steve harrington x fem!bombshell!reader .⋆♱
𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ♱ ྀིྀ in which you, the lioness, are a bossy, bossy lady. and steve, the lamb, can't get enough of it
fluffy, a little smutty, and oh so sweet
brief mentions of oral!f, riding, missionary, and other bits of foreplay. steve's a little bit of a pervert. ONLY A LITTLE. he just loves u a lot. steve being a pathetic, wet, puppy. you can't tell me that steve wouldn't LOVE a snobby, picky, bossy gf
you and steve have been dating a long time. even before the whole hawkins lab fiasco. and though everything else had seemed to turn upside down in the past four years (no pun intended), one thing about you never changed. you were a 'total control freak' in the words of robin. 'anal,' 'neurotic,' and 'insane' were a few other ones. but you preferred to think of it as 'being prepared.'
you couldn't lie and say it hasn't gotten worse in past years. because it objectively—and quite frankly, obviously—has. but it was a way for you to cope with whatever the hell had become of the world. a way to regain control over something. a way to feel like your life was yours again and not simply the circumstance of a government operation gone awry, as depressing as that sounds.
you were the one to remind the party of seatbelts. the one that always had a bandaid in your purse. the one that carries a fountain pen around—never ballpoint. the one that reminded nancy to take a break every once in a while. she'd tell you to 'listen to your own advice.' which she was totally right about. but it would be over your dead body that you admit you're wrong. your stubbornness. another familiar trait of yours that's also gotten worse.
yet the victim of most of your reprimands was none other than your boyfriend. oh, steve. sweet, sweet, steve. he's so cute, and patient, and good to you. which is why you feel bad saying this, but... steve harrington is a total ditz. of course, this was public knowledge. famous lady's man, infamous moron. all the volume went to the hair, not the head.
and these reprimands, they were constant. nonstop.
"steve, did you make the bed?"
"steve, you forgot to put the laundry in the dryer."
"steve, leave dustin alone."
"stevie, make me a coffee."
steve this, steve that; it was always something. the man couldn't catch a break from you. and you felt bad; you really did. but whenever you express your concern, he says he loves it. insists upon it in fact.
"it keeps me in check. i need that," he says. and sure, steve had a douchey phase. primarily before you two started dating. but he got his act together real quick once he realized you weren't interested in humoring him. which is why you get so confused whenever he brings that up.
"i don't think you need to worry about that. you've grown a lot, stevie." you remind him, in an act of reassurance.
insecurity didn't seem to be the root of this preference.
but, the confusion you harbored isn't completely unwarranted. there's another reason. a reason steve doesn't care to tell you. at least for a little while longer. that reason being is that he finds you so incredibly attractive whenever you boss him around.
there's nothing steve loves more than seeing his absolute knockout of a girlfriend looking up at him with her hands on her hips and a stern look on her face. a look that meant no funny business. he doesn't mean to upset you, never. but whenever he does mess up, seeing you storm off, hips swaying side to side in a tiny denim skirt, it sure does soften the blow.
when he inevitably finds little ways to touch you or tickle you, and you swat his hand away with an unamused 'steve.' when he leans in close to you, catching the sweet scent of your jasmine perfume, whispering how badly he wants you in that moment, and you scoff. 'steven harrington!' you bark, scandalized.
he loves how particular you are. how every little thing you do has purpose and thought behind it. how everything has to be in an exact place around you. how your closet—filled to the brim—is in order of color. everything in it is neatly pressed and ironed. how your underwear drawer is always organized. how your vanity is never messy—let alone your room.
when you need groceries, you write the list. steve? he drives, buys, and carries the bags inside. the summer of '85? you ran a jazzercise class at starcourt. steve? your little errand boy. he laid out the mats before class. carried the boombox, swept the place if it needed it. and he didn't get a penny in return. even if you offered, he'd always decline! seeing your hips move 'round and 'round, and your tits bounce, and the sweat glisten on your body was payment enough. (he only ever saw you in action during his fifteen-minute breaks. he wouldn't actually stay. you wouldn't let him.)
"steve, start the car," you'd holler right before you have to leave. he'd scramble out the door while you touched up your makeup.
"steve, where's your sweater? it's freezing!" you'd yell when hawkins' trees started dying and school kicked up again.
