⌗ hard and soft – steve harrington
summary: it’s a game of push and pull between you and steve. he pushes, you pull, and nothing ever changes—not as long as impending doom hangs over hawkins. until one night, a burst of liquid courage is all you need to come crashing down steve’s door.
content warning: henderson!fem!reader, friends to lovers, alcohol use, drunk love confession, p in v, pet names, steve calls reader “baby”, slight angst, comfort, steve harrington is completely whipped, mdni smut. not proofread 3.7k words.
authors note: first time writing steve so kinda scary lol, if i wrote him horribly feel free to tell me ^^ here’s my masterlist if you wanna check out more of my works, also my emergency comms are always open :) - here’s my kofi tip jar!
You’ve known Steve Harrington your whole life.
Well—not really. You’d known of him.
Steve Harrington was untouchable. Stupidly popular. Perfect hair, easy smile, the kind of confidence that made teachers sigh and girls trip over their own feet. Every girl wanted him. Everyone wanted to be him.
You had accepted, quietly, that you’d never exist anywhere near his orbit.
Except on a Tuesday, at exactly twelve p.m., when Steve Harrington barreled through your front door and slammed straight into you.
That was when you met him.
He came crashing in like a storm, hair wild, eyes sharp with urgency, already halfway through your house before you could even process it. Only to find out He was looking for your loser little brother.
“Steve Harrington?” you asked, brow lifting despite yourself.
“That’s me,” he said automatically, the cocky charm there by instinct, then it faltered when he rushed on, words tumbling over each other. “Hey—where’s Dustin? Tell him it’s a code red.”
Steve Harrington. In your house. Asking for your brother.
You swallowed your pride and yelled, “Dustin!” before muttering, softer but edged with disbelief, “This has to be a fucking prank.”
Actually stopped. Looked up. Looked at you.
For a moment, he just took you in, like he’d been interrupted mid-thought and didn’t mind it at all. A small smirk tugged at his mouth, something curious flashing in his eyes.
And for the first time, Steve Harrington noticed you.
You were sure that would be the last of it.
Until a demodog tore straight through your house and Steve moved without thinking, stepping in front of you, shielding you, muttering something frantic about how this was what he’d been trying to warn Dustin about.
After that, you were pulled into your brother’s strange, terrifying world.
Two years later, and you were still fighting it.
Steve lingered. Persisted. Wove himself into your life in ways neither of you ever named. You weren’t together, but you weren’t not something, either.
Whatever it was, it lived in every glance held a second too long, every quiet moment where his presence settled you.
Being near him made your body loosen, like your bones remembered how to rest. Like your muscles unclenched without permission. He brought comfort without trying, without even knowing he was doing it.
He always smelled like faint nicotine from the cigarettes he swore he hated but secretly smoked, mixed with something warmer. Wood. Amber. A grounding scent that curled around you and stayed, hazing your senses long after he left.
And his touch. God, his touch.
Whenever his fingers brushed yours, it felt like molten lava beneath your skin. Like warmth spreading too fast, too bright. You used to think Steve Harrington was made of gold, and standing too close meant you’d melt.
Everything had gone wrong. Blood. Screaming. Panic blooming too fast to stop. It felt like the world was slipping through your fingers, like you’d lost the version of life that had ever been simple.
Maybe Steve knew. Maybe it was the way your face twisted when it happened. Maybe seeing you like that lodged itself somewhere in his chest.
You heard a soft knock at your window.
When you opened it, Steve Harrington stood there, hair tousled, eyes tired and sad in that quiet way he never talked about, offering you a crooked smile that didn’t quite hide the worry underneath.
“Steve? What are you doing here?”
“I figured you couldn’t—” he started, then promptly nearly fell through the window.
You rushed forward, catching him.
He looked up at you, grinning sheepishly. “Wow. That was… embarrassing.”
Your smile softened despite yourself. “Just a bit.”
