#king!steve x reader fanfiction

[lovebugism]

I love your ones with shy x king steve could you write more with lots of angst lolll

ty for requesting !! — the trials and tribulations of dating hawkins' golden boy (shy!reader, secret relationship, hurt/comfort, king!steve universe | 1.6k)

Gravel crunches under your feet, digging into the bottoms of your shoes with every step. You storm through the empty alleyway between the gymnasium and the chemistry lab despite that. Despite the whipping wind that threatens to pull you back. Despite the calls of your name from an achingly familiar voice.

“Hey! Hey, wait up!” Steve shouts at the back of you, laughing like it’s funny. 

You hear his footsteps kicking up gravel as he rushes to catch up with you. It takes little effort on his part — legs long and mostly bare in his Hawkins Tigers basketball shorts. He towers over you accordingly, when he slides ahead of you to stop you suddenly in your tracks. 

“Hey. What’s going on?” the boy pants with a crooked smile. His cheeks, freshly shaven, are now flushed from a merciless practice. The shirt clinging just perfectly to his torso, too, is damp at the neckline with sweat. “Why are you avoiding me, huh?”

He’s met with an emotionless scowl from you, which is strange, ‘cause you’re usually all smiles around him. But you keep your arms crossed over tight your chest, adamant in revealing nothing to him. 

Steve’s smile wavers at the edges as he forces a breathy, unsure laugh. “Oh, you’re not— you’re not talking to me? Shit, I must have some serious groveling to do, don’t I?”

His wide hands settle warm on the outsides of your elbows, just before he ducks down to kiss you. You catch a smirk pulling at his pink mouth when the tip of his nose traces the bridge of yours — like it’s still so funny to him. 

He frowns when you flinch back from him, boyish features twisting like a puppy’s might. “You okay?” he wonders, suddenly solemn.

“No, Steve,” you snap. “I’m not.”

He stammers hopelessly. “Well, what— What happened? Did I… Did I do something, or…?”

“No. You didn’t do anything,” you bite. “Because you never do anything.”

You try to walk past him, but Steve sidesteps to block you, his hands spread awkwardly before him in surrender. “Okay, well, now I’m confused,” he murmurs, face swirled with uncertainty. “‘Cause you’re saying I didn’t do anything, but… it kinda sounds like I did do something…”

His disregard sets you aflame from the inside. 

“Tommy made fun of me in front of all your friends. In front of you��” You dig your finger into the center of his chest. “—And what did you do? Nothing, Steve… Nothing.”

Your voice breaks. You clear your throat when emotion starts to strangle you. 

The memory of earlier that day pangs your chest like it just happened — like it’s still happening. And it’s not so much what Tommy said to you, but what Steve didn’t have the courage to say.

The boy sighs, swiping a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. “He’s a dick, babe. You know that. Don’t let him get to you—”

“That’s really easy for you to say, isn’t it?”

He flinches at your foreignly sharp tone. “Well, what was I supposed to do?”

Now, you can’t tell if he’s oblivious or just a coward. Neither is particularly attractive.

“Anything,” you spit. “Literally anything.”

“I just didn’t want them to find out about us, alright?” Steve argues, harsher now. “That was the agreement, wasn’t it? That we stay a secret—”

“‘Cause you’re ashamed of me,” you choke, eyes going glassy.

“‘Cause I didn’t want this shit to get any worse for you!”

“It can’t get any worse, Steve! I’m fucking— I’m fish bait!”

“What?!”

“Every day, I’m terrified of what your friends are gonna say to me,” you confess, despite the cracks in your voice and the tears blurring your vision. “I’m self-conscious, all the time, ‘cause they always have something to say. About my hair, my clothes, my makeup—”

Steve’s chest burns with a palpable ache. Every inch of your heartbreak is his own. His arms cross over his chest in a feeble attempt to quell the flame. “Really?”

You scoff a bitter laugh. “God, you’re so oblivious…”

“I didn’t know it was that bad, babe, I swear,” Steve says, voice suddenly fragile as he takes a step closer to you. His sneaker scuffs the gravel with hesitancy. “I thought Tommy was just being a prick, you know? He’s like that with everyone. I had no idea it was like that, okay?”

Your tight chest deflates with a sigh. “The point is, Steve… That Tommy shouldn’t be doing anything to be at all. You should be protecting me— Not even as my boyfriend, but as a decent fucking human being.”

“I’ll talk to him,” the boy says with a firm nod.

“Steve—”

“I will. I-I’ll sort it out, okay? I promise.”

Even though the look of hurt twisting his features makes your eyes sting, you smack your lips indifferently against your teeth. “No. Don’t worry about it. I’d hate for him to find out about us—”

“Babe—”

“Or, god forbid, you lose any shot of being prom king,” you laugh cynically. “Wouldn’t that be a bite?”

Steve huffs, though it’s hard with the leaden weight on his chest. “Okay. Now you’re just being mean.”

You know you are. You wanted to be — wanted to hurt him like he hurt you. But you’re questioning if he deserves it now, so you shrink into yourself all over again. “I have to go. Me and Robin are going to the library.” When you walk past him this time, he makes no effort to stop you. 

It hurts only slightly.

“Let me drive you,” he calls to you, anyway.

“So you can be seen with a bunch of dweebs at the library?” you scoff, not looking back at him. “I’d hate to see what that would do to your reputation.” 

“Please, don’t,” Steve sighs, with his hands on his hips and his head tossed back like he’s talking to the sky. “Don’t leave when you’re mad at me. Please.”

His words are carried to you on an early fall breeze, which stills suddenly when you spin around to face him. The sight of you takes his breath in a similar way — eyes teary, chin quivering, face twisted with the hurt he caused.

“Do you know how humiliating it is?” you ask him, voice trembling. “To watch your boyfriend stay silent when all of his friends are making fun of you?”

“I’m sorry—”

“It’s fucking humiliating.”

His jaw clenches. So hard his temples shift. “I thought I was helping,” Steve explains, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I thought if I said something, then everyone would find out, and you said you didn’t want that—”

“Because you’re King Steve,” you retort, agonizing the point he seems to be forgetting. Your voice breaks like splintered glass. “And I’m— I’m nothing—”

“That’s not true—”

“—And I thought the only way I’d get to be with you was if no one else knew. So you could keep being Hawkins Royalty while dating the… the local fucking prude.”

An emotionless laugh sputters from your lips. It cuts through Steve like a knife. 

“I didn’t… I didn’t know you felt that way,” the boy confesses, closing the short distance between you. The snapping gravel under his sneakers fills the silence. You duck your gaze when he towers over you again.

“Well… now you do,” you murmur.

“I’ll make it better, okay? I’ll fix it,” Steve assures. Unsure of what to do with his hands when they’re not holding you, he sticks the trembling limbs in the pockets of his short shorts. He shifts on his feet and kicks a rock with his sneaker. “You just… You just have to let me.”

He flashes you a look then, a pleading sort of glance from beneath his lashes, glimmering with a darkened honey. It makes your chest sparkle in a similar way. But still slightly hurt, you only shrug in response.

“Can I have a kiss, at least?”

You shrug again with eyes wide and pleading, shining now with a surer answer you hope he can hear in your silence. 

Steve leans in slowly, testing the waters. His gaze darts from your eyes, to your mouth, and to your eyes again. When you don’t flinch away by the time his nose grazes yours, he finally kisses you — a chaste peck that makes your tense shoulders slowly relax. You fight the urge to chase him when he pulls back from you. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Really,” Steve says in a pained murmur. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “‘Cause you mean— You mean a lot to me, you know?”

It’s the closest he’s ever gotten to telling you he loves you, which is saying something, ‘cause he thinks he almost tells you every day. 

“You mean a lot to me, too,” you mutter shyly in response.

Steve tries and fails to bite back a grin. He ducks down for another kiss –– the long and languid one he’s been dreaming about all day. The kind that tastes like strawberry chapstick and nicotine and yearning. The kind that pains you to pull away from.

Your kissed mouths smack apart in protest. You try hard to conceal a lovesick smile. “I really do have to meet Robin, though…” you confess in a mousy voice.

His rosy mouth falls softly agape. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, uh,” he clears his throat. “Call me later?”

You step back from him and shrug, still smiling. “We’ll see,” you lilt beneath the gravel crunching under your feet. Only when you’re at the edge of the alleyway do you glance at him over your shoulder. The puppy-like hurt on his face returns.

“You’re breakin’ my heart!” he calls to you, only partly serious.

“Just like seeing you grovel,” you joke. “That’s all.”

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the ravenous rupture

fused with the foe, chapter five

a/n: and that's it for fused with the foe! but don't you worry, our wonderful king and queen will return in both of the next instalments of the series ♡ (the release date for the next one is already up on the masterlist)

summary: “I don’t want you to think we have to have a conventional marriage, gods know we haven’t so far,” he added with a tilt of his head, “so, I just wanted to convey to you that if you ever want to be with someone else, at any degree, then you have my full support to do so.” 

warnings: king!steve rogers x reader, smut, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, slow burn, innocent!reader, love confession, crying, kissing, loss of virginity, semi-public sex, manhandling, size kink, belly bulge, dirty talk, oral, fingering, handjob, pussyjob, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, aftercare

word count: 3895

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Raising yourself up onto your tip toes, your fingertip still didn’t even manage to graze the spine of the tome you were trying to reach, only the tall shelf it stood on. 

But just then, before you could turn to get a chair to balance on, an inked hand came into view and grasped the book for you. 

“The Biology of Soil: A Farmer’s Comprehensive Study of Dirt,” Barnes dryly read the title out loud, “sounds absolutely riveting.”

“Don’t mock,” you snatched the leatherbound tome out of the knight’s hand, “it is interesting!”

“Of course, it is, your majesty,” he bit down a chuckle, “my apologies.”

A soft laugh couldn’t help but bubble out of you as you exited the library, “you know, you remind me a lot of my brothers.”

Walking at your side, he shot you a squint, “is that a compliment?”

