

“Okay,” Maya said after a minute, leaning across the table. “You can’t just come back looking like that and not explain.”

Emily blinked. “Like what?”

“Like someone just cracked open a door you didn’t realize you’d locked,” Lila added gently.

Emily stared down at her drink, watching the ice melt. “We just… talked. Briefly.”

“Uh-huh,” Maya said, unconvinced. “And?”

“And nothing,” Emily replied, though her chest felt tight when she said it. “He was nice. That’s all.”

Nice didn’t cover it.

Nice didn’t explain the way his voice had softened when he asked if she was okay. Or how carefully he’d said her name, like it mattered that he got it right.

She took another sip, but it tasted flat now.

Across the bar, Rafe leaned against the table, half-listening to Lopez ramble about some disastrous date. His eyes kept drifting, against his better judgment, toward Emily.

She was laughing now, head tipped back slightly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. He recognized that look. The kind people wore when they were trying to convince themselves they were fine.

“Dude,” Jackson said, snapping his fingers in front of Rafe’s face. “Earth to Cameron.”

Rafe scowled. “What?”

“You’ve been staring at that girl all night,” Jackson said. “Either talk to her or stop torturing yourself.”

Lopez smirked. “Or us.”

Rafe shifted uncomfortably. “I already talked to her.”

“And?” Lopez pressed.

“And nothing,” Rafe said shortly.

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “You don’t do ‘nothing.’”

Rafe didn’t answer.

Because the truth was, he didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t good at this, at casual connections, at flirting, at knowing when to step forward and when to hold back.

His life ran on alarms and protocols and lines you didn’t cross unless you were absolutely sure.

Emily felt like a line he didn’t yet understand.

When the night began to thin, people trickled out of the bar in small groups, laughter fading into the street like echoes.

Emily slipped on her jacket, suddenly aware of how tired she was. Not just physically, but emotionally, bone-deep tired.

“I’m heading out,” she told her friends.

Maya studied her for a second. “You okay?”

Emily nodded. “Yeah. Just… done.”

They hugged her tightly before letting her go.

As Emily stepped outside, the cool air wrapped around her like relief. The streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement, and the city hummed softly, quieter now, more forgiving.

She took a few steps down the sidewalk before she heard her name.

“Emily.”

Her heart skipped.

She turned.

Rafe stood a few feet behind her, jacket zipped up, hands shoved into his pockets like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. The streetlight caught his face just right, softening the angles she’d noticed in the bar.

“Hey,” she said, surprised.

He nodded, then hesitated. “I just—uh. Wanted to say goodnight. Properly.”

She smiled. “Goodnight. Properly.”

A pause stretched between them, not uncomfortable, just careful.

“You live close?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “A few blocks.”

“Good,” he replied. “Just—be safe.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them carried weight. Habit. Sincerity.

“I will,” she said quietly.

Another pause.

Rafe shifted his weight, clearly debating something. “Listen, I don’t usually do this,” he said, voice low. “But if you ever want to grab coffee or something—no pressure—I’d like that.”

Emily’s breath caught.

She searched his face, looking for anything that suggested obligation or expectation.

There was none.

Just quiet hope.

“I’d like that too,” she said.

Relief flickered across his expression before he masked it with a small smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They exchanged numbers, fingers brushing briefly as he handed her his phone. The contact sent a strange warmth through her chest, soft, steady, real.

“Goodnight, Emily,” he said again.

“Goodnight, Rafe.”

She watched him walk away, heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

Later that night, Emily lay in bed staring at her ceiling, phone resting on her chest.

The rejection from earlier still hurt. Her dream still felt bruised and uncertain.

But for the first time in a long while, the ache wasn’t the only thing there.

There was curiosity. Possibility. A spark she hadn’t expected.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown (Rafe): Glad you got home safe.

She smiled before she could stop herself.

Emily: Me too. Thanks for checking.

Across the city, Rafe sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, a similar smile tugging at his lips.

He didn’t know where this would go. Didn’t know if it would last. Didn’t know if it was wise to want something so fragile.

But as he set his phone down and leaned back, one thought stayed with him longer than the rest:

Some fires don’t burn fast. They glow. Slow and steady.

And sometimes, those are the ones that change everything.

Rafe Cameron x reader CHAPTER 13

The house had settled into that strange, late-night stillness that didn’t feel restful, just suspended.

Every sound felt louder in the dark. The soft ticking of the clock above the stove. The distant hum of the refrigerator. The occasional creak of wood as the house shifted around us like it was breathing in its sleep.

I lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, eyes burning with exhaustion I couldn’t quite sink into. My body was heavy, but my mind kept circling the same thoughts over and over, Rafe’s voice in the car, the way he’d looked at the ocean, the restraint in his hands like he was afraid of himself.

I turned my head toward the front door without knowing why.

And then I heard it.

The soft click of the lock.

I sat up instantly.

The door opened slowly, carefully, as if whoever was on the other side didn’t want to be noticed by the house itself. A sliver of moonlight cut across the floor before the door shut again, just as quietly.

Rafe stood there.

He looked tense, shoulders raised, jaw clenched, movements too controlled. Like if he relaxed even a little, something inside him might spill out.

When his eyes found me on the couch, he froze.

“You’re still awake,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” I replied, my voice gentle but alert. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said too fast. “Just needed some air.”

He didn’t wait for a response.

He walked past me toward the kitchen, footsteps light but restless. I watched him open a cabinet, grab a glass, fill it with water. He leaned against the counter, staring down at it.

Not drinking.

Just holding it like it was an anchor.

Something twisted uncomfortably in my chest.

“Rafe,” I said softly.

No answer.

His fingers tightened around the glass, knuckles paling.

I stood slowly, every movement deliberate so I wouldn’t startle him, and crossed the room until I was close enough to feel the tension radiating off him. I stopped a few feet away.

“What happened?” I asked gently.

For a moment, I thought he might pretend again. Shrug it off. Tell me it was nothing.

Instead, his shoulders dropped, just slightly, like the weight was too heavy to keep holding up.

“I went for a drive,” he said, eyes still fixed on the counter. “Thought it would clear my head.”

“And?” I asked.

He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, short, bitter.

“And I stopped somewhere I shouldn’t have.”

My heart sank.

“Did you—” I started, then stopped myself, choosing my words carefully. “Are you okay right now?”

He finally turned to look at me.

His eyes were red. Glassy. Too honest.

“I didn’t,” he said quickly. “I didn’t use. I swear.”

I nodded immediately. “Okay.”

“But I wanted to,” he continued, voice cracking. “God, I wanted to.”

The admission hit harder than anything else could have.

“I stood there,” he said, words spilling now, “with my hand on the door, and for a second it felt so easy. Like I could just shut everything off again. Not feel anything. Not feel—”

His voice broke.

I stepped closer.

“And then?” I asked quietly.

“And then I thought about you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “About today. About the way you looked at me like I wasn’t… already gone.”