He sat on the edge of your bed, shoulders slumped, hands fidgeting like he didn’t know what to do with them.
“I saw you,” he said quietly. “When it happened. The way you froze. And I just—fuck, this really isn't my specialty.”
“I thought everything was Steve Harrington’s specialty,” you teased gently.
He huffed a laugh. “No. Definitely not.” He sighed, fingers tightening in the blanket. “When this all started, I had really bad…”
“Nightmares,” you said softly.
He exhaled like the word had been sitting in his lungs for years. “Yeah.”
“I just wanted to check on you,” he added quickly. “I can go if you want, I just—”
The word slipped out before you could stop it.
He laid beside you on your plush, frilly pink bed, fingertips barely brushing yours. You drifted closer without meaning to. When the nightmares came, he held you—steady and warm, murmuring reassurances into your hair like he was anchoring you to the world. To him.
Somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington took your heart, locked it away, and never even realized it was his.
But as the years passed, as Vecna loomed closer, you learned how to close yourself off. Where Steve offered himself fully, you learned restraint. You were terrified to need him. Terrified that loving him would give the world something else to take.
You locked your love away, buried it deep, like a diary with a key no one could ever find.
Tonight crawled under your skin. Tonight felt wrong in a way you couldn’t name. Your thoughts were loud, your chest tight, your body aching for anything to drown it out.
Your parents’ liquor cabinet offered a solution.
You grabbed the bottle from the glass cabinet and tipped it back, wincing at the burn as it slid down. Your legs felt like jelly, your hands shaky, and a hiccup slipped out before you even realized it.
Through the drunken haze, all your body wanted was him.
His voice. His warmth. His presence.
You stumbled along the familiar dirt road to his house, his face flickering through your mind like broken radio static. Brown curls. Soft hazel eyes, the same color of coffee when you stir creamer in. Hands that felt like heat, like safety, like something solid in a world that kept fracturing.
When his house came into view beneath the streetlight, your heart thudded so hard you swore it might run there without you.
The door opened almost immediately.
Steve stood there, confused, until his eyes dropped to the bottle in your hand, your flushed cheeks, the exhaustion etched into your face.
“Y/n?” he said carefully.
You smiled lazily. “Thought you might need it after today’s mission. And, you know—who better to drink with than the guy who used to demolish kegs in high school?”
You paused, then added rather sadly, “Never went to your parties, but I heard you were a legend.”
Instead, he gently grabbed your arm and pulled you inside, voice soft enough it settled under your ribs.
And you followed him upstairs, clumsy and buzzing, into Steve Harrington’s room.
You realized you’d never actually been inside Steve’s room. Crazy, right? You’d known him for two years and never once stepped past his doorstep.
He’d been inside yours constantly, of course—but Steve tended to avoid his own home. Unknowing parents, a dad he didn’t get along with… so the closest you’d ever gotten was the front step.
But now it’s nearly one in the morning, and here you are. His house. His room.
It’s surprisingly neat, tidy almost, and you pause. Sure, Steve had outgrown his meathead, jock persona years ago—but he was still Steve. Some part of you had doubted what you’d find here.
He holds your arm as you step fully inside, and when the door clicks shut behind you, his fingertips leave a slow, lingering trail along your skin. It burns. You swear it burns.
“Hey… you okay?” he asks, voice soft, low, almost unsure.
You ignore him and wander over, picking up pictures and knickknacks, running your fingers over the traces of his life.
Until you turn near his bedside table and see a photo of yourself—smiling.
Your breath falters. You decide to mask it with teasing. Holding up the picture like it’s a diploma, you smirk. “Sappy much?”
Steve’s face heats, almost red, and he snatches it from your hands. “Am I not allowed to have good taste?” he teases, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
And for some ridiculous, stupid reason… that’s when you break.
The back of your knees hit the bed, and you slide down, pulling your legs to your chest, bottle still in hand. Laughter bursts out of you—ugly, almost manic—tears streaking through it. You take another swig, alcohol burning down your throat as your chest heaves.