“Well, I meant it as so, but I guess it could also be interpreted as an insult, all depending on which brother.”

Sinking further back into the plush armchair, your eyes danced from star to star as they glinted back at you through the big library window. 

The full moon was so bright that you hadn’t needed to light a candle in order to make out the sentences in the open book that rested in your lap. 

But suddenly, the creak of the heavy double doors to the chamber found your ears and when you twisted your head to discover who it was, your frame immediately sprung up from your comfortable seat. The forgotten tome tumbled to the floor with a dull thump as the embroidered dressing gown you wore over your ivory chemise fluttered around your legs as you swiftly stood.

“Your majesty–, Steve, I mean, Steve,” you clumsily corrected yourself, “hi, hello.”

“Evening,” he simply smiled, slowing his stride as he watched you bend down to pick the hardback off the floor. 

Hugging the book to your chest, you blew out a breath, “what–, uh…” you eyed the loose linen shirt he had sloppily tugged into his trousers, “what are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugged, “thought a boring novel might do the trick,” letting his fingertips kiss the ends of each bookcase as he neared you by the window, “what about you?”

“Yeah, I can’t sleep either,” a soft sigh flowed from your lips, “my mind just doesn’t seem to wanna settle down these days…”

A gentle furrow appeared to Steve’s brow, “what’s troubling you?”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” you placed the book down on the round side table by the armchair. 

“If it’s keeping you up then it’s not nothing,” gripping the tall back of the chair, he rested against it as he gazed at your visage in the moonlight, “come on, you can talk to me.”

The knot in your chest tightened, “no, I can’t,” and you averted your gaze to the stone floor, “I really can’t…”

“Why?” 

“Because–…” clenching your jaw in an effort to keep tears at bay, you briefly shot him a glare as you snapped, “because I just can’t, alright?” squeezing your eyes shut, you quietly muttered just beneath your breath, “gods… how long will I have to wait…” 

Having apparently had better hearing than you’d thought, Steve then queried, “wait for what?”

Fluttering your eyes back open, you met his gaze and uttered sombrely, “…for it to pass…” feeling your heart thump painfully in your chest just from the mere sight of him. 

A low sigh slowly seeped out of his lungs before his unwavering gaze averted to the upholstery of the chair, “…I hope you know that I’ve grown to care for you a great deal. You’re a very dear friend,” he uttered with the utmost sincerity, “and as a dear friend, I wish for you nothing but the purest of happiness. I want you to experience all of the great and wonderful things that life has to offer,” his ocean eyes then drifted back up to catch yours, “don’t let our union hold you back for any of that.”

Sucking in a breath, you asked, “what do you mean?”

“I don’t want you to think we have to have a conventional marriage, gods know we haven’t so far,” he added with a tilt of his head, “so, I just wanted to convey to you that if you ever want to be with someone else, at any degree, then you have my full support to do so.” 

Averting your gaze, “…is that what you want?” you dug your nails into your opposite palm, “for us both to openly be with other people?”

“I don’t want you to be lonely and depressed,” fragments of desperation resonated in his tone, “you’ve already experienced more than one lifetime of hardships and I really don’t want this to be another one. So, when you fall in love, please don’t hesitate. You of all people deserve to experience that.” 

“…I–…” a shaky breath escaped you, “I can’t–…”

“…you can’t?” he echoed in nearly a whisper. 

“I can’t because–…” lifting your gaze, the library around you grew more blurry by the second, “because I can’t stop thinking about you,” you revealed, “from the moment that I wake to even the dreams that possess me at night. I can not shake you from my thoughts no matter how hard I try,” as you blinked, a tear escaped and rolled down your cheek, “Steve, I wish for you to experience those very joys you speak of just as fiercely. I just want you to be happy even if I’m not the source.”

Looking as if he was scarcely breathing at all, his gaze stayed fixed upon you as he uttered, “dove, why do you think I wish that for you?” your eyes grew wide at his confession, “I don’t wanna be with someone else when you are the one I want by my side,” his fingers faltered from the grip they had on the back of the armchair as his slow steps began to carry him closer to where you stood, “not just as my queen, but as my friend, as my conscience, as my judgement, as my heart,” his eyes glistened as he then declared, “I am yours, Y/n. I didn’t plan for it, I don’t even know when it happened or how, but I do know that it’s true.”

Closing the short distance that remained, you walked up and pulled him down as you began to rise up to your tip toes. As you crashed your lips against his, it didn’t take long before you felt his broad hands glide over your waist. 

Breaking the kiss, you retracted just enough to catch the beguiling look in his eye. The corners of his lips drew up dreamily just as yours did right before you dove back in.

As your fingers weaved in his beard, so did his tongue as it danced against your own, making you lightheaded as your feet began to shuffle back, though you didn’t realise that you’d even been moving till your spine crashed against a sturdy bookcase. 

Parting momentarily at the impact, a soft giggle swiftly followed your initial squeak the collision conjured. As his gentle chuckle echoed your own, Steve’s palm caressed down your features before he captured your lips once more. 

When the fire inside of you crackled and burned too hot for you to ignore, you pulled back, a glossy string of saliva still kept you connected a moment before you gasped, “Steve, I–… I–…”

Resting his palms over yours as they clutched the top of his tunic, he tilted his chin back further, “what?” creating enough of a distance between you to truly check in. 

But how you were going to ask of him what you desired remained a mystery, no matter how hard you scrambled your fuzzy mind. So instead, you wrapped your fingers around one of his wrists and slowly guided it lower. 

“Dove…” he sucked in a breath as his gaze shadowed the journey you were taking his touch on, “do you wanna–…” finding your eye, he asked you softly, “you sure you know what it is you’re asking for?” 

“Yes,” swiftly flowed out of you as you nodded dizzily, “I–… I know. I read the books, I read all of them, I know how it all works,” your rushed words conjured a lovely little chuckle from the royal, “I just–… please?” your hot breathed fanned across his features as he leaned back in close, “I–… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you…” with your fingers still enveloped around his wrist, his touch slowly began to take over and to move on its own, “fantasising about what you might be like…” unhurriedly ghosting up and down the curve of your waist, “about what your touch must feel like…” each time creeping closer and closer to where you wished for him to caress, “how it differs compared to my own…” till his teasing touch ended each fluttering swoop with feather-light grazes at both the swell of your tits, as well as the lower part of your abdomen, just before he actually reached anything real, through still leaving you utterly dazed. 

Leaning a forearm against the shelf behind you, he smirked, “…you think about me?” 

“Every night,” you dug your fingers in the fabric of your chemise and pleadingly began to hike it up, “sometimes the sun doesn’t even manage to set before I need a moment alone… all because of you.”

As he then captured your lips in a fierce kiss, his wandering hand dipped under your thin shift before you’d even raised the hem completely. When his touch found your buzzing pearl, a whimper slipped from your lungs and vibrated against his tongue as your grip on the fabric faltered and it dropped to hang around his wrist like a curtain.

“Is this how you dreamed about me touching you?” he gazed down at you, smiling at the way you struggled to keep your eyes open. 

Mind melting to ooze, you bubbled, “yes–, but also–, oh!” your brows knit together as he switched to circle your clit harder, “a-also–”

“Also how?” you could hear your want reverberate off the palace walls as he touched you, “did you dream about me kissing you down here?” holding your gaze, Steve then sank to his knees before you. 

Your breaths came in ragged as you blinked down at him, “y-yes,” watching intently as he dipped his head under your gathered-up skirts. The sloppy pecks he then lavishly began to plant over your glistening petals felt like nothing you’d ever imagined, “oh, that’s–,” you let out a broken moan, “don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

Throwing your head back against the bookcase, Steve’s grip buried in your crumbled clothes as his soft tongue dragged through your desperation. 

Letting go of your chemise with one hand, it drifted down your hip. Enclosing his lips around your throbbing clit, he sucked down hard as his fingers joined to sweep through your mess, only parting from you for a breath, “gods, you taste so fucking good,” before he eased one digit inside your clenching cunt. 

You barely noticed that it was falling before the robe you wore slipped off your frame and tumbled to a puddle on the floor, leaving you with only the thin shift and the king’s hot kisses for warmth in the cold night. 

“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” you whimpered, reaching down to thread your fingers in his honied hair as a second finger sneaked in beside the other, fucking you gently with them. 

You nearly wiggled out of his grasp when his luscious laps unravelled you completely, but somehow the monarch managed to follow your every squirm till he softened his efforts and replaced them with a few soft pecks over your sensitive clit that made your whole form twitch.

Fluttering your eyes open, you met his gaze as he raised the back of his hand to wipe some of your juices from his beard. 

Breathlessly, you uttered, “get up,” and as he did, you didn’t waste any time before your eyes drifted from his tender stare, “take your shirt off.” 

With one hand, he reached back and tugged the tunic off of his head, swiftly letting it drop to the floor and join the fabric puddle already at your feet. 

For a moment, he didn’t give in on his urge to close the short distance between you, simply stood there and let your stare study him, learn the galaxy of his flesh, every little mark and scar that told the story of his past. 

With your eyes still glued to the burliness of his fuzzy chest, you uttered, “tell me again,” before lifting your gaze up to meet his, “tell me again so that I know this is real.”

Reaching out to grasp your right hand, he said, “it’s real,” stepping closer as he placed your ceremonially scarred palm over his heart, “I’m real, this is real,” his fingers on his own marked hand, which clasped over yours, gently brushed over your knuckles as he spoke, “I am yours,” he shifted again and closed the small gap between you, “I will always be yours till my dying breath.”

Sucking in a shaky breath, you watched as the moonlight glinted in the blue of his eyes, making them look like the sea on a stormy night. 

“I think my heart has belonged to you ever since the dragon attack,” you professed, “though it took me a while longer before I realised what it was, why you made me feel the way that you do,” you parted your fingers against his chest, “Steve,” and let his weave in with your own, “I love you.”

Using his hold as an advantage, Steve yanked you to him till your lips crashed against his. Letting your free hand wander across his warm skin, it swiftly came down to cup the palpable tent in his trousers.