Tears burned behind my eyes.

“I didn’t go in,” he said, shaking his head. “But it scared me how close I was. How fast it came back.”

The glass in his hand trembled visibly.

Before he could spill it, or break it, I reached out and gently took it from him, setting it down on the counter. My fingers brushed his knuckles in the process.

He flinched.

Then leaned into it.

Just a little.

Like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

“You didn’t fail,” I said firmly. “You stopped. That matters.”

He shook his head, frustration flashing across his face. “I hate that part of me. I hate that I even want it.”

“I know,” I said softly. “But wanting doesn’t make you weak. It means your brain learned a bad shortcut when things got too painful.”

His breathing was uneven now, shallow and fast. He paced once, dragging a hand through his hair, then again, like the walls were closing in.

“I don’t trust myself tonight,” he admitted. “My head’s not a safe place.”

The words felt heavy with fear.

I swallowed hard.

“Then don’t be alone with it,” I said gently.

He stopped pacing, turning to me slowly.

“What?”

“I’m not saying you have to talk,” I clarified. “Or fix anything. Just… sit. Stay. Let the feeling pass.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then something in him seemed to give.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

We moved to the couch together, sitting at opposite ends at first. The space between us was deliberate, respectful. His knee bounced uncontrollably, hands clasped together so tightly his fingers were almost shaking.

Minutes passed.

His breathing gradually slowed.

The house remained quiet, steady around us.

“I was terrified you’d see me like this,” he said suddenly, staring at the floor. “And decide I’m too much.”

I turned toward him fully.

“Rafe,” I said, voice steady despite the ache in my chest, “I’m here because I see you. Not in spite of it.”

He looked up then, really looked, and something in his expression cracked wide open.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” he said, voice breaking. “I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Carefully, slowly, I shifted closer, not touching yet, just closing the space.

“You’re not losing me tonight,” I said. “And you’re not facing this alone.”

His shoulders sagged, exhaustion finally overtaking the adrenaline. He leaned back into the couch, eyes closing briefly.

After a moment, his arm lifted, resting along the back cushion behind me. Not pulling me in. Just there.

An option.

I accepted it by sitting a little closer, our shoulders brushing lightly.

That was enough.

His breathing evened out. The tension in his body slowly loosened.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he murmured. “Being better.”

“You don’t have to know how,” I replied. “Just don’t give up when it gets hard.”

He nodded faintly.

We stayed like that for a long time, no touching beyond that small point of contact, no words filling the quiet. Just presence. Just breathing. Just proof that the moment would pass.

Eventually, his head tipped back against the couch.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For staying,” he said. “Even when it’s ugly.”

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t need to.

I stayed.

And that night, when the pull was strongest, when the darkness was loudest, Rafe Cameron didn’t go back to what nearly destroyed him.

Because someone stayed long enough to remind him he didn’t have to disappear to survive.

Steve Harrington x hyper fem!reader Warnings : MDNI ! 18+, making out, p in v, oral (f! receiving), semi-public sex, dirty talk, unprotected sex, getting caught

The heat in Hawkins that July was oppressive. It was the kind of heat that made the asphalt shimmer like a mirage and turned the air into a thick, humid blanket that stuck to your skin the moment you stepped outside. It was a lazy, hazy, mid-summer friday, and while the rest of the town was sweating it out at the community pool or hiding in the air-conditioned dark of the movie theater, you were preparing for a private escape.

You stood in front of your bedroom mirror, critically assessing your reflection. You had curated this look with the precision of a military operation, though the result was nothing but soft, sugary femininity. You were the girl who wore pink in a town of earth tones, the girl who smelled like expensive coconut oil while everyone else smelled like cut grass and gasoline.

You adjusted the strap of your bikini. It was a high-cut, bubblegum pink two-piece with delicate white ribbons tied at the hips, something that looked like it belonged on a beach in Malibu, not in Indiana. Over it, you threw on a sheer, white lace cover-up that ghosted over your curves, hinting at everything without giving it all away. You slid your oversized white sunglasses onto your face, grabbed your woven tote bag filled with magazines, sunscreen, and cherry lip balm, and headed out the door.

Steve’s BMW pulled into your driveway right on time.

Steve Harrington. The hair, the shades, the car. Even in the sweltering heat, he managed to look effortlessly cool, though you knew better. You knew that underneath the polo shirt and the sunglasses, he was exhausted. He’d been pulling double shifts at Family Video, dealing with Keith’s snark and Robin’s chaotic energy, all while trying to keep tabs on the "nuggets", Dustin and the rest of the party.

He leaned across the center console to push the passenger door open for you. As you slid into the leather seat, the blast of the AC hit you, a welcome relief.

“Hey, beautiful,” Steve said, a slow grin spreading across his face as he took in your outfit. He lowered his sunglasses, his hazel eyes scanning you from the lace cover-up to your manicured toes. “You look… wow. You look like a summer dream.”

“Hi, handsome,” you hummed, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. You left a faint, perfect print of pink gloss on his skin. “Ready for our day off?”

“You have no idea,” Steve groaned, shifting gears and backing out of the driveway. “If I had to rewind one more copy of Fast Times at Ridgemont High for some creepy seventh grader, I was going to lose it.”

You laughed, reaching over to rest your hand on his thigh. His muscles flexed under your touch, solid and warm. “Well, good news. No tapes today. Just the pool, the sun, and me.”

Steve glanced at you, his expression softening into that dopey, love-struck look that melted your heart every time. “Sounds like heaven.”

The Harrington house was silent when you arrived. With his parents out of town on another "business trip", the massive house usually felt cold and empty, a museum of furniture no one was allowed to sit on. But today, with the sun blazing down, the backyard looked like a private resort.

The pool was a sparkling rectangle of turquoise, the water perfectly still, reflecting the cloudless blue sky. The surrounding patio was baking in the heat, flanked by perfectly manicured hedges that offered total privacy.

“Music?” Steve asked, grabbing the boombox he kept by the sliding glass doors.

“Definitely. Something fun,” you said, kicking off your sandals.

Steve popped in a mixtape, The Go-Go’s, Vacation, and the upbeat drums filled the air. He turned his back to you to strip off his shirt, tossing it carelessly onto a patio chair. His back was broad, tanned from the summer, with that scattering of moles you loved to trace. He shucked off his jeans, revealing his swim trunks, a shorter, navy blue pair that showed off his athletic thighs.

You took your time. You stood by the edge of the pool, feeling the heat radiate up from the concrete. Slowly, you peeled off the lace cover-up, letting it drop to the lounge chair.

When Steve turned around, he stopped dead in his tracks.

He had seen you in a swimsuit before, of course. But there was something about this one, the brightness of the pink against your skin, the way the high cut accentuated your hips, the sheer, unapologetic femininity of it, that seemed to short-circuit his brain.

“Jesus,” he breathed, running a hand through his hair, messing up the perfectly styled waves. “You are… I mean, you’re…”

“Speechless, baby?” you teased, walking toward him.