"steve, get my bra," you command, lying in bed. not having the energy to get up and look around to spot wherever steve carelessly threw it.
and when you're mad. oh god, that's what really gets him going. as awful as it sounds, he doesn't mean it disrespectfully. on the same note, he thinks you're terrifying when you're mad. but beauty and anger go hand in hand, no?
when you yell at him, like actually yell at him, it's like an out-of-body experience. his legs go weak, and so does his voice. uncharacteristic for steve 'chatterbox' harrington. he simply stands there, wide-eyed, and nods.
"you're absolutely right."
"i mean, how many times do i have to tell you, steven?"
"not as much as you've had."
"'not as many as you've had.' grammar, steve"
"what's the problem then?! are you deaf? do you not take direction well?"
"don't you 'sweetheart' me! you're not getting out of this."
and he usually doesn't. but he always makes it up to you. steve's good at getting in trouble, but he's even better at getting out of it.
later on, he'll present you a bouquet of flowers. forget-me-nots, always. your favorites. a box of chocolates follows shortly thereafter. dark chocolates; he makes sure. which come in handy for later, once you've forgiven him—dark chocolate's an aphrodisiac after all. then he'll give you this grand speech about how terribly he's messed up. how he's sorry. how you're right and he's wrong.
but none of that's to say that being in your good graces wasn't nice either. he'd wake up with you in his arms, cuddling up closer to his chest. "mmm... no, no, don't move yet. you need to warm me up first" you mumble, voice cracky with sleep. which steve finds adorable. his big hands run up and down your sides and back. god, he just radiates warmth. he's like a heater. your own personal teddy bear. a job he takes all too seriously.
when the day's lazy, and you two have nowhere to be, you'll lounge about in the living room all day, barely dressed. you'll sit on steve's lap and run your fingers through his hair. his hand will wrap around your waist, and the other places itself on your thigh. he melts when the tips of your manicured nails gently scrape at his scalp.
"you're not allowed to ever cut your hair."
"i know," like he'd want to.
for someone wound so tight, you'd think—and forgive me for saying this—you'd like to let loose a little in the bedroom. dead fucking wrong. if anything you're bossier in bed than anywhere else, if you could even imagine.
it doesn't really help your case that steve loves it. he loves how carefully you choose your lingerie and how much effort you put into yourself when getting ready. he loves how whenever he kisses at a spot you like, you giggle instead of sigh. he loves that thing you do right before sex, when he's up against the headboard and you're crawling towards him on your hands and knees from the foot of your perfectly made bed.
you tell him exactly what you want and how you want it. "oh god, steve, yeah—right there... uh huh!"
he thinks you're so hot when you tell him how to touch you. sometimes, when you catch him going through your laundry for your underwear, you'll make him eat you out through your panties. depriving him of the pleasure of getting to taste you properly. "since you—mmm... since you like them so much." you say through a moan, clawing at his head, shoving him closer to you.
other times, when you're mad at him, you won't even let him touch you. you slap away his hands whenever he tries to hold your thighs, or hips, or boobs as you ride him. "nuh uh, stevie. i—oh god... i only let gentlemen touch me."
but you always touch him. you're usually all over him, a hand shoved into his hair or palming over his cock, groping his shoulders and biceps. steve's personal favorite is when you're laid out under him, naked and soft, and your sharp nails claw and scratch all over his back. he thinks it's the biggest badge of honor. that he made you feel so good that you couldn't help but scrape your nails along his back. really, it's the closest you come to letting go and allowing him the reins. and your moans are always so pretty too. all breathy and dreamy, like the world could only be sweet.
the next morning, once you're able to see steve in the morning light, you take notice of the light red marks down his back and frown.
"oh, stevie, honey, i'm so sorry!" your voice slides up an octave with worry. you kiss all over his shoulders, in hopes of it being some consolation.
"no, baby, i like it. don't worry," steve smiles, turning his to look at you.
you roll your eyes playfully, wrapping your arms around his middle, and placing one last sweet kiss against his back. "okay, stevie."
an ♱ just trying to get out some of my drafts after making u guys wait so long, sorry again lol. also this is self indulgent cuz i'm also a control freak but i'm telling myself it's giving katherine pierce to make myself feel better
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