“Fuck…” he groaned lowly as you offered him a light pet. 

As you shifted to fiddle after the buttons on the side of his breeches, even the aid of your other hand didn’t yield any success in undoing more than one of them. Swiftly coming to your rescue, you swore it only took him three seconds before they hung loose enough around his hips for his cock to spring free.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe as you glanced down at length which stood so proud it poked you in the stomach. If only you had the proper context to truly know how intimidated you should have been at the discovery of his fat girth. 

Hesitantly inching your fingers closer as you stared, you asked, “can I–…?”

“Mhm,” he hummed as he slowly brought your hand the rest of the way down, engulfing his own grasp around yours and gently showing you how to touch him. 

As a sinful curse flowed from Steve’s lips, his free hand drifted up to weave itself into your hair. 

“Will it hurt?” you watched how your fingers failed to meet on the other side of his girth. 

“I don’t know, I hope not,” his forehead rested against your own, “but if it does, then we just stop and figure something else out, okay?”

“Okay…” you hazily nodded. 

Feeling his fingers flex around your own, you saw precum glint at the bulbous tip. 

“It’s all for you, dove,” you felt him throb at your touch, “all because of you,” a desperate growl then seeped out of his lungs as he seized your lips in a fervent kiss, and the next thing you knew, the whole world fell out from under you as he scooped you up into his arms. When a shrill yelp escaped you, Steve simply readjusted his grip on you and said, “don’t worry, I’ve got you,” nipping gently at your neck, “I won’t let you fall.”

With your fingers still grasping his girth, the new position now had your pussy pressed dangerously close to it, so close that you couldn’t help but sweep the head of his cock through your soppy folds and drench him. Tapping your clit a few times, the instinctual drive of his hips triggered you to simply cup his length near and let him part your pretty petals and lather himself in your needy nectar. Each desperate thrust ended in an electric nudge at your pearl, rendering you to whimper shakily into the night. 

But then suddenly, in the fog of it all, the very tip of him caught your entrance and slipped inside, purely because of just how wet and ready you were. 

“O-oh, fuck!” everything froze as you reeled at the staggering sensation, breathlessly digging your nails into his broad shoulders and leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake.

“Sorry,” he hastily panted, “you okay?”

“Uh–… uh-huh,” you nodded fuzzily, shutting your eyes a moment as you caught your breath. 

But then as your gaze fluttered open once more, you caught his stare and offered him a short, affirming nod, holding his eye as he slowly began to move. 

Your mouth hung agape as he shallowly fucked you, barely even giving you anything but still turning you into goo in his grasp. 

“Y-you’re so beautiful,” you whispered as you fluttered around him. 

Gliding you’re your palm up to his cheek, moans tumbled out of you both as he gently began to offer you more. Your legs couldn’t help but twitch in his grasp as he practically split you in half with the way he eased you down on his fat cock. 

“You’re doing so well,” his face crumbled up in a silent moan as you felt every detail of him slowly stretch you out, “gods, you’re so wet…”

And the next thing you knew, it wasn’t so slow and steady any longer, as the bookcase your spine was pressed against rattled at his efforts. 

You thought before that just the bulbous head of him was overwhelming, but to have that tip kiss desperately against the deepest part of you was something else entirely. You couldn’t speak, you couldn't think, you could barely even breathe, just go slack in his firm hold and feel him, not just right there, but fucking everywhere, that’s how stuffed you were. 

Steve’s strength wasn’t that novel to you these days, but to have him lift you up and sink you down on his cock, like you were just a leaf on the wind, still managed to amaze you. 

“F-fuck,” you blubbered as you tumbled over the edge once more, “oh, fuck!” accidentally knocking a few books down as one of your arms flailed for purchase. 

You barely registered the loud thud the crashing books emanated as your frame melted down into his hold. Your face buried itself in the crook of his neck as he breathlessly came to a halt, still embedded deep inside of your clenching cunt. 

The sound of his breaths directly in your ear helped to soothe your tingling senses as he rested his cheek against the crown of your head. 

Shifting his feet, Steve carried you the short distance over to the comfortable armchair you’d inhabited earlier. Carefully sitting down in it and keeping you in his lap, his arms silkily slid up your back and hugged you close. 

After persuading you to curl out of your hiding spot by planting soft pecks all over your face, you blinked down at him, bathed in the moonlight that gushed in from the tall window beside where you sat.

Gliding a hand around to your front, Steve gently tugged on the thin string at your neckline, undoing the bow, before he pulled the shoulders down your arms till you slid out of the sleeves and the top of the undergarment crumbled to gather at your waist with the rest of the fabric. 

As he pressed his lips to the peak of your tits, one of his palms accompanied the kisses. A soft whine flowed out of you as your hand slid down to where your bodies were still joined and played with your puffy pearl. 

Casting a glance down, he groaned, “yeah, rub that little clit for me,” and your hips intuitively began to rock gently. 

As you touched yourself, something else caught your attention as you slowly began to ride him. At the lower part of your stomach, you felt the dull bulge of his staggering size poke your palm steadily to the rhythm of your gentle efforts.

Letting your pebbly nipple escape from his lips with a pop, his gravelly timbre washed over you as you slowly rocked, “that’s it, fuck–,” his grip slid down to be firm on your ass, “that’s my girl.”

Abruptly, as if snapping out of a trance, you notice just how loud you both were being.

“Wait,” you shushed him though didn’t halt your hips motions, “we’re in the library, someone could hear us!”

“Then fucking let them hear us,” his fingers dug into your ass as he desperately took over and bounced you in his lap, manhandling you as he slammed you down on his cock hard enough for you to lose your breath, “no one would dare bother us, trust me.”

And before you knew it, your cunt clamped down one last time around his cock, hard enough to halt his efforts and milk him of all of his worth. 

Weakly letting his dick slip out, your skin was practically glued to his as you plastered yourselves to each other and you sensed his hot load slowly leaked out of your sensitive hole. 

As you listened to his heartbeat slowly return to normal and your heavy lids fought to stay open, a thought entered your mind. 

“Hey, Steve?”

Shifting his arms around you, his soft hum washed over you, “hm?”

Keeping your voice low, you shared, “I don’t wanna sleep alone tonight…” but to your surprise, a gentle chuckle then rumbled in his chest, “what?” you lifted your head and blinked up at him, “why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just­­–,” he smiled, gazing down at you as if Zondür himself had divinely created you especially for him, “you really think I’d let you skip off to your room alone after all of that, like it never even happened?” 

Huffing out a short giggle, you lowered your glance, “well, when you put it like that…”

“Yes,” he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, “if you want me to sleep beside you, I will,” rising from his comfortable seat, he readjusted his grip on you, twisting you to him as he hooked an arm behind your knees and at your back. As he carried you close, he began to lumber out of the library and down the hallway, concurring the short distance to where your chambers lied, “my queen, I would love nothing more for the rest of my days than to fall asleep with your head on my chest and wake up to your softness arching against me…”

Flexing your fingers around his neck, you raised yourself up enough to capture his lips in a tender kiss one last time just as he kicked your bedroom door shut behind you both.

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[anifever]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡ “ d’you like this outfit, steve? ”

“ yeah, do a lil’ spin for me doll. ” ₊˚⊹♡.

[nemo-writes]

𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 ; 𝚘𝚗𝚎 - 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

➝ steve harrington + eddie munson x loser-club!reader

➝ synopsis; leaving derry behind, you set out to the sunny promise of california. but when your bike breaks down, you’re forced to make an unexpected stop in the enigmatic town of hawkins.

⚠️ warnings; none

➝ series masterlist, moodboard

➝ next chapter

Sunday, January 26, 1986, Derry, Maine

The sun filtered through the towering trees as you pulled yourself up the final ledge of the cliff. Your muscles burned with exertion, clearly unused to the effort. Tight-fitting jeans and the constant chain-smoking were doing you no favours either, weighing heavily on your lungs.

Standing still for a moment, you caught your breath and surveyed the landscape. A rush of familiarity swept over you. The forest was thick and vast, just as you remembered it. You had spent countless hours exploring this place as a child—it was your sanctuary, your playground, your refuge from the world.

You made your way to the nearby quarry, settling down by the edge with a grunt. Reaching into your jacket, you pulled out your crumpled pack of cigarettes, plucking one out with your front teeth and lighting it with your busted but trusty lighter. Taking a long drag, you let the smoke swirl in your mouth before exhaling slowly through your nostrils. You rubbed your thumb over the carved initials, B.M., etched into the lighter as your gaze shifted to the shimmering water below. The surface rippled slightly under the touch of the breeze.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted movement—a familiar figure emerging from the thick foliage. Mike. The confusion on his face melted into a smile the second he saw you.

“Sorry, I took a wrong left and wandered for a while. It’s been ages since I was up here,” he apologised, making his way over. You waved him off, already settled in. Knees knocking against yours, he eyed the cigarette between your fingers with a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t you quit?”

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. “I’m working on it. The move’s got me on edge.”

He let it slide, leaning back on his hands as he asked, “So, how’s the packing going? That new motorcycle of yours ready for the highway yet?”

“Yeah, everything’s good to go,” you replied, taking another drag. “Even managed to get a decent deal on the apartment.”

“For real?”

You weren't offended by his incredulity. The apartment was a total dump. You were glad to be rid of it, especially after your grandmother’s passing a year ago. Her death had been a moment of clarity—a breaking point.

That’s when you had properly decided to leave Derry for good.

The money you got from selling the apartment helped pay for her funeral and cleared her debts. You then put some toward a motorcycle and the licence to go with it—the rest, you saved up. 

As you exhaled the smoke away from Mike, mindful of his discomfort, you mentioned casually, “Mr. Keene’s taking the place for Greta. You know...”

You made a rounded motion over your belly with your free hand. Mike’s eyes widened.

“She’s pregnant?!”

His shock slowly faded into a thoughtful frown. “Wait, that explains why I haven’t seen her around. She wasn’t even at graduation...”