“Yeah,” he laughed breathlessly, reaching out to pull you into him. His skin was hot against yours, slightly damp with sweat. “Completely speechless.”

He kissed you then, a long, languid press of lips that tasted like potential. But before it could deepen, you pulled back with a mischievous smile.

“I’m hot,” you said. “Race you in?”

You didn't wait for an answer. You turned and dove into the deep end, your body cutting through the cool water with a splash. You surfaced a moment later, slicking your wet hair back, just in time to see Steve cannonball in right next to you.

The splash was massive, sending a wave of water over your head. You shrieked, laughing, wiping the water from your eyes as Steve surfaced, shaking his hair like a wet dog, sending droplets flying everywhere.

“You’re going to pay for that!” you yelled, splashing him back.

“Oh, bring it on!”

For the next hour, you weren't the protectress of the aesthetic and he wasn't the babysitter of Hawkins. You were just two kids in love, playing in the water. You had chicken fights where he let you win, you floated on your back watching the clouds while he swam laps underneath you, and you drank ice-cold Cokes sitting on the pool steps, letting the condensation drip down your fingers.

As the afternoon wore on, the energy shifted. The frenetic playing slowed down. The sun began to dip just slightly, casting long, golden shadows across the water.

You were floating on a large, pink inflatable raft, lying on your stomach, trailing your fingers in the water. Steve was standing in the shallow end, leaning back against the wall, just watching you. His eyes were dark, focused, tracking the way the water beaded on your skin, the way your bikini bottom clung to your curves.

You felt his gaze like a physical touch. You paddled the raft slowly over to him until you were drifting just in front of him.

“Enjoying the view?” you murmured, resting your chin on your folded arms.

Steve reached out, grabbing the edge of the raft to keep you from drifting away. “Best view in Hawkins. Maybe the world.”

He moved closer, the water lapping at his chest. He reached up, his wet hand sliding over your calf, your knee, up to your thigh. The contrast of his rough, calloused palm against your smooth, sun-warmed skin sent a shiver down your spine.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, his voice dropping, losing its playfulness. “Walking around looking like this. It’s dangerous.”

You rolled off the raft, sliding into the water so you were standing between his legs. The water came up to your chest, the buoyancy pressing your bodies together. You wrapped your arms around his neck, playing with the wet hair at the nape of his neck.

“Dangerous good or dangerous bad?”

Steve groaned, his hands settling firmly on your waist, pulling you flush against him. You could feel exactly how happy he was to see you through the thin fabric of his trunks.

“Dangerous good,” he murmured, leaning down to nuzzle his face into the side of your neck. He inhaled deeply, smelling the chlorine and the coconut oil. “You smell so good. You’re so soft.”

He kissed the sensitive spot just below your ear, and the sensation was electric. The cool water, the hot sun, the heat of his body, it was sensory overload.

“Steve,” you breathed, tilting your head back to give him better access.

“I want you,” he growled against your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point. “Right here. I don’t think I can make it inside.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. They were blown wide, full of raw need and adoration.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

Steve didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was deeper, wetter, and far more urgent than before. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting the cherry balm and the chlorine, claiming you with a hunger that made your knees weak.

He backed you up until your back hit the smooth tiles of the pool wall. He boxed you in, his arms bracing on the ledge on either side of you, his body a solid wall of heat pressing against your front.

His hands roamed everywhere, down your back, over the curve of your bottom, gripping your hips to lift you slightly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, the water making you weightless, allowing you to pull him even closer. The friction of your swimsuits rubbing together was maddening.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he panted against your lips, his hands moving to cup your face, holding you like you were precious breakable glass, even as his hips bucked instinctively against yours. “I love this suit. I love how much skin I get to see. But I really, really want it off.”

“Show me,” you challenged softly, running your hands down his chest, over his abs, and slipping your fingers beneath the waistband of his trunks.

Steve hissed in a breath, his head falling back. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

He kissed you hard one last time before pulling back. He reached for the ties of your bikini top. One tug, and the white ribbons came undone. The pink fabric floated away in the water.

Steve stared at you, his eyes darkening. “Perfect,” he whispered. He lowered his head, not to kiss you, but to worship you.

He kissed his way down your throat, over your collarbone, and then lower. When his hot mouth closed over your nipple, cool from the air and wet from the water, you cried out, your head falling back against the concrete edge. The sensation of the hot suction and the cool water swirling around your chest was an exquisite torture.

He took his time, laving and teasing, his hands kneading your thighs, keeping you anchored to him. You threaded your fingers into his wet hair, holding him there, your hips rolling against him in the water.

“Steve,” you gasped. “Please.”

He pulled back, his lips swollen, his hair slicked back, looking up at you with mischief in his eyes. “Hold on. I want to taste you.”

He placed his hands on your waist and lifted you effortlessly, the buoyancy of the water helping him guide you up onto the second step of the pool stairs. You sat back, the water lapping just at your hips, your legs spread for him.

Steve moved between your thighs. He untied the ribbons at your hips with shaky fingers, peeling the bikini bottom off and tossing it onto the wet concrete deck. He hooked your legs over his shoulders, looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your thigh. “So pink. God, I love you.”

He leaned in, and the first touch of his tongue sent a jolt of electricity straight to your spine. You gripped the edge of the pool, your head falling back as he began to work. He was thorough, devoted, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady against the tide of his mouth. He alternated between long, sweeping strokes and focused pressure that made you keen his name.

Being exposed like this, outside, under the open sky, with the sun warming your face and the cool water around your waist, felt illicit and incredible.

You looked down, watching him through half-lidded eyes. The sight of Steve Harrington, the King of Hawkins, on his knees in the pool for you, drove you wild.

“Steve,” you whimpered, your hips bucking involuntarily. “Steve, I need you. Inside.”

He pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes blown black. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Now.”

He stood up, water sluicing off his broad chest. He shucked off his swim trunks in one quick motion, letting them float away. He moved toward you, the water swirling around his hips.

He pulled you off the step and back into the deeper water, spinning you around so your back was to him, your arms resting on the pool deck.

“Hold on tight,” he ordered, his voice rough.

You braced yourself on the warm concrete. You felt him move behind you, his chest pressing against your back, his arousal hard and demanding against your lower back. His hands came around to cup your breasts, his thumbs teasing the hardened peaks as he kissed your shoulder, his breath hot against your wet skin.

He reached down, his hand sliding between your legs, finding you slick and ready, prepping you for him.

“So wet,” he murmured into your ear, biting the lobe gently. “Is that for me?”

“Always for you,” you breathlessly replied.

He didn't make you wait any longer. He spread your legs wider with his knee, positioning himself. Then, he thrust forward, sliding into you in one smooth, powerful motion. The water offered no resistance, only slick, gliding heat.

You gasped, your head dropping forward, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the edge of the pool. He filled you completely, stretching you, grounding you.