“God… I’m so fucking stupid,” you whisper through a sob.
Steve slides down beside you. “Hey… hey. What’s wrong?”
You sniffle and say nothing.
“Talk to me, please,” he nearly begs.
“You wouldn’t understand,” you slur, bitterness coating your words.
He tilts the bottle from your hand, taking a long swig himself, grimacing at the taste. “Try me.”
“You… you ever been in love?”
He goes quiet, then softly, “Yeah.”
“Once,” he says immediately, locking eyes with you as he hands the bottle back.
Silence falls between you, broken only by the dull clink of glass. Alcohol slides lazily through your veins, making everything feel warm, dizzying.
Finally, Steve breaks it. “Why’d you come here?”
Your breath catches, the truth crawling toward your lips. “I… missed you.”
His hand shifts closer to yours, brushing fingertips in the kind of casual way that always makes your heart thrum.
“And to confess something… stupid,” you add, voice wavering, slurring slightly, hiccupping in between words without even realizing it.
“And ‘cause I’m… really sad, and you… you make me happy,” you admit, voice wavering, words tumbling over themselves.
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “Okay, now you’re drunk.”
“Am not!” you shoot back, swatting at him playfully—almost tipping sideways from the effort.
He chuckles, voice softening. “Do you want to tell me what’s so stupid about your confession?”
Your knees pull tighter to your chest, hand brushing his.
“My whole life… I spent it watching this guy,” you slur slightly.
“Believing he’d never notice me… that it would never happen.”
“And then one day—he slams through my front door, spouting something so absurd, I swear I saw stars.”
Steve stays completely still, listening, hanging on your every word.
“And now he’s here. In my life. Baring himself to me like some knight in shining armor. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted. And I—I—I…” You choke, words tumbling over as the tears well again.
“I can’t do the same. I mean, I can. I want to. I know he’s seen me in countless situations, but if I fully let him in… if I let him see all of me… it could be taken away.”
You draw in short, shaky breaths. “I want to be with him. I know he feels the same—or I hope he does—but I don’t want our love to be what gets him killed.”
Outside, Hawkins was falling apart.
But here, in Steve’s room, it was just him.
Everything felt safe, like it always did with him.
His fingertips curl around yours, brown eyes holding yours as your gaze falters.
“Plus, knowing him,” he murmurs, “he’d probably get himself killed in the name of love or something.”
A soft, teasing smile from him. And somehow, the weight eases.
“No,” he adds softly, “you’re right. Very stupid confession.”
Your heart nearly stops at his words, but he leans close, voice brushing your skin. “Do you want my thoughts?”
“Shoot,” you whisper, unsure where this is heading.
“Well… for one, that guy’s stupid and a fucking douche. Should’ve noticed you sooner instead of keeping his nose stuck up his own ass.”
You laugh, and so does he, as you take another swig. “Very stupid,” you agree.
His grin softens, seriousness creeping in. “But I think the girl should open herself up. Let herself love—especially when the guy is so in love with her it makes his ribs ache, his head spin.”
You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, letting the courage and liquor flow through you. “What if the girl really… really wants to?”
He grins, lips brushing yours. “Then she should. The guy clearly wants her just as much.”
Then he kisses you. Hard liquor, salt, and mint on his lips. You’re addicted instantly, tipping your head, fingers tangling in his curls.
He pulls back just enough to let you gasp, whispering against your mouth. “Fuck, baby.”
The pet name rolls off his tongue, low and rough, and it makes something inside you beg.
You lunge for him again, lips colliding in a messy, perfect, desperate kiss that leaves nothing unsaid.
Your hands tangle in Steve’s shirt, and he laughs softly, pulling it off to reveal taut, tanned abs and the faint trail of hair leading into the waistband of his exposed boxers.
You gasp into his mouth when his hand slips beneath your sweater, fingers ghosting over your pebbled nipple through the lace of your bra. It’s barely there, just a slight tease, yet it still makes your breath stutter.