“Turns out it’s Pete’s,” you said, tapping the ashes from your cigarette.

“Pete? Sticky Fingers Pete?” Mike’s mouth dropped open in scandalised surprise. “No way!”

Pete Brown was the resident bully ever since Henry Bowers had been locked up. His nickname came from his nasty habit of unabashedly sticking his fingers into people’s stuff. He’d openly stolen from you and your friend’s, sometimes with a fist raised high above his shoulder, others without you even noticing until hours later.

You and Mike exchanged a long look before breaking into laughter. You choked on the smoke halfway through, and he patted your back, grinning.

“You good?” he asked.

You gave him a thumbs-up, eyes watering. “All good.”

When the laughter died down, Mike asked a little more seriously, “So, where are you headed to?”

“California,” you hummed, but your voice wavered slightly.

“California, huh?” Mike echoed, catching your hesitation. “You don’t sound too sure.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, not quite ready to share your real reasons for aiming west. It felt a little silly, honestly. “It’s a long ride. Who knows what’ll happen along the way?”

The sun hung lower in the sky now, casting long shadows across the jagged edges of the quarry. The air was thick with the lingering warmth of the day, and the only sounds were the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets.

“They’re not coming, are they?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

Mike looked startled for a second, fumbling for an excuse. “They’re busy with stuff and—”

“Don’t make excuses for them,” you cut him off, disappointment creeping into your voice. “You’re here, and you’re just as busy.”

A heavy silence followed. Deep down, you had expected this. It had been years since the Losers had biked together or even hung out like they used to. Conversations had grown shorter, turning into awkward nods in the school hallways. Still, knowing it didn’t make it hurt any less.

Mike sighed, his shoulders slumping. “You’re right. Life gets in the way, and it’s hard to blame them... but it sucks.”

But you did blame them. Even more now, seeing Mike’s disappointment. You fought the urge to light another cigarette and scooted closer to him instead.

“I get it,” you said softly. “I’m the one who’s upset, not you.”

He fiddled with the paper bag he’d brought, then held it out to you with a hesitant smile. “They wanted me to give you this.”

You stared at the bag, tempted to refuse it out of pride. But Mike’s puppy-dog look made you relent. With an exaggerated sigh, you took the bag, feigning annoyance.

Inside you found a fistful of the granola snacks you liked, a new sketchbook, a box of those fancy-pencils you had been eyeing for months, a neatly packed medical kit, a small wooden turtle charm on a braided leather strap, and lastly, a pack of cigarettes with two missing. You snorted at the last oneㅡthe tightness in your chest loosening. 

Mike pointed at the turtle. “That little guy’s from me. It’s not much, but...”

You shot him a mock glare, silencing him. Pulling out your motorcycle keys, you looped the leather strap through the keychain. “I’m naming it Mikey.”

He snorted, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Alright, Mikey it is.”

Standing up, he offered you a hand. The nearly identical scars on your palms brushed as you clasped hands, a silent reminder of your shared past.

“Don’t forget,” Mike whispered, his voice tight with emotion.

You held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “I won’t.”

You stood there for a moment longer, your hand still gripping Mike’s. The familiar warmth of his palm anchored you to this place, to this moment. A part of you wanted to freeze it—hold onto the feeling of belonging, of not yet having to say goodbye. But you knew better.

Some things weren’t meant to last.

With one final squeeze, you let go and shoved your hands into your jacket pockets, feeling the cool metal of your motorcycle keys clink against the lighter inside. Mike gave you a soft smile, a wordless goodbye, and together, you headed back down the trail.

.

.

.

Thursday, February 20 1986, Outskirts of Hawkins, Indiana

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, casting long shadows over the empty highway, you felt a chill seep into your bones. The open road, while freeing, was unforgiving, especially when the weather turned. Your motorcycle, faithful through rain and snow, had become both your escape and your burden. 

The journey so far had been long—longer than you'd anticipated—but that was by choice. You weren't rushing, and in some ways, you couldn't afford to.

From Maine to Indiana, your route had been an intricate web of backroads, motels, and the occasional kind stranger offering directions or a hot meal. However, you had learned quickly that being a young woman travelling alone required a constant balance between caution and determination. Every rest stop was carefully chosen, each small-town diner scoped out before you dared to settle in a booth. You’d developed a knack for reading people, for sensing when a conversation could be friendly and when it was best to keep your head down and move on.

Your new sketchbook and fancy pencils had quickly become your companion on those quiet nights in cheap motels or campgrounds. The sketchbooks cover was scuffed now, a little worse for wear from the miles it had travelled with you, but its pages were filled with glimpses of your journey: the snow-dusted peaks of the Appalachians, a rundown gas station lit by a single flickering bulb, even the faces of strangers who left an impression. Each smooth stroke of your pencil was a way to hold onto fleeting moments, a reminder that though you were always moving, you were still here, still tethered to something tangible.

Pulling into a nearby rest stop, you parked in front of the mechanic's shop. The sign, weather-beaten and faded, swung gently in the frigid breeze. The shop’s exterior was old but well-kept, with faint traces of oil and rubber clinging to the air. Stepping off the bike, you stretched out, hissing at the stiffness in your legs and back from the relentless hours on the road. You guided your bike inside the shop, the engine’s growl fading into a low rumble.

The interior of the shop was warmer, the hum of the radio filling the space. Walls lined with tools, parts, and mechanical odds and ends in various states of use gave the place a sense of organised chaos. Taking your helmet off, you spotted a tall, middle-aged black man in greasy coveralls sitting on a nearby workbench. He wiped his hands on a rag, his gaze appraising but not unkind.

“Yeah?” he greeted, his voice gruff. “What do you need?”

“My bike needs a look,” you replied, your voice raspy from days of disuse. “It’s been running rough the last few miles.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, nodding curtly. “Pull it into the bay, and I’ll take a look.”

You nodded in thanks, rolling the bike into the service bay. The man, who soon introduced himself as Sam, pulled on a pair of gloves as he walked over, eyeing your bike.

“You look like you’ve been on the road for a while,” he remarked, his tone a weird mix of curiosity and indifference as he glanced at the frost still clinging to your jacket and the dirt caked on your motorcycle.

“Yeah, been riding for almost a month,” you replied, offering a small, tight-lipped smile.

Sam grunted in acknowledgment, crouching down to inspect the engine. His hands moved carefully, precise in their movements, as he fiddled with various parts of your bike. You watched him work silently, admiring the way his hands seemed to know exactly what to do, even if his demeanour remained brusque.

After a while, he spoke again without looking up. “What’s a young lady like you doing out here alone? Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”

The question came out of casual curiosity, and you knew it wasn’t meant to be intrusive. You shifted slightly, uncomfortable but not thrown off.

“I graduated last year,” you replied flatly. “I’m not one for sticking around.”

Sam grunted again, a sound that could’ve been understanding or dismissal, but he didn’t press further.

He continued his work, and you let your gaze wander around the shop. Eventually, you took a seat on a nearby bench and pulled out your sketchbook, this place would make some good practice. You flipped through the pages, absentmindedly sketching the lines of the mechanic’s shop, the bike, the worn tools scattered around. It felt good to focus on something else, even just for a moment.

After a long while, Sam stood up, wiping the grease off his hands. He rubbed his chin with a frown, giving you a quick look. “Well, looks like your spark plug’s shot, and your ignition coil’s about to go too. I can fix it, but the parts are gonna take a bit of time to get. Won’t be cheap either.”

His words made your heart drop deep into your stomach. “How long?” you asked, trying to keep the urgency out of your voice.

He sighed, scratching his forehead with his thumb. “Could take a couple weeks, maybe more. Depends on how soon I can get the parts. This isn’t exactly a prime location for quick deliveries.”

Your heart sank, knowing full well that being stranded in the middle of nowhere wasn’t part of the plan. “And how much is it going to cost?”

Sam crossed his arms. “Well, like I said, parts aren’t cheap. But...” He eyed your worn-down bike, then glanced at you. “I can work something out. You any good at keeping promises?”

You raised an eyebrow, unsure where this was going. “Depends on the promise.”

He grunted in amusement. “My ex-wife runs the bar over in town—The Hideout. She’s always lookin’ for help. You take a job there while I work on your bike, and we’ll figure out the bill in instalments.”

You hesitated. Working in a bar wasn’t exactly in your plans, but then again, you didn’t have many options. “And what’s she like?”

Sam’s lips twitched into what could’ve been a smile. “Don’t slack off, and you’ll be fine.”

You crossed your arms. “.....I’ll think about it.”

He gave a short nod, as if that was enough of an answer. “You’re gonna be in town for a while anyway.”

As he turned back to the bike, Sam’s gaze flicked down to the sketchbook on your lap. “What you got there?”

You shrugged, not bothering to hide the sketch you were working on. “Just passing time.”

He peered over, eyeing the drawing. “Not bad,” he admitted. “You got some talent.”

You felt a flicker of pride but didn’t show it. “It’s just a hobby.”

Sam gave you a look. “That right? How about you give me a sketch as a show of good faith? Consider it an advance for the first round of work I’ll do on your bike.”

You blinked in surprise. “You serious?”

He nodded, leaning back against the workbench. “Deal’s a deal. You give me that sketch, I get started on the bike. Fair enough?”

You nodded, appreciating the unorthodox offer. Tearing a page from the sketchpad, you handed it over. “Deal.”

Sam inspected the drawing and gave a small nod of approval before carefully folding it and tucking it into his coveralls.

As the minutes passed, the sound of Sam working on your bike faded into the background, replaced by the steady scratching of your pencil against paper as you started another sketch. Sam glanced over from time to time, his expression unreadable, watching you work in silence. There was something calming about the way he moved around the shop, the quiet efficiency of someone who had spent years mastering their craft. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke, a rare shared silence settling between you.

Suddenly, the door to the shop swung open, the peace you and Sam had shared dissolved instantly. The figure that strolled in brought with him the distinct smell of cigarettes and an air of bad intentions. 