Steve let out a long, broken groan, resting his forehead against the back of your shoulder for a moment as he adjusted to the feeling. “You feel… incredible. So tight.”

He began to move. At first, it was slow, long strokes, letting the water ripple around you. The buoyancy of the pool made it feel like a dream, like you were floating and being anchored at the same time. Every time he pulled back, the cool water rushed in, every time he thrust forward, he filled you with searing heat.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his hand sliding down to your stomach, pressing flat against your lower belly to hold you steady against his thrusts. “Just relax for me, baby. I’ve got you.”

The pace quickened. The sound of the water splashing against the sides of the pool mixed with the wet slap of skin on skin and your breathless moans. Steve was relentless, his stamina, honed by basketball and fighting monsters, on full display. He drove into you with a rhythmic precision that hit all the right spots, his hips snapping against yours.

“Steve!” you cried out as he hit a particularly sensitive nerve.

“I know,” he panted, his hand moving down between your legs to find your clit, adding a sharp, blinding friction to the heavy fullness inside you. “I know, baby. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

The double stimulation was too much. Your legs began to tremble in the water. You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, chasing the friction. The world narrowed down to the feeling of him inside you, the smell of chlorine, and the golden sunlight dancing on the water.

“I’m close,” you gasped, tossing your head back against his shoulder. “Steve, I’m close.”

“Let go,” he urged, his voice a growl in your ear. He sped up, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, more desperate. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

The climax hit you like a tidal wave. Your body tensed, bowing forward, as pleasure exploded through you, radiating from your core out to your fingertips. You cried out his name, the sound echoing off the quiet house. You clamped down around him, your inner muscles pulsing wildly.

That was all it took for Steve. He groaned, a guttural, primal sound, and drove into you hard, once, twice, three times, before burying himself deep inside you.

And then, over the sound of the water and your own heavy breathing, a noise cut through the air that made your blood run cold.

The screech of bicycle tires on the driveway.

Voices. Loud, cracking, teenage voices.

“I’m telling you, his car is here!”

Steve froze inside you. You froze. The entire world seemed to stop spinning. The aftershocks of pleasure instantly morphed into pure, cold panic.

“Maybe he’s asleep! Or maybe he’s been captured by a Demodog!” That was Dustin. Unmistakably Dustin.

“Don’t be an idiot, Dustin,” Lucas’s voice chimed in.

The sound of the side gate unlatching echoed like a gunshot.

Steve scrambled. It was pure, unadulterated chaos. He pulled out of you so fast you almost lost your balance, the water churning violently.

“Get down!” Steve hissed, grabbing the pink bikini top that was floating nearby and shoving it into your hands before spinning you around and practically dunking you into the water up to your neck. He positioned himself in front of you, spreading his arms wide like a human shield, trying to look casual despite the fact that he was naked from the waist down and breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

The gate swung open.

There they were. Dustin, Lucas, Mike, and Will. They were sweaty, dusty, and holding their bikes, looking around the backyard with zero sense of privacy.

“STEVE!” Dustin yelled, spotting him in the pool. “We’ve been radioing you for twenty minutes! Code Red! We’re out of tokens and Keith won’t—”

Dustin stopped.

The four boys stood on the pool deck. They looked at Steve, whose face was a bright, violent shade of crimson. They looked at the wet hair. They looked at the floating pink raft.

Then, they looked at you, peering out from behind Steve’s broad back, clutching your bikini top to your chest underwater, your eyes wide with mortification.

The realization hit them in waves.

Mike’s face contorted in horror. “Ew! Oh my god! EWW!”

Lucas covered his eyes immediately. “My eyes! I’m blind! I’m permanently blind!”

Will just looked at the ground, turning a bright shade of red, kicking at a pebble, looking like he wanted to dissolve into the ether.

Dustin, however, just looked confused, then annoyed. “Are you guys… were you guys skinny dipping? In the middle of the day? Seriously?”

“GET OUT!” Steve roared. It was his best Mom-voice, but it cracked halfway through. “TURN AROUND! GO! MARCH! OUT OF THE BACKYARD!”

“But the tokens—” Dustin started.

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE TOKENS, HENDERSON!” Steve screamed, pointing a shaking finger toward the sliding glass door. “GO INSIDE! SIT IN THE LIVING ROOM! DO NOT LOOK BACK! IF YOU LOOK BACK I WILL SHAVE YOUR HEAD!”

“Okay! Okay! Jesus!” Dustin threw his hands up, turning around. “Come on, guys. Steve’s being a grouch because we interrupted his… whatever.”

“Gross, gross, gross,” Mike muttered, practically running toward the house.

The four of them scrambled through the sliding glass door, fighting to get through the frame at the same time, until finally, the door slid shut and silence descended on the backyard once more.

You and Steve stood in the water, chest-deep, staring at the closed door.

Slowly, Steve turned to look at you. His face was still beet red. He looked like he wanted the pool drain to open up and swallow him whole.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered, covering his face with his hands. “I am going to kill them. I’m actually going to kill them.”

You looked at him, naked, flustered, terrified Steve Harrington, and a giggle bubbled up in your throat. You tried to suppress it, but it escaped. Then another. And another.

“It’s not funny!” Steve groaned, peeking through his fingers. “They saw… Mike saw… oh god.”

“It’s a little funny,” you wheezed, finally bursting into full laughter, clutching his shoulders for support. “Did you see Lucas’s face?”

Steve stared at you for a second, and then the absurdity of it hit him. His shoulders shook, and he started laughing too, a hysterical, relieved laugh. He pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your wet neck.

“Worst babysitter ever,” he mumbled against your skin.

“Hey,” you said, pulling back and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “At least they went inside. Now… help me find my bikini bottom? I think it’s in the deep end.”

Steve groaned, dropping his head back. “Right. Clothes. Then murder.”

Twenty minutes later, you were both dried off and fully clothed. You had reapplied your lip gloss and Steve had put on a fresh shirt, though he was still looking at the living room door with suspicion.

“You okay?” he asked, rubbing your back as you gathered your tote bag.

“I’m fine,” you smiled, leaning into his touch. “Though my dignity might need some recovery time.”

Steve sighed, kissing your temple. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Next time, I’m locking the gate. And the doors. And barricading the driveway.”

He slid the glass door open. The four boys were sitting on the couch in a row, looking like they were in a police lineup. They all jumped when you walked in.

“We didn’t see anything!” Dustin blurted out immediately.

“Shut up, Henderson,” Steve said, tiredly rubbing his temples. 

You squeezed Steve’s hand, giving him a look that promised you’d finish what you started later, somewhere with a lock on the door.

Mike Wheeler x bimbo!Henderson!reader Warnings : MDNI ! 18+ , p in v, unprotected sex, crampie, mild degradation (use of terms like "stupid girl" and "bimbo"), semi-public risk

The digital clock on your bedside table read 11:47pm. The red numbers glowed ominously in the otherwise pitch-black room, taunting you. He was late.