His other hand grabs your jean-clad hips and lifts you easily, guiding you back as he pulls his hand away just long enough to cradle your head, laying you down on his grey sheets.
You sigh the second your back hits the bed, sinking into it, and before you can even blink, he’s already above you again.
His gaze locks with yours, and you swear you can see his pupils dilate as his eyes roam over every facial feature, drinking you in.
You watch his throat bob as he swallows, his fingertips tracing slow, absent paths over your exposed skin. He hooks his fingers into the hem of your sweater, tugging gently, silently asking.
You lift your arms for him.
You help him, letting him pull it off your body leaving you bare in your white lace bra. You let your head fall back onto the pillow, hair fanning out beneath you, and Steve pauses, only reverence painting his expression.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice suddenly careful. “You sure this is okay?”
You breathe out a quiet “yes.”
His head then drops into your shoulder immediately, curls brushing your collarbone as he exhales against your skin.
“Oh. Thank god,” he mutters. “That’s a relief.”
He grins, lifting himself just enough to look at you, then pulls on a mock-serious face. Leaning down, lips barely brushing yours, he whispers, “But you gotta stay quiet. My parents are sleeping.”
Your mouth twitches into a slight smirk. “Yeah, Harrington. Whatever you say.”
Something about the way you said it makes his brain go haywire. He spreads wide before he kisses you again, deeper this time, tongue slipping in and tracing the roof of your mouth like he’s committing it to memory, tasting the longing that’s been building for years.
Your hands slide up his back, fingers following muscle as it flexes beneath your touch. You can’t help the sounds you make—soft gasps, little whines, yet steve swallows every one of them like he’s starving.
He could kiss you forever, he thinks. Could get off on just this alone.
His mouth drifts to your neck, lips barely grazing your skin, feather-light. And you’re already squirming. He notices instantly.
Steve takes that information and uses it.
He takes his time after that, lips brushing your skin again and again until little sounds start spilling out of you, breathy and helpless. When he reaches the hollow of your neck, he starts with slow, teasing kisses and gentle nips, flicking his tongue over the sensitive spot, sucking until a pale purple mark blooms. Gradually, he grows bolder, messier, pressing harder, causing you to gasp his name far too loud.
Steve’s hand flies over your mouth.
He makes a sound that’s half laugh, half groan, eyes bright with amusement and something warm and needy as his forehead drops to your shoulder.
“I said be quiet,” he whispers, breathless. “What if my parents hear you?”
You squeak out a muffled, “Sorry,” and that’s all it takes. You both break into quiet, breathless giggles, that dance against your skin.
Steve’s laugh goes a little higher, alcohol still warming his veins, you just tipsy enough to match him.
It fades when he looks at you again.
He leans down slowly, eyelashes brushing your skin as he kisses your nose. Your cheek. Your eyebrow. The corner of your mouth. Your ear. Over and over, like he can’t help himself.
“You’re impossible, Henderson,” he murmurs, smiling into your skin.
And everything slows, bodies tangled together, sweat-slicked skin, hands in hair, clothes scattered across the floor, breathless moans mixing together like a shared confession.
When Steve has your legs locked around his waist, fingers interlaced with yours as he pins them against the pillow, feeling your hands flex again and again, he slowly pushes the tip in.
He’s quick to reassure, soft breaths against your neck as he coos, “S’okay, baby. It’s just the tip, see? You can take it.”
You suck in a breath as he pushes, letting half of him inside you. He groans, trying hard to restrain himself. “See… fuck—halfway there,” he says through moaned grunts.
He brushes a piece of sweaty hair from your forehead and kisses you before thrusting inside fully, making your hips shift and your legs lock, pulling him down as your hands leave crescent shaped marks embedded in his skin.
“You’re so tight,” he murmurs softly against you.
You squirm, breath hitching. “Shut up, Steve,” you murmur, your voice trembling at the edges, due to pleasure.