"Hey, boss," he called out, far too casually as he sauntered over. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that his eyes lingered on you for a moment too long. His smirk was cocky, almost predatory, and you could feel his presence encroaching on your space without even looking up.

Sam didn’t react immediately, just sighed, his shoulders sagging a little. The dismay on his face was clear as day. He didn’t want this guy around either.

"Jesse," Sam finally said, his voice filled with reluctant resignation. "Drive her over to The Hideout, will ya?"

Jesse’s grin widened as his eyes flicked over to you. He was white, tall, and lanky, with a shaved head that only emphasised his sharp, almost fox-like features. His murky blue eyes gleamed with mischief, scanning you with a kind of lazy curiosity. Unlike Sam, whose work-overalls were always neatly kept despite the grease and grime of his trade, Jesse’s version was a sloppier affair—stained, wrinkled, and barely buttoned properly. 

“Well, well, well…”

Your gaze met his coldly, shutting him down before he could try anything. "Not interested," you said sharply, leaving no room for debate.

Jesse raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. No need to bite."

Sam shot him a warning look, voice firm. "Cut the crap. Just take her to the bar and do something useful for once."

Jesse shrugged, clearly unfazed by Sam’s scolding. "Sure, boss. Whatever you say." He motioned for you to follow him. You stood up, giving Sam a nod of thanks. He returned it with a quiet grunt, his expression still disapproving as Jesse walked ahead of you.

"Good luck," Sam muttered under his breath, almost too low for you to hear, as you grabbed your things and followed Jesse out to the truck.

The air inside Jesse's truck was thick with the stench of cigarettes and cheap cologne. He shot you a sideways grin as you settled into the passenger seat, clearly enjoying himself despite your earlier brush-off. Without a word, he started the engine, and soon you were rumbling down the high-way and into the city.

"So, what brings a girl like you out here to a place like this?" Jesse asked, tone dripping with sleaze. "Don’t see many like you passing through."

You kept your gaze on the road, the passing scenery of small houses and barren fields a welcome distraction from his presence. "Just because," you replied flatly, signalling that you weren’t interested in making small talk—or any talk for that matter.

He didn’t seem to care. "Yeah? Well, Hawkins isn’t much of an escape. This place is a hell-hole if you ask me."

You didn’t respond, eyes still fixed on the landscape outside. But Jesse, apparently not one to take a hint, kept going.

"Strange stuff happens here," he added, his voice lowering as though sharing some secret. "Murders, disappearances, all sorts of weird shit. Cops don’t do anything about it either. Makes you wonder if the place ain’t cursed or something."

You shrugged, unimpressed. "Sounds like every other small town."

Jesse shot you a sidelong glance, but you didn’t bother to look at him. "You’ll see. Stick around long enough, and you’ll feel it too. This place… it’s not right."

The conversation died again, but Jesse wasn’t done being a nuisance. "Anyway," he tried, voice oozing with false charm. "If you ever need someone to show you around town, I’m your guy. There’s plenty of spots I could take you. Keep you entertained."

This time, you turned to him, unflinching. "I told you, I’m not interested."

His grin faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered, forcing a laugh that sounded weak. "Cold as ice, huh? Suit yourself."

After that, Jesse finally shut up. The rest of the drive passed in tense silence, and you relished it. Hawkins didn’t look like much as you drove through its streets—just another tired, forgotten town. Nothing about it screamed cursed to you, just a place stuck in its own slow decay.

Eventually, he pulled up in front of The Hideout, the bar looking as rundown as you expected. Neon lights flickered weakly in the windows, and the paint on the sign was chipped and fading.

"There you go," Jesse said, cutting the engine with a sharp twist of his wrist. "The Hideout."

You muttered  small thanks as you stepped out of the truck, the gravel crunching under your boots. His eyes lingered on you, leaning against the steering wheel with that same lazy grin, clearly waiting for some other type of thanks. When you didn’t offer him anything else, his grin twisted into something uglier.

He scoffed, his voice dropping into a mutter as he spat out, "Stuck up bitch."

You didn’t turn around and with a flick of your wrist, raised your hand and gave him a firm, unapologetic middle finger before walking away. Behind you, you heard Jesse curse again under his breath as his truck roared back to life. He peeled off, the tires kicking up gravel as he sped away, the sound of his engine fading into the distance.

The door to The Hideout creaked loudly as you pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit space. The smell of stale beer hit you immediately, and the low hum of voices filled the air, mingling with the muted sound of rock music coming from the jukebox in the corner.

A few heads turned your way as you walked in, but no one gave you more than a second glance. You headed straight for the bar, your boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor. The place was exactly what you’d expected—rough around the edges but not without its charm.

Behind the bar stood a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She glanced up as you approached, sizing you up with a quick, practised look.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone curt but not unfriendly.

You nodded. "Sam sent me. Said you might have a job for me?"

Her eyes narrowed briefly in recognition, then she tossed the rag she’d been using to wipe down the counter over her shoulder. "Ah, motorcycle girl, huh?" Her lips twitched up into a small grin. "Sam called. Figured you’d swing by sooner or later."

The woman set her hands on her hips, giving you another appraising look. “Name’s Bev. And you are?”

You gave her your name, watching as her sharp features softened ever so slightly. She didn’t seem like the type for small talk, but something about her made you feel like you were in the right place.

“I like your name,” you said, surprising yourself with the admission. 

Bev raised an eyebrow, but then her face split into a wide, genuine grin. She let out a loud, hearty laugh that seemed to fill the entire bar, turning a few heads.

“Oh, honey, a pretty girl like you saying something sweet like that? You’re gonna light this place up,” she said, still chuckling. “Now, let’s get down to business. You want the job?”

You hesitated for a split second, thinking back to Sam and your earlier reluctance. But something about Bev—her straightforwardness, her no-nonsense attitude—won you over. The hesitation melted away, replaced by a simple, instinctive decision.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice steady. “I’ll take it.”

Bev nodded approvingly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Good. Now, here’s the deal. It ain’t glamorous. You’ll be workin’ the night shifts—cleaning tables, serving drinks, dealin’ with the usual crowd. Pay’s shit, but the hours ain’t too bad, and you’ll get tips. Think you can handle that?”

“Sounds fine to me,” you said, already feeling more at ease.

“And Sam already talked to me about your situation,” Bev continued, her tone softening just a little. “If you want, I can send half your pay to him directly. Save you some hassle.”

You blinked, surprised. “You’d do that?”

Bev shrugged like it was nothing. “Sure. But that’s not all. I got a little extra for you, if you’re up for it.”

She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice like she was about to share a secret. “I own a trailer over at Forest Hills Trailer Park. It ain’t much—kind of a dump, honestly—but it’s got running water and electricity. You can stay there while you’re working here, no rent. What do you say?”

It wasn’t much, but after days on the road and no solid plan for where to sleep, it was more than you expected. The relief hit you hard, but you kept your expression controlled, only a small nod revealing how grateful you felt.

“I’ll take it,” you said, meeting her gaze with sincerity.

Bev’s grin widened again. “Good. You start right now, and we’ll get you set up at the trailer tonight. It ain’t a palace, but it’s yours as long as you need it.” She paused, giving you a wink.

“Welcome to Hawkins, kid.”

divider credit

[stevesxyellowxsweater]

Will you still love me tomorrow?

PAIRING: king!Steve Harrington x virgin!Reader WC:3k CW:Minors do not interact!! Very little plot, No use of y/n, reader has female body parts, also wears a dress and is called good girl, p in v, oral (both m and f, fingering (f receiving), losing virginity, cream pie, cum tasting, asshole Steve, mentions of sadness, mentions of a bet, mentions of Billy, doesn't end happy. SUMMARY: After your third date with King!Steve, you find yourself in his bed. AUTHOR NOTES: This is a rewrite of a fic I started on here but stopped, the smut was too good to go to waste. 💜Enjoy, please remember reblogs are strongly encouraged! Thank you to @cafekitsune for the amazing banners as always!

His fingertips felt like fire, as they ran down your arms. You hadn't expected the night to end like this, it was your third date you'd promised yourself it was too early. But now you were in his room, your body hot because of each touch and kisses that King Steve placed on your skin. His lips ran over your neck, causing a strangled whimper to leave your lips. “Does my girl like that?” You could hear the smirk in his voice as he heard your noises. He’d craved this since he first clapped eyes on you in that little thigh-length summer dress, at the start of April.

The courting had been a long process for Steve, frustration mostly because you'd knocked him back again and again. He was the King, every girl wanted to be the Queen. But not you, you didn't want that it seemed and it left him feeling incredibly frustrated. You'd only given in and agreed to date him when he stood up on the table in the cafeteria, yelled your name across the room and asked you out. So many eyes on you at that moment, you felt like you were going to throw up. It was one of those high school cliche moments, everyone waiting for your answer.

How could you say no to him, then?

“Yes.” You finally managed to say to him, a strangled moan. You did like that, you liked his lips on your neck a lot. You could feel the heat pooling between your legs, you clenched your legs together, nervousness bubbling inside of you. His hand moved to the flimsy strap on your dress and pulled it down agonizingly slowly. “Steve...” You whispered as he touched your zip. Did you want this, you'd never before and if you did would not make you just another one of his conquests?

 “Do you want me to stop?” He asked gently, looking you in the eyes. There was a sincerity to the look on his face, that made your heart skip a beat. He seemed to be taking into account that this was your first time and didn’t want to force you if you didn't want to. It made your heart flutter, he was so sweet and charming it's no wonder you found yourself falling for him. 

You realise he's still waiting for your reply, you'd been too busy studying his handsome face. “What was the question again?” You asked gently. “Do you want me to stop?” Steve asked as he cupped your face. “No, it's not that. I just haven't done this before.” You admitted, your cheeks burning.