You sighed, loudly, dramatically, throwing your head back against a mountain of pastel-colored pillows. The movement caused a cascade of meticulously teased, crimped blonde hair to fan out around you like a halo. You blew a stray strand out of your face, the scent of strawberry chewing gum and excessive amounts of Aqua Net hairspray filling your nose.

Your room was a sanctuary dedicated to the cult of late-80s teenage girlhood. It was an explosion of pink, lace, and tiger-beat magazine cutouts taped to every available surface. It smelled like Debbie Gibson’s ‘Electric Youth’ perfume and contraband clove cigarettes you sometimes stole from Steve Harrington’s car.

It was, unapologetically, the room of a "bimbo."

That’s what people called you, anyway. You knew they did. You heard the whispers in the halls of Hawkins High. They saw the frosted pink lipstick, the acid-washed mini-skirts, the way you twirled your hair when you didn't want to answer a hard question in Mr. Clarke’s class. They saw you as the polar opposite of your twin brother, Dustin.

Dustin, with his nerdy t-shirts, his obsession with D&D, and his teeth that were still figuring themselves out. You loved him, he was literally the other half of your DNA, but God, you two couldn't be more different. He was brains and dorky charm while you were aesthetics and vibes.

And nobody, absolutely nobody, could ever know that the Queen of the Airheads was secretly hooking up with the Dungeon Master himself, Mike Wheeler.

The thought made you giggle. It was absurd. It was a scandal waiting to happen. If Dustin found out, his head would literally explode. Like, Scanners style.

You shifted on the bed, smoothing down the silk robe you’d stolen from your mother’s closet. You’d spent the last hour preparing. Shaving your legs until they were dolphin-smooth, applying a fresh coat of ‘Bubblegum Pop’ nail polish, and meticulously arranging your lingerie under the robe so it looked effortlessly sexy when he arrived.

You checked the window again. You’d unlatched it an hour ago, sliding it up just an inch so he could get his fingers under it.

Suddenly, there was a thud against the siding of the house.

You sat bolt upright, heart hammering against your ribs. A scrabbling sound followed, like a raccoon trying to climb a drainpipe. Then, fingers appeared under the sash, pushing the window up with a groan of protest from the old wood.

A gangly leg clad in dark denim swung over the sill, followed by the rest of Mike Wheeler, who tumbled onto your plush cream carpet with the grace of a newborn giraffe.

He landed in a heap, knocking over a stack of fashion magazines.

"Shhh!" you hissed, leaping off the bed. You slammed the window shut and locked it, then whirled on him, hands on your hips. "Mike! You’re going to wake up the whole house. Do you want Dustin to come in here with a baseball bat?"

Mike scrambled to his feet, dusting off his knees. He looked flustered, his dark hair a messy mop from the wind outside, his cheeks flushed pink. He was wearing that same old beige jacket and a striped polo, looking utterly out of place surrounded by your stuffed animals and lace curtains.

"Sorry," he whispered intensely, his eyes wide. "The trellis is slippery."

He looked around the room nervously, as if expecting Dustin to pop out of your closet shouting ‘Aha!’

"Relax," you murmured, stepping into his space. The anger melted away instantly. He was here. He made it. "Dustin’s snoring like a chainsaw. I checked."

Mike’s eyes finally landed on you, and his nervous energy seemed to hit a brick wall. His gaze raked over you, taking in the silk robe, the perfectly styled hair, the glossy lips. He swallowed hard.

You saw that look in his eyes, that mixture of confusion, awe, and absolute desperation that you lived for. It was the look that said, I don't understand your world at all, but I want to drown in it.

"Hi," he breathed out, his voice cracking slightly.

"Hi yourself, loser," you teased, reaching out and hooking a finger into the belt loop of his jeans, tugging him forward.

He stumbled into you, his hands automatically going to your waist. He smelled like the outdoors, cheap deodorant, and that underlying scent of anxiety that seemed to follow him everywhere these days. It was intoxicating.

"God, you smell like a strawberry patch," he mumbled, burying his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "It’s ridiculous."

"It’s expensive," you corrected, tilting your head back to give him better access. "And you love it."

"Yeah," he admitted against your skin, his lips grazing your pulse point. "Yeah, I really do."

He pulled back just enough to look at your face. He always looked so intense, like everything was life or death. You supposed, for him, a lot of things were. But that’s why you worked. You were his break from reality. You were soft places and mindless pop music and things that didn’t involve alternate dimensions.

"You’re late," you pouted, sticking out your bottom lip. The lip gloss glistened in the moonlight.

Mike's eyes zeroed in on your mouth. "I had to wait for Nancy to get off the phone. Then my mom was prowling around the kitchen..."

"Excuses, excuses, Mikey." You tapped a manicured nail against his chest. "You're lucky I waited up. I was about to get my beauty sleep."

"You don't need it," he said quickly, earnestly. It was adorable how bad he was at flirting, how totally sincere his compliments were.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," you smirked.

You closed the distance, pressing your lips to his.

Kissing Mike was always an event. He kissed like he was afraid you were going to disappear if he stopped. It was hungry and a little clumsy, his teeth sometimes clicking against yours, but the sheer enthusiasm made up for the lack of finesse.

He groaned low in his throat, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you until there was zero space left between you. You could feel the hard line of his hip bones, the rapid thud of his heart against your chest.

You threaded your fingers through the thick hair at the nape of his neck, messing up his attempt at styling it. He tasted like mint toothpaste and soda.

"Come on," you whispered against his lips, pulling away reluctantly. "Not here. The floor is uncomfortable."

You led him by the hand toward your bed. It was a massive, fluffy confection covered in at least ten decorative pillows that you had to shove onto the floor to make room.

Mike sat on the edge of the mattress, looking strangely small surrounded by so much pink. He kicked off his sneakers, his eyes never leaving you as you stood between his knees.

You loved the power dynamic shift that happened in this room. Outside, Mike was the leader, the strategist, the one calling the shots. In here, he was just a boy obsessed with a girl way out of his league, totally at your mercy.

Your hands went to the sash of your silk robe. Mike’s breath hitched.

You untied it slowly, maintaining eye contact, letting the silk pool at your feet.

You’d chosen a matching baby-blue lace bra and panty set that you’d shoplifted from the mall three towns over so nobody would recognize you. It pushed your boobs up perfectly and made your waist look tiny.

Mike’s mouth actually fell open slightly. His eyes grew impossibly wide, darting over your body like he was trying to memorize a complex map.

"Holy shit, Y/N," he whispered, almost reverently.

You did a little spin, posing with your hands behind your head, fluffing your hair. "Like what you see, Mikey?"

"You have no idea," he choked out. His hands reached out, gripping your hips, pulling you forward until your thighs were pressed against the denim of his jeans. "You’re... God, you’re just so much."

"Is that a complaint?" you teased, running your hands down his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heart through his thin polo shirt.

"Never," he swore. His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs tracing the bottom edge of your lace bra. His touch was shaky, hesitant, as if he was afraid he might break you. "You’re perfect. You look like one of those models in Nancy’s magazines, but... better. Real."