He laughs and kisses your cheek sloppily. “Yes, ma’am.”
You shift, and he swears your pussy grips him so hard it’s nearly mocking him to cum. He whines, head falling into your neck.
You grin, realizing what you’re doing, and begin moving your hips slowly against him. His head bobs, Adam’s apple moving, and he’s trying so hard not to break.
Finally, he pins his hands over your thighs, spreading you open and locking you to the bed as he starts to thrust—slow and deep, deliberately cruel, dragging it out until it’s almost unbearable. Then he picks up the pace, hips snapping forward harder, rougher, until he’s fucking you into the mattress, the headboard slamming against the wall, the bed squeaking beneath your shared, sweat-slick bodies, coated in ecstasy.
You’re gasping his name in constant, breathless bursts. Every breath you take is used to say his name, and every time you do, he sinks deeper inside your needy cunt, nearly milking himself dry.
You’re getting louder, and Steve’s voice shakes with trembling need. “Baby… fuck, God… you sound so good.” He’s completely pussywhipped by you, and the way you moan his name like that makes his skin crawl with pleasure.
He struggles to keep you quiet, panic flickering at the edges of his mind at the thought of his parents walking in.
His hand flies to your mouth, pressing against your lips, a feeble attempt at silence, even as every nerve in him aches to hear your pretty moans.
But you’re desperate, needy, unable to hold back. His cock throbs inside you, nearly vibrating, and you gasp, biting down on his palm in a frantic effort to stay quiet. Your hands loop around the base of his neck, fingers tangling in his brown locks , pulling him closer. Steve shudders the moment your mouth latches onto his skin, teeth leaving tiny marks in his palm, his body teetering on the edge as he fights to stay in control.
Your body hums from the sensation, a tingle spreading through every nerve, toes curling as moans spill out loosely without control.
Steve follows soon after, pulling out and letting himself spill onto your thighs, panting, messy hair sticking to sweaty skin.
But that doesn’t stop him. He crawls down, leaving kisses from your neck to your breasts, gently latching onto a nipple.
“So pretty.” he murmurs as he sucks and twists, your body wriggling, thighs clenching together, mixing your fluids. “Not fair.”
But your body betrays you. The harder he sucks, the more you gasp and claw at his skin, and the more he teases you, whispering how perfect your tits feel, the more it turns you on.
Steve realizes quickly—this is your sweet spot.
Something he remembers for later.
Eventually, the room stops spinning. Your body trembles as the alcohol ebbs away, and Steve rests his head against your knees, pressing a soft kiss to them.
“Hi,” you breathe once you regain some control.
He smiles, a boyish grin. “Hi.”
He’s completely undone, face flushed, hair messy, loose strands falling into his eyes. And you’re certain that if you were to die, this would be the moment you’d replay in your head over and over.
It’s surreal this moment. From years of waking breathlessly from dreams that always left you wanting more of Steve, to now, reality: lying naked with your heart on display, and Steve Harrington holding it with hands so gentle they ache.
He grabs a rag to wipe you down, leaving soft kisses in his wake.
It almost hurts to feel something so pure.
He crawls up to your side, wrapping his arms around you.
From summer nights and Slurpees, smoking weed in the Beamer, movie screens with ice cream, and Robin’s constant bantering, to hushed, secret moments like this.
As his body melts against yours, humming with electricity, his touch almost feels like a melody.
His heartbeat thumps against your chest, wild and insistent, nearly bringing you to your knees.
Through tangled kisses, you savor the sweetness of his breath, clinging with desperate urgency, bracing for the instant when it all slips away.
You’re not sure what Hawkins will be like a week from now, but right now, none of that matters.
In Steve’s bedroom, the curtains drawn and soft moonlight washing over you, you feel completely content, your heart almost singing.
All you can feel is him pressed against you, his arms wrapped protectively around you. As you drift off to sleep, you know as long as you have Steve, you’re okay. You're home.
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