You couldn't help but feel embarrassed having to admit that you were a virgin but deep down you knew it was nothing to be ashamed of. As long as it was the right partner, that was all that mattered. Steve had been wonderful on the three dates you'd been on together, you'd never had so much fun as you were having with him. You didn't think Steve was as nice and kind as he had been, he was even pretty romantic. He had you eating out of the palm of his hand

“It's okay, I'll guide you.” His words helped you relax, as did the kiss he planted on your jaw a moment later. His thumb ran over your cheek while he cupped your face in his large hand. Gently Steve pressed against you, guiding you down onto his pillows as his lips met yours. You were surrounded by his scent, instantly as your head touched the pillows. “I promise I'll be gentle.” He whispered before he pulled his shirt off.

Lying in his bed, you found yourself struggling to believe that you and Steve Harrington were going to have sex. Biting your lip gently, you watched as he tossed his shirt to the ground. Your eyes raked over his body, looking at the Adonis above you. “Do you like what you see?” He asked as he noticed your eyes running over him hungrily like a piece of meat.

 “Very much so.” He grinned, moving his hands around you to pull down your dress zip.

Your dress hit the floor, the same time your hips landed back on the bed, Steve watched you, sucking in a breath at the sight of you in your lace lingerie. Taking your hand, he pulled you up and looked you in the eyes. “I know you're nervous, I am too. I've not liked anyone the way I like you, not ever.” He whispered. 

“I like you too.” You replied, causing him to smile. Becoming a little braver, your free hand moved to touch him through his jeans. A hum left his lips, and you found yourself desperate to hear more of it. Desperate to make him moan for you, to hear noises that you were the cause of.

Letting go of his hand, you worked on his jeans needing to see more of him. Finally, you were able to pull them off -taking his boxers too- and found yourself staring, mouth agape. You stared at his large cock, unsure how he'd ever fit inside you. “Suck it.” Steve husked, as he watched you staring at his naked body. 

Taking hold of his shaft, you looked at how big his thick cock looked in your hand. You could hardly get your hand around it. Steve lets out a small moan as he watches you slowly lean down and take him in your mouth. 

You start slow, shy almost. Letting the tip into your mouth, your tongue washing over the masterpiece before you. As you inch him further into your mouth, you can't help but glance up, seeing his head leaning back and his hand running through his hair as he lets out a small groan.

Looking back down to the task at hand, you take him slightly deeper, feeling his shaft on your tongue. Your hand grips hold of him, holding what you cannot fit. Your tongue glides up the shaft as our head slowly starts bobbing up and down, taking him further each time. “That's it, baby girl, just like that.” He uttered humming once more.

As you move your head up, you taste the salty liquid of precum. A small moan leaves your lips as you focus on his hole wanting to taste it as much as possible. You feel his hand slipping into your hair and starting to grip tightly as he pushes you back down needing to be further in your mouth. “Such a good girl.” He moaned. “Who would've thought you're not as sweet and innocent as people thought.” He told you as Steve started to fuck your mouth, his cock moving faster seeing just how much of him you could take.

You try to keep yourself relaxed, but it's hard having his cock so deep in your mouth. You're desperate to impress him as well as pleasure him. But then he suddenly pulled out of your mouth, leaving you to whine. “It's okay baby, I just don't want to spill my load in your mouth.” He assured you. His hands found your hips easily and he pulled you down on top of him, his lips crashing against yours as his hands fiddled with your bra and underwear desperate to see the treats that lay under them. As he got them off, he rolled you over onto your back, throwing the items to the ground. 

Nestling himself between your legs, he looked down at you. “You're so beautiful.” He told you as his fingers brushed over your cheek. You couldn't help but feel hot under his touch, a small shy smile on your face. He was going to be your first, he was going to make you feel things you'd never felt.

His thumb ran over your lips once more before he moved down between your legs, he began to kiss your thighs, biting and sucking on them. Your hand moved to his and gripped his hair. “Steve!” She moaned as your body arched toward him. “I'm going to taste you.” The king whispered against your thigh. Nodding gently you looked at him as he moved toward your sweet sex.

You watched him, watched as he licked from your wet folds up to your clit then back again. Whimpers instantly began to fall from your lips, but soon turned to moans as he settled himself on your clit and pushed a finger inside. Your hand tugged on his now messy locks as he worked his magic with his tongue. “Steve, oh god!” You cried out feeling him smirking as he pumped his finger in, needing to stretch you out so you could take him.

“You're going to take me so well.” He told you between licks and sucks of your bean. His second finger slowly slipped inside of you causing you to gasp, the sting of the feeling of both of his thick fingers inside you caused you to suck in a breath. He began to pump them inside of you, pushing deeper as he licked and sucked on your clit.

Being so inexperienced, and feeling your whole body on fire, it didn't take him long to bring you to the brink. Your stomach twisted and turned in knots, your free hand gripped hard to the sheets below as a flood of pleasure washed over you. “Steve!” You moaned out, his fingers and tongue working faster to bring you to your climax. 

Your hips bucked up toward his mouth, your body shook with the force of his skills between your legs. He worked you through it. It was almost cliche to say that fireworks set off in your head. Feeling him press a kiss against your cut, he slowly sat back and licked his fingers clean as he did. His eyes remained on you the whole time, a smirk on his face. 

“You taste amazing.” 

Leaning down, he kissed your jaw softly. Anticipation hung in the air as you both knew what was coming next. Your hand moved to touch his cheek as you began to kiss, hunger caused the air to become thicker. His hand rested on your neck as he nestled between your legs. 

The kiss was a first in itself, he held onto you as his tongue slipped into your mouth. You could taste yourself and it made your stomach twist. You let out a small moan, desperate for more. You barely broke away to breathe only needing a moment to suck in a breath or let it out. He pulled back slowly making you whine.

“Are you sure?” He asked as he moved his hand to touch your cheek. 

“Yeah.” You answered in hardly a whisper. His eyes stayed on yours as he moved his hand to line himself up with your entrance. Your body felt almost like it was shaking still, you weren't sure if it was still because of the orgasm or what was going to happen next. But you could feel the nerves bubbling in your stomach as you moved your hands to take hold of his shoulders. 

Slowly, Steve pushed the tip of his cock inside of you. A gasp fell from your lips. He slowly pushed himself all the way inside you. You'd never felt this full before, never felt a feeling like this. You could feel yourself stretching around him, making adjustments for him. The sting of taking him slowly began to ease.

 “You're so tight.” He moaned looking in your eyes with a lopsided smile. You smiled back, you could get used to this, used to the way it felt as your naked bodies pressed together as his cock twitched inside of you as he gave you that moment you needed to adjust to him. 

His lips pressed against your neck, sucking gently as he began to thrust inside of you. Your hands gripped hold of his back, your nails pressing into his flesh. “Good girl, taking me so well,” Steve uttered against your skin. Steve's hand ran down your body to your leg, pushing it up and lifting it over his shoulder. 

“Oh god!” You cried out as he thrust in deeper. He pulled back from your neck and looked down at you, the smirk back on his face. “Who is making you feel this good?” He asked his tone full of lust and desire. “You, Steve.” He pressed his lips to yours almost like a reward for you saying his name.  

“You like that, you dirty girl,” Steve uttered, biting your lip as he watched the look on your face as he thrust inside of you. You moaned as he went further inside of you, you felt him hitting the right spot and it took everything inside you not to come at that moment. “Yes!” You cried out as each thrust bottomed out inside of you. Your nails dug in hard to his back, causing the king of Hawkins High to cry out loudly. “Do you like that?” You questioned starting to become a little more confident. 

He didn't answer, he just nodded his head as he moved his hand to stroke your cheek. His thumb moved down and into your mouth, you instantly started to suck on it as it passed your lips. “Good girl.” He whispered, biting his lip between his teeth. 

You couldn't help but stare up at his face, looking at the way his hair bounced, watching the way his jaw went tight, or the desire in his eyes, the light Sheen of sweat on his brow. He took his hand from your mouth and moved it down to your breast, his hand kneading it like it was dough. 

Your eyes started to close, getting lost in the pleasure. But his hand moved from the breast and grabbed your chin. “Keep looking at me baby.” He ordered, thrusting hard inside of you almost like a punishment. His hand moved back to your breast, this time rubbing and tweaking your nipple once your eyes were open.

“Steve!” You gasped, your body arched wanting to feel him deeper inside of you. Dropping your leg, he moved his hand either side of you in the bed and started to thrust harder. The bed began to move under the two of you, whining and creaking nearly as loud as you were.

“I'm close.” You announced and he seemingly smirked.

“So am I.” He told you. “Am I okay to...?” You nodded gently unable to speak as his thrusts became harder, and caused a loud moan to leave you.

“Yes!” You cried out. Your orgasm hit you a moment later, you couldn't help but let out a loud groan. Your body arching, and your hands held him tightly. “Steve!” His name came out of your lips in a moan, your body starting to shake as he fucked you through your orgasm.

 “Fuck!” Steve uttered with a thrust, you could feel his cock twitching inside of you filling you with his seed. Causing another moan out of your pretty mouth, as you felt the ropes of cum painting your walls.  

He thrust inside of you a couple more times, making sure he was empty before he pulled out and looked down at you. “Look at you, such a mess,” Steve smirked as he reached down and pushed his cum back inside of you, causing your body to twitch and throb at the feel of him. 

Moving up the bed, he lay beside you and pushed his fingers into your mouth. “See how we taste together.” He ordered you. Licking and sucking his fingers, he smirked softly. “Such a good girl.” He whispered watching you clean his fingers. “So good.”

Pulling them from you he smirked softly and lay back his arm resting behind his head as he basked in the post-sex glow. It was then it felt like it all changed. He didn't hug you, he didn't speak to you, he just lay there catching his breath and smiling to himself. Looking down at him, you swallowed hard asking if you should lay down beside him. Or was he done with you? You'd given him what he wanted and he became almost cold.

“Are you going to stay for a while?” His words broke you out of your thoughts. “Or have you got to be going?” Steve asked you, causing you to question if he was throwing you out or not. “Do you want me to go?” You asked awkwardly. You knew the answer, it was obvious and it made your chest ache. Steve shrugged his shoulders, laying there naked as the day he was born.