He buried his face in your stomach, his hot breath ghosting over your skin through the lace. "I hate that I can’t tell anyone," he muffled against you. "I want to show you off. It sucks."

Your heart softened. You knew the secrecy ate at him. Mike Wheeler wore his heart on his sleeve, and having to hide the biggest thing in his life was torture.

"I know, baby," you soothed, threading your fingers through his dark hair. "But think about Dustin’s face. He’d have a literal aneurysm."

Mike let out a short, sharp laugh against your skin. "He'd kill me. Literally. He'd find a way using science."

"Exactly. So this..." You tilted his chin up so he had to look at you. "This is just for us. Our little secret world."

The intensity returned to his gaze, burning hotter than before. "Our world," he repeated.

He stood up suddenly, towering over you. The hesitation was gone, replaced by that frantic need that always seemed to simmer just beneath his surface.

He grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head, tossing it somewhere into the pile of pillows on the floor. He was skinny, all ribs and sharp angles, but there was a wiry strength to him that you loved.

He pushed you gently backward onto the bed. You sank into the duvet, your hair fanning out around you. Mike crawled over you, bracing his weight on his forearms on either side of your head, caging you in.

He stared down at you, his expression deadly serious. "Tell me I'm your favorite," he demanded, his voice low and rough.

It was his thing. He needed reassurance. He needed to know he was winning against the imaginary competition he’d convinced himself you had.

You smiled up at him, tracing the line of his jaw with a perfectly manicured finger. "You’re my absolute favorite nerd, Mike."

"Not good enough," he growled, leaning down to nip at your jawline.

"You're my favorite," you whispered, turning your head to give him better access to your neck. "My only one."

He sucked a mark right over your pulse point, hard enough that you knew it would bruise. You’d have to cover it with heavy concealer tomorrow and wear your hair down, but you didn't care. It was a brand.

His hands moved down to the clasp of your bra, fumbling with it impatiently.

"Ugh, these things are impossibly stupid," he muttered, frustrated.

You giggled. "Here, let the expert handle it." You reached behind your back and unhooked it in one smooth motion.

Mike peeled the lace away, tossing it aside. He stared at your bare chest for a long moment, his breathing heavy, before lowering his head to worship you.

He wasn't smooth. He wasn't experienced. But the sheer amount of devotion he put into every touch, every kiss, made up for everything. He treated your body like a shrine he was terrified of defiling but desperate to pray at.

He kissed his way down your ribs, his tongue tracing the indent of your waist. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, dragging them down your legs.

When he finally settled between your thighs, still fully clothed in his jeans, the friction was electric.

"Mike," you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Your jeans. Off. Now."

He scrambled back, practically falling off the bed in his haste to toe off his sneakers and shove his jeans down. He kicked them away, leaving him in just his boxers, breathing hard.

He crawled back up the bed, positioning himself between your legs again. The heat coming off him was immense.

He braced himself above you, his eyes searching yours. There was a vulnerability there, a silent question he always asked before the final step.

"Please, Y/N," he whispered, his voice raw. "I need you."

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him through his boxers. He hissed, his hips bucking involuntarily against your hand.

"You have me, Mike," you assured him. "Take me."

He pulled his boxers down and guided himself to your entrance. He paused at the threshold, the tip pushing against your slick heat.

"Look at me," he said, his voice strained.

You opened your eyes, locking your gaze with his.

He pushed inside slowly, inch by agonizing inch. You let out a shaky exhale, your head falling back into the pillows as the feeling of being filled stretched you. He was bigger than people would guess looking at his lanky frame, and it always took a moment to adjust.

Mike groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he buried himself completely to the hilt. He held still for a moment, just breathing, letting the sensation wash over him.

"You feel incredible," he ground out, his jaw clenched tight. "So tight. So unbelievably hot."

He began to move. At first, it was slow, deep strokes that made your toes curl. He was careful, always careful, making sure you were okay.

But the care quickly gave way to that familiar desperation. The pace quickened. His thrusts became harder, snapping his hips against yours with a bruising rhythm. The bedsprings squeaked rhythmically, a dangerous soundtrack to your secret.

"Mike—wait, shhh," you gasped, trying to quiet your own moans as the pleasure started to coil tight in your belly. "Dustin..."

"Forget Dustin," Mike panted, his sweat dripping onto your chest. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the mattress above your head, taking control. "Think about me. Only me."

He drove into you harder, hitting that spot deep inside that made your vision spotty. You couldn't help the high, breathy keens that escaped your throat.

Mike leaned down, swallowing your sounds with a searing kiss. His tongue warred with yours, mirroring the frantic rhythm of his hips below. It was messy and hot and overwhelming.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing more friction. Your nails dug into his back, leaving little crescent moon marks on his skin.

"You’re so beautiful," he murmured against your lips, between frantic kisses. "You’re so beautiful it hurts my head. My beautiful, stupid girl."

He didn't mean it as an insult. You knew that. It was his way of grappling with how much he loved the parts of you that made no logical sense to him, the makeup, the hair, the vapid magazines. He loved it because it was yours.

The tension in your body wound tighter and tighter. The friction, the heat of his body, the scent of his sweat and your perfume mixing together, it was too much.

"Mike, I'm gonna—"

"Do it," he urged, letting go of your wrists to slide his hand down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and grinding against it in time with his thrusts. "Come for me, Y/N."

That was it. The added stimulation sent you over the edge. You cried out, your back arching off the bed as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and blinding. Your inner muscles clamped down around him violently.

The sensation was too much for Mike. With a guttural groan that he barely managed to muffle against your neck, he slammed into you one, two, three more times, his body going rigid as he spilled himself inside you.

He collapsed on top of you, dead weight, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breathing was harsh and ragged, hot against your damp skin.

You lay there for a long time, just breathing together in the aftermath, the only sounds in the room the whirring of your bedside fan and the distant chirp of crickets outside.

Your perfect hair was a disaster, glued to your forehead with sweat. Your lip gloss was definitely smeared all over Mike's face. The room smelled like sex and strawberries.

Slowly, Mike lifted his head. He looked utterly wrecked, sleepy and satisfied, with lipstick smeared across his cheek. It was your favorite look on him.

He smiled, a lazy, genuinely happy smile that rarely made an appearance outside of this room.

"Hi," he whispered again, echoing his earlier greeting.

You giggled weakly, reaching up to wipe a smudge of pink off his chin. "Hi, yourself. You made a mess of me, Wheeler."

He looked down at your body, taking in the dishevelled state of your perfection. A look of intense possessiveness crossed his face.

"Good," he murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. "Mine."

He rolled off you reluctantly, flopping onto his back beside you and immediately pulling you into his side. You rested your head on his chest, listening to his heart slowly returning to a normal rhythm.

"What time is it?" he asked drowsily into your hair.

You craned your neck to look at the evil red numbers. "1:15 AM."