“Well I'm pretty tired, but you can stay if you want.” Looking away from him you bit your lip and shook your head. “My curfew is soon, so I'll leave you to sleep.” You said gently. Steve sat up and pressed his lips to your shoulder. “I'll call you, okay?” He whispered gently against your skin. “I look forward to it.” You whispered glancing over at him before he lay back down leaving you to dress and see yourself out.

Stepping out into the cool night air, you glanced back at his house as you bit down on your lip. You tried to tell yourself that he was going to call you, that he'd be on the phone tomorrow asking you out again. But he didn't even offer to drive you home, you hoped you were wrong and that you hadn't just been used. He was going to call, he had to call.

By Sunday night, he still hadn't called you.

By Monday you saw his arm slung around a cheerleader flirting like crazy.

By Wednesday you found out he had a bet with Tommy H to bed you.

By Friday you had slapped him in front of the whole school.

And by the following Friday Steve was bubbling with jealousy as he watched Billy Hargrove flirt with  you and he realised he'd truly fucked up. 

Mutual tags: @yourfavoritewitchbitch @darleenjade @teen--marvel @southerngothicchic @wroteclassicaly @mrprettywhenhecries @msbillyhargrove @bunnyhargrove @keerysfolklore @littlexdeaths @undead-supernova @thecreelhouse @hi-im-peanut-butter-pretzels

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Reblogs are much appreciated 💜💜

[ronearoundblindly]

Okay, so, hear me out.

I know I've got a Beauty and the Beast AU coming for skinny!Steve, but @darsynia gave me/let me have this idea of a Cinderella AU with him, too, except he is the Cinderella character who gets transformed to live his dream for a day.

I present to you the setup of:

*All photos from Pinterest

Steven is the only child of an exiled prince, and due to happenstance of the aged Warrior King Phillips having no male heir of his own, Steve becomes true royalty overnight.

His cousins, Princesses Margaret and Sharon, angry at the circumstance of their demotions at court, offer no help to the young, small, and often sickly new king.

No one is allowed to see him until his coronation. The few knights and advisors who have laid eyes on Steve are sworn to secrecy, and though he has a mind for strategy, Steve is burdened by his appearance.

Given the coronation crown the night before the big ceremony, Steve stares deep into the massive yellow gem at its front and wishes to look like the "ruler they all want to see."

And he does.

He wears the heavy crown easily, he stands tall over most of the court, and he carries a heavy, steel sword at his hip for the first time ever without the blade dragging across the stone floor.

The court is elated. No one looks twice, not even the handful of men who knew, but that's the magic of the stone...

Steve meets a seemingly endless stream of people, but the most curious is the apprentice of King Phillips' military advisor, a young man he saw befriending a stray cat in the courtyard while everyone else ogled and angled for him. The apprentice's eyes...there's just something about them...

After a long celebration feast where he charmed the nobility with humility, practicality, and honor, Steve falls asleep small again, but certain he can win over the whole realm if he can simply be known for his actions, not his physique.

That becomes the plan; Steve will work behind the scenes, make the kingdom better for people high and low, and then he'll be loved and accepted for who he is. In the meantime, he, in his natural form, can act as a sort of messenger or page boy 'for King Steven' and move around freely. Why not? They all are on the lookout for a man standing two hands higher and broader than him.

One of his first visits is to his inherited military advisor. Of course, Steve doesn't expect the apprentice to live inside the family home, possibly somewhere on the estate maybe, but after a long ride to get there and a long discussion while sitting in the man's study, Steve asks if he might walk the garden before leaving.

He asks about the woman by the roses, and his advisor simply replies "that's my daughter."

Of course, he won't bother to introduce him. Steve's an untitled nobody like he's been his entire life thus far.

Steve might not have seen the resemblance, truly, if not for the exact movement of your finger to gently lift a wilting petal back into place.

It's the move the apprentice made when scratching beneath the cat's chin, and he'll never forget that smile.

"You," he blurts, startled at the otherwise drastic change in your appearance.

You jump back before composing yourself, shielding your eyes from the bright sun above as you look him over.

He's more alarmed by your curtsy than you are by him, watching you bow deeply where moments ago your father dismissed him offhand.

"Your Majesty," you say to the ground.

You...

You recognize him like this? How? How is that possible?

His wish was granted. They all saw a perfect soldier, but that's just the thing: you didn't want to be ruled by a perfect soldier.

You wanted a good man.

You, who secretly longs to offer more to your father and family than a bartering chip for marriage, same as his cousins, need the king to be a good man because then he'll understand this...

A/N: Ok, full disclosure, I might already be very protective of this one, so we'll see if I can bring myself to put it all out there. Anyway! Thank you for the gif, Brandy! It was a great opportunity to get this down.

Also, if it's just an idea/intro, do I include the taglist? Idk. I hate pinging y'all if it's not like a lot of content.

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[rustedhearts]

sentimental reasons (boxer!steve x librarian!fem reader)

summary: sunday afternoon musings in autumn.

uses she her pronouns and female anatomy.

✶ the king of the ring ✶

tags: pregnant!reader, fluff, that’s about it.

sentimental reasons - nat king cole

hawkins, indiana, october 20th 1996

“I wonder if she’ll have my eyes.”

“Hmm. I hope.”

Steve’s lashes tickled the tip of your finger as it delicately scaled the soft tissue of his eyelid. His lip quirked, nose twitching when you came to trace the slope of it: bent sideways by brutal fists barreling into cartilage. But once, it was smooth and straight. No matter how crooked or left-leaning it was these days, you still found it handsome.

“Hope she doesn’t get stuck with that,” Steve snorted, and you frowned as you smoothed your thumb over the swollen bridge. “Hope she has her mama’s.”

Steve lifted his hand from where it rested on your stomach to bop your nose. You smiled, fingers pushing through the long tresses framing his face. You had been reclining on your back for a few hours now, late-term pregnancy responsible for consistent exhaustion and sore ligaments. It felt like the whole of you existed in the front, and sometimes you worried you were walking on a forward slant.

The house smelled like the slowly-browned roast your mother brought you, warming in the crockpot; the sweet aroma of brown sugar carrots and the bitter snap of celery. From your open window: damp earth and the musk of goldenrod leaves. It smelled like home.

Cheek pressed gently to your stomach, chapped hands feeling for flutters and kicks, massaging your aches through a faded, stretched-out tee: Steve. He smelled like a morning Marlboro—faded and nipped away by the wind—and the woodsy vanilla of your laundry detergent. He smelled like Steve. He felt like Steve: warm and firm and lovely. Cocooned between his half-pressed weight and the softness of the comforter, you felt you could’ve lied there for the rest of your life.

You closed your eyes and listened to the leaves rustle in the afternoon. The distant babble of youthful laughter. The whoosh of rubber on asphalt at thirty-five miles an hour. The crunch of bike tires over the pile of leaves Steve raked and then left on the tree lawn so he could tend to you.

He heard your silence from the front yard. He felt your ache.

“It’s funny,” Steve murmured, eyes wide and alert, finger trailing a path down the roundness of your bump. “I never thought I’d be here. Never thought I’d have…another part of me. Like this.”

He flattened his palm to rub across your belly, spreading a blissful massage that had you shifting. Expelling a breezy sigh, you blindly tucked a patch of hair behind Steve’s ear. Soft, just-shampooed: vetiver and musk.

“She’s all ours, baby,” he whispered.

The room swayed in the stillness. Like being cradled in a lullaby, gently rocked to sleep by one dreamy, autumnal afternoon. You felt like you were floating, gently bobbing to the rush and recede of the sea.

"Kinda scary to think about," you returned a moment later, just as quietly. You peeped your eyes open to find Steve's face.

Smoothed into mindless relaxation, he watched his own hand lift over the mound of your bump. Back and forth, over the swell and down the valleys. His wedding band caught a spark of pale afternoon light: thick silver tungsten around his ring finger. Unbreakable. Irreplaceable.

Work got in the way of him wearing it often, but on long weekends like this—when you slipped away from the busy, sunny California life for a slice of small town America back home—Steve slipped the ring on and never took it off.

He liked seeing it on his hand. He liked hearing it clink with yours when you held hands at night. He liked seeing them together—your ring, his ring—and knowing: this was eternal.

"God I hope I don't fuck it up."

You tipped your head on the pillow, craning to find Steve. You gently scraped your nails over his scalp, watching them create gaps in his mop of hair.

"You won't," you cooed. "No more than all the other parents."

Steve's lips curled into a pursed smile, handsome and boyish. Your chest stuttered a moment.

"Thanks, angel. Think 'm just nervous," he sighed, words tight between his teeth with his chin pressed to your belly.

You shifted again, socked feet rubbing his sides. "Me too. My mom said she used to throw up just from nerves right before she had me, but I think I turned out alright."

He breezed into another grin, a scoffed laugh shooting from his mouth. "Yeah."

You twirled a strand of hair near his brow around your finger. It curled into shape, tickling his eye.

"Wonder if my mom was nervous with me," he whispered.

You took pause, scanning the surface of his face. His eyes flicked away from your stomach toward your own, and he instantly scoffed and shifted on his stomach.

"Ah, shit, sorry. That was—sorry—"

"Baby, hey," you awed, reaching down to cup his face. "Don't be sorry. It's okay to wonder."

Steve halted a moment. Staring at you, head risen from his place on your center body, eyes a little rounder and wider and laced with pleading. Softened and sweet, you flashed him a small, reassuring smile and scratched your nails against his scalp again. He slowly sank back down, rubbing his cheek against your clothed belly.

“‘Kay,” he murmured.

“Wanna talk more about it—“

“No, baby. Just…wanna talk about names.”

You giggled. “Names?”

You could see the coil of his mouth from here, how the side of his face lifted with the small quirk of muscle.

“Yeah. Been thinkin’ about what we’re gonna name little Harrington.”