He groaned. "I have to go in like an hour. If my mom wakes up for water and checks my room, I'm dead."

"Stay a little longer," you pleaded, tracing the sharp line of his collarbone with your fingertip.

His arm tightened around you. "Yeah. Okay. A little longer."

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, inhaling the scent of your ridiculously expensive hairspray.

"You know," he mumbled sleepily. "Dustin says you spend three hours in the bathroom every morning just staring at yourself in the mirror."

You pinched his side sharply. "He's a liar. It's only two hours."

Mike chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "He has no idea, does he? That you're... smart. And funny. And the best thing in this entire garbage town."

Your heart gave a little squeeze. It was moments like this, when the post-coital haze stripped away his usual awkwardness, that you remembered why you risked Dustin’s wrath for him.

"Don't tell anyone I'm smart, Wheeler," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his chest. "It’ll ruin my reputation."

"Your secret's safe with me," he promised, tilting your chin up for one last, lingering kiss before the reality of the morning forced him back out into the cold night air. "Queen of the bimbos."

"King of the nerds," you whispered back against his lips.

It was the weirdest, riskiest, most confusing relationship in Hawkins. And you wouldn't trade it for all the pink lip gloss in the world.

Just stumbled into your blog and i love it so much 🤭 If you're open to it i would love to be mutuals with you <3

Mike Wheeler x gf!reader Warnings : MDNI ! 18+ boobs play (idk how to call that)

The basement air was usually cool, a subterranean refuge from the oppressive humidity of an Indiana July, but today, it felt stifling. The air was thick, heavy, and practically vibrating with a tension that had nothing to do with the fluctuating weather and everything to do with where Mike Wheeler was currently trying (and failing) to keep his eyes.

You were currently sprawled out on the infamous, lumpy beige couch, flipping through a fashion magazine you’d picked up at the drug store. You knew exactly what you looked like. You had dressed with a very specific intention today.

You were wearing a new sundress, a pale pink thing with delicate spaghetti straps and a neckline that dipped into a sweetheart cut, showcasing a generous amount of cleavage. It was the kind of dress that made you feel inherently "girly," soft, and dangerous all at once. You had paired it with a sheer layer of lip gloss and the faint scent of vanilla perfume that you knew Mike secretly loved.

Mike was sitting on the floor, his back against the wood paneling, surrounded by a chaotic spread of grid paper, dice, and campaign notes. He was supposed to be planning the next big encounter for the Hellfire Club. He was supposed to be focusing on goblins and damage modifiers.

Instead, he was focusing on the way your chest rose and fell with every breath.

"So," you said, breaking the silence. You didn't look up from the magazine, but you saw him jump out of the corner of your eye. "Do you think blue eyeshadow is making a comeback? Or is it too much?"

Mike scrambled, shuffling papers loudly as if the noise could cover up the fact that he had been staring at your neckline for the last ten minutes straight. "Uh—what? Blue? Yeah. I mean, no. It’s cool. Cool."

You lowered the magazine, peering over the top of it with a small, knowing smirk. Mike’s face was already tinged with a distinct shade of crimson. His dark hair was messy, hanging in his eyes, and he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a semi-truck.

"You didn't even look at the picture, Mike," you teased gently.

"I was thinking!" he defended quickly, his voice cracking just a fraction. He cleared his throat, trying to regain that Dungeon Master authority. "I was thinking about the… the terrain. For the campaign. It’s complex."

"Mmhmm. The terrain." You shifted on the couch.

Because you were feeling mischievous, and because you adored the way he fell apart over you, you stretched. You arched your back slightly, reaching your arms up over your head in a languid movement. The motion pulled the fabric of your dress taut across your chest, pushing your breasts up and together.

Mike stopped breathing. You actually heard the air hitch in his throat. His dark eyes darted down instantly, magnetized to your cleavage, before his brain seemingly short-circuited and he forced his gaze toward the ceiling, looking pained.

"Mike?"

"Yeah?" he squeaked.

"Come sit with me. You’ve been down there for an hour."

Mike hesitated. You could see the internal war being waged behind his eyes. He wanted to. God, you knew he wanted to. But Mike Wheeler was a creature of overthinking. He was obsessed with being the "good guy," the respectful boyfriend. He treated you like you were made of porcelain, something precious to be guarded. But lately, you’d noticed the shift. He was a teenage boy, after all. The way he looked at you had heat behind it now, a heavy, hungry sort of obsession that he was terrified to act on.

He was obsessed with your body, specifically your curves, but he was too shy to admit it.

"I really need to finish this map," he lied weakly.

"The map can wait," you said softly. You patted the empty cushion beside you. "I’m bored. And I miss you."

That was the trump card. Mike sighed, defeated by his own affection for you, and abandoned his notes. He crawled up onto the couch, sitting next to you, though he left a polite six inches of space between your thighs.

You weren't having that. You scooted closer until your legs were pressed against his lanky ones. You leaned your head on his shoulder, and you felt him stiffen, then slowly relax, his arm coming up to wrap tentatively around your shoulders.

"You smell good," he mumbled into your hair.

"Thanks. It's new." You shifted, turning your body so you were facing him more fully. This position pressed your chest against his side, the soft swell of your breast grazing his ribs through his t-shirt.

Mike went rigid again. His eyes fixed strictly on your face, panicked. He was trying so hard to be a gentleman that it was almost painful.

"Mike," you whispered, reaching out to toy with the collar of his polo shirt.

"Yeah?" He swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed.

"You know you can look, right?"

The tips of his ears turned a violent shade of red. "I—I wasn't—I don't know what you mean."

"You're a terrible liar, Wheeler." You laughed, a low, throaty sound. You ran your hand down his chest, feeling his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "I see you staring. All the time."

Mike looked mortified. He pulled back slightly, running a hand through his curls. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be… gross. Or creepy. I swear. I just—" He gestured helplessly, unable to finish the sentence. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing?" You took his hand, pulling it back to you. You interlaced your fingers with his, his long, pale fingers fitting perfectly with yours. "I'm your girlfriend, Mike. You’re supposed to like how I look. I want you to look."

He looked at you then, really looked at you, searching your face for any sign that you were mocking him. When he saw only warmth and a teasing glint in your eyes, his shoulders dropped.

"You just…" He faltered, his gaze dropping to your lips, then lower, before snapping back up. "You look really good today. Like, really good. That dress is…"

"Is what?" you prompted, shifting closer.

"It’s distracting," he admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I can't focus on anything else."

"Good."

You moved your hand from his fingers to his knee, squeezing gently, then walked your fingers up his thigh. "I dressed up for you, you know. I wanted to distract you."

Mike let out a shaky breath. "Well, it's working."

"You don't have to be so shy about it," you murmured. You decided to be bold. You took his hand, the one that had been hovering uncertainly near your waist, and guided it. You placed his palm flat against your sternum, just above the curve of your breasts. His skin was warm, his fingers trembling slightly.

"See?" you whispered. "I'm right here."

Mike stared at his own hand, then at the skin he was touching. He looked awestruck, like he’d just discovered a new continent. "Y/N…"

"It's okay," you encouraged him, your voice barely above a whisper. "You can touch me, Mike."

It was like a dam broke.

He didn't grab or grope. That wasn't Mike. Instead, his thumb swept down, tracing the slope of your cleavage with a reverence that made your stomach flip. He watched the movement of his own hand, fascinated by the contrast of his pale skin against your tan, the softness of you yielding under his touch.

"You're so…" he struggled for the word, his voice raspy. "Soft."

"Do you like it?"

"God, yes," he breathed out, the admission slipping past his defenses.

He looked up at you, his dark eyes blown wide, pupils dilated. The shyness was still there, but it was being overtaken by something darker, something heavier. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was surprisingly firm. Usually, Mike kissed like he was asking permission. This time, he kissed like he was staking a claim.

You hummed into the kiss, your hands tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. You felt his hand slide from your sternum, moving lower, cupping the weight of your breast through the thin fabric of the sundress.

He froze for a split second, waiting for you to push him away.

Instead, you arched into his touch, a small moan escaping your throat.

That was all the permission he needed. Mike groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure teenage desperation, and deepened the kiss. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you, while his hand squeezed gently, exploring the shape of you. He was clumsy but eager, his touch maddeningly good.

He broke the kiss, gasping for air, but didn't pull away. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "I’m crazy about you," he mumbled against your skin. "You have no idea. It drives me insane."

"Tell me," you whispered, tilting your head back to give him better access to your neck. "Tell me what you think."

Mike’s lips grazed your collarbone, moving lower. "I think about you all the time," he confessed, his voice muffled against your skin. "In class. At practice. When I'm supposed to be sleeping. I think about… this."

His hand moved, fingers slipping under the strap of your dress. He hesitated, looking up at you through his lashes. "Can I?"

"Yes," you breathed. "Yes, Mike."

He slowly peeled the strap down your shoulder, the pink fabric pooling at your elbow. It exposed more of your skin, the pale curve of your breast rising from the bodice. Mike stared at you like you were a deity, something holy and untouchable that he had somehow been granted access to.

"You're beautiful," he whispered, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe his luck. "You're so hot, Y/N."

Hearing Mike Wheeler, the boy who usually communicated in sarcasm and D&D metaphors, call you "hot" with such raw sincerity did something to you.

"Touch me," you demanded softly. "Stop overthinking and just touch me."

He nodded, a jerky motion. He brought both hands up now. His palms were large, his fingers long, pianist fingers, you always thought, though he didn't play. He cupped you through the fabric, his thumbs circling the peaks of your breasts which were hardening against the thin material.

You gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders to steady yourself. The sensation was electric. Mike watched your face intently, gauging your reaction. When he saw the pleasure written across your features, his confidence surged.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the swell of your cleavage, right in the center. Then another. Then another. He was worshiping you, treating your body like an altar.

"Mike," you whined, the friction of the fabric becoming too much. You wanted his skin on yours.

He understood. With trembling fingers, he hooked his thumbs into the top of your dress. He looked at you one last time for confirmation. You nodded, your eyes half-lidded.

He pulled the fabric down.

The air in the basement felt suddenly cool against your skin, but Mike’s gaze was hot enough to burn. He sat back on his heels slightly, just looking. His mouth hung open slightly. He looked completely bewitched.

"Wow," he breathed. It was such a simple, stupid word, but the way he said it made you feel like the most desirable woman on the planet.

"You like?" you teased weakly, feeling a sudden flush of your own shyness now that you were exposed.

"I—I—" Mike stammered. He swallowed hard. "I love. I love them."

He reached out, his hands shaking less now. When his skin finally made contact with yours, skin-to-skin, a jolt went through both of you. His hands were cool, a stark contrast to your flushed, heated skin. He cupped you gently, lifting the weight of your breasts, marveling at the softness, the heaviness.

"They're perfect," he murmured. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his hands continued to explore, memorizing the texture of you. "I've wanted to do this for so long."

"I know," you said, running your fingers through his hair. "I wanted you to."

Mike pulled back to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated. "I felt like a pervert," he admitted. "Every time you wear a tight shirt, or… or when you run. I just can't look away. I thought you’d hate me if you knew."

"Mike," you said firmly, cupping his face and forcing him to look at you. "I love that you want me. It makes me feel good. It makes me feel sexy."

"You are sexy," he said instantly. "You're the sexiest girl in Hawkins. In the world."

He leaned in again, but this time he didn't aim for your lips. He buried his face in your chest. You gasped as you felt his hot breath against your sensitive skin. He kissed the slope of your breast, then the side, working his way inward with agonizing slowness.

You arched your back, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Mike… please."

He finally listened. He opened his mouth and captured your nipple.

The sensation was overwhelming. His tongue was hot and wet, swirling over you, teasing and tasting. You let out a soft moan, the sound echoing in the quiet basement. Mike responded with a low growl of approval, his hands kneading your flesh as he devoted all his attention to your chest.

He was enthusiastic, driven by months of pent-up desire, but he was also incredibly attentive. If you flinched, he slowed down. If you pressed closer, he increased the pressure. It was a clumsy, heated, perfect dance.

After what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes, Mike pulled back. His lips were red, swollen and shiny. His hair was a disaster from your hands gripping it. He looked thoroughly debauched, and it was the best look he’d ever sported.

You were panting, your chest heaving, a motion that Mike watched with undisguised fascination.

"Better?" you asked, your voice breathless.

Mike nodded, dazed. He reached out, gently pulling the bodice of your dress back up, though he looked reluctant to cover you. He smoothed the straps back over your shoulders with a tenderness that made your heart ache.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Much better."

He pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your neck again. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight. The frantic energy had dissipated, replaced by a warm, heavy contentment.

"You're amazing," he mumbled against your skin.

"You're not so bad yourself."

He chuckled, the vibration rumbling against your chest. He pulled back just enough to look at you, a shy smile playing on his lips, the old Mike peeking back through.

"So," he said, clearing his throat and trying to regain some semblance of composure, though his cheeks were still pink. "Does this mean… I mean, can we do that again? Sometime?"

You laughed, kissing the tip of his nose. "Whenever you want, Mike. Just… maybe ask first? Or don't. I kind of like it when you just look."

Mike grinned, a genuine, lopsided grin that lit up his whole face. "I think I can handle that."

He glanced down at your chest one more time, then back up to your eyes, his gaze unapologetic this time.

"I definitely can handle that."

You snuggled back into the couch, pulling him down with you. The D&D notes lay forgotten on the floor, the campaign destined to remain unplanned for another night. As Mike’s arm settled around you, his hand resting possessively, comfortably, just under the swell of your breast, you knew the goblins could wait. Mike Wheeler had a new obsession, and you were more than happy to encourage it.