Your heart swelled to double the size, aching in your chest. You could barely contain the burst of adoration blooming with a pulse.

“You have?”

Steve’s finger made a zig-zag trail on your belly again. “Mhm. So…let me see it.”

You blinked, brows etching together. “See what?”

Steve turned his head, hair dragging across your belly and flouncing from his face. “The notebook.”

You clapped your hands together with a giddy grin. You’ve kept a notebook of baby names since your first sonogram. You knew you were getting ahead of yourself, and there were chances the pregnancy wouldn’t stick—but all you could think about was what you’d name your child. When you found out it was a girl, that you’d have a daughter, the notebook immediately became a place of scribbles and exclamation marks and highlighted stars.

Interestingly enough, when you started to show a bump beneath your clothes and required more assistance for daily tasks, Steve swapped roles with you as the worrier. He helped you up and down stairs, poured your cereal, made you smoothies, cut your steak, and did his best to do the cleaning exactly the way you did it.

Steve was terrified you’d lose the baby, and that it would be all his fault.

For some reason, naming the baby felt like “jinxing it” to him.

“Really, you wanna see it?” you squealed, capturing your lip between your teeth.

Steve chuckled, a deep, grumbling sound that shuddered through you. “Yeah, baby.”

“Okay good, because I can’t get up.”

Steve chortled, shifting on his stomach to press a kiss to your belly, wide hands spanned on either side. He wiggled off the bed and headed toward the door, rounding the corner toward the library room.

The Hawkins house, made the Harrington residence circa 1994, had a gorgeous, oak-shelved room full of first editions and signed copies. Steve spared no expense when it came to your little corner of the house, where he often found you curled up in the window seat scribbling in a journal, or scanning a book. You had a desk against the wallpapered wall, where a type writer from 1935 found at a flea market in Virginia sat with every intention of good use. Steve hated the sound of your clacking, but you said the sound was “transcendent.”

Steve padded into the room, blanketed in a pale grey darkness as the sky muddled with rain clouds. The window came to a peak in a rounded arch, wet with old rain drops from last night’s shower. Collections of leaves from the oak tree looming in the yard congregated on the glass in groups of yellow.

He found the notebook on the desk beneath your piles of paper, all full of ink. Steve fought the urge to filter through it as he returned to the bedroom.

You struggled to sit yourself up, wobbling on your palms like doing the crab walk. Steve flung the notebook toward the bed and rushed to your side, hands at the ready.

“Baby,” he huffed, hoisting you toward the pillows at the headboard, which he fluffed adamantly as you settled back. “Wait for me.”

Your eyes rolled, though you were already out of breath. “I had it.”

He shot you a pointed look through narrowed brows, and fumbled for the notebook at the edge of the mattress. He settled beside you, and as the air followed his motions, you caught whiffs of damp soil from his time outside this morning.

“Okay, open it,” you insisted, voice wavering with delight.

Steve flipped the spine open, revealing the first lined page of paper with your familiar writing.

“Jesus Christ, honey,” Steve drawled, pulling the notebook back an inch to take it all in. His eyesight had been slipping for the past year and a half.

He needed glasses, but refused to wear them.

Cheeks swelling with warmth, you tipped your head over to get a peek of your work. “I had a lot of ideas.”

"And they're...alphabetized," Steve commented, tone thick with amusement.

"Obviously."

Steve scanned the list of names, eyes shuttering half-closed and popping back open like a camera lens. The ones he didn’t like got a screwed up face in response. Steve had a headache by the time he got to the fourth page, and the names weren't stopping.

Only few caught his eye: Alice, Caroline, Catherine, Eloise, Emma, Lily, Josephine, Jane, Winnie.

As he continued to scan, he found himself pairing the names with his own surname. Alice Harrington, Catherine Harrington, Lily Harrington. None had the ring he thought they would.

"Do you have a favorite?" he asked, flipping pages again.

Resting your head on his shoulder, you gently skirted the pads of your finger over the warm skin of his forearm. You trailed them to the bone of his knuckle, feeling the purple veins protruding beneath the flesh, plumped from overexertion.

"Mhm," you hummed. "But I don't want to sway you."

Steve turned his head, lips brushing your temple. "It's Jane."

You lifted your head so quickly that it knocked Steve's chin, and he tongued away the pain with a wordless grimace as your face bloomed with warm thrill. You gazed at your husband in delightful wonderment.

"How did you know?"

"It had five stars next to it."

You giggled, warmth increasing. "Oh."

"And," he added, head cocking to pop a kiss on your cheek. "I remember you mentioned that name before. Back when we were still dating, talkin' about kids. You said you always loved the name Jane, and if you ever had a girl, that would be your top choice."

Looping your arm around Steve's, you squeezed him close and nuzzled his neck. "Oh, Steve, you are so hot right now."

Steve's laughter was sharp and surprised, and he snapped the notebook closed to toss it aside. Hands free and desiring your touch, he gently pulled at your legs until you reclined flat on the bed again.

"I know."

Mounting over you with an agreeable and cautious space between his body and your bump, he pressed a gentle pepper of smooches to your face. You ran your hands across his chest, playing with the silver chain around his neck, thin and linked.

"So...Jane it is?"

Steve pulled back, eyes flicking between yours. His features were soft, a sharp contrast to the scars and bruises they regularly carried. He brushed the back of two fingers across your brow, guiding your hair away.

"Jane it is, my love."

♡ ♡

[sis-goleona]

There is something about a cocky man getting dominated….don’t really know what it is.

^^^Ahem…i think we all know who I am talking about

[bvtbxtch]

Stephen | Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

“You’re my object of affection, my drug of choice, my sick obsession.”

Summary: 5 years since graduation, 5 years since you ran your way through Hawkins High, leaving boys in your wake…. Except one. Steve Harrington, apparent untouchable due to his infatuation with Nancy Wheeler. What happens when you see a worn out, former heartthrob with his fizzled high school flame stuck to him? Unhappy, feeling unloved and in a bind, you thought Steve could be the conquest of the night… or so you thought.

Pairings: King!Steve (Kinda) x Toxic!Fem!Reader

Content warnings: smut, angst, fluff. Non canon au. Steve and Nancy are together from Steve’s senior year to the time of the story. Cheating (emotional and sexual), p in v sex, oral (m and f receiving), Reader defs isn’t a girls girl but I couldn’t help it, alcohol consumption, one night stands, stealing, public sex. This is definitely 18+ MDNI!!!!!

WC:

A/N: Hi babies I have returned with something a little bit different from my little hiatus and am super excited to try something new! This fic is inspired by the song Stephen by Ke$sha! I hope you like it!! I love you all!

The pounding in your head mirrored that in your heart as you remembered the burn of alcohol down your throat from last night. Your makeup had been smudged off onto your pillow, some still remaining on your swollen, hungover face. The day after drinking anxiety had reared its head, but a wave of nerves hit you like a ton of bricks when a vision of you writing your phone number on Steve Harrington’s arm - more or less in front of his girlfriend - faded into view. 

You cupped your hands over your face and your shoulders shook. You couldn’t help but giggle at the picture of her porcelain face twisted into a bout of jealous rage. You could fully admit to yourself that you lived on the side of delusion, but there was a piece of you that wholeheartedly believed that your former king of Hawkins High would call you. 

And yet, you sat and stared at the phone perched silently on your nightstand while you nursed your hangover all day. The bright afternoon light evolved into an evening glow and still you hadn’t heard the shrill ring. You put on records and VCRs. You flicked through magazines and tried to pick up the new Danielle Steele book you had pocketed from the bookstore on main street. But the soundtrack of your thoughts was the hope that the telephone would ring and that you would hear a smooth baritone voice calling you. You fought to keep your eyes open while the blue light of your TV laughed back at you. You finally surrendered to the sleep your body had been pleading for, the blur of the night previous finally making itself clear in your dreams…

-

The music at the dive bar had been blaring. You were on your upteenth drink courtesy of Eddie Munson. The first time you had come to the Hideout it was your senior year, freshly 18 and ready for an adventure. You had snuck in with a fake ID and eyed up the curly haired 21 year old behind the bar. His eyes had been glued on you since you had walked in. Well, you worked your charm and lo and behold, Eddie had you bent over the chipped porcelain sink in the staff bathroom. After the orgasm you gave him, he knew he would owe you for a while - and free drinks you received ever since. You flashed him a wink as you downed the third tequila shot of the night. Your plump glossed lips twisted into a smile after looking at the winces of Heather and Chrissy. The three of you had moved a half an hour outside of Hawkins to the bigg(er) city of Indianapolis, but you felt the need to parade your luxurious city life to the hasbeen jocks of Hawkins High that frequent the only legit bar in town. You couldn't count on both hands the number of guys you had toyed with that now loitered around the musty pool tables and bar tops. By the time you graduated and got a job, you thought of yourself as a big fish in a small pond. You were ready to break big city hearts and leave the lame Hawkins lifers behind. That couldn’t be you. But there was always one that got away - one that you hated to admit was one guy that scared you, solely because you would let him domesticate you if he asked. 

The girls beside you let out a small woo as another shot was sent your way, this time courtesy of Jason Carver who had fastened himself a seat on the other side of the bar with yet another Hawkins Hasbeen, Andy Robinson. You raised the small glass to your lips with a devilish smile across the bar. Jason still had his abs like he did when you graduated. Owning the small weightlifting gym on the outskirts of town had its perks, you guess. You looked at Chrissy and rolled your eyes with a snicker as the burning liquid slid down your throat. At least if you didn’t get lucky with someone else tonight, he would be there and more than willing to give you a half assed orgasm in the back seat of his beat up jeep cherokee - better than ending the night alone in your books (and probably his). You scrunched your eyes closed and a flash of stars lit up the darkness behind your eyes. You opened them to blurry vision, the feelings in your fingers were being replaced with warm fuzz. You knew that if you were to get off your barstool your knees would raise hell. You let out a euphoric giggle. This is just what you needed.

You heard a small “well, well, well,” slur out of Heather’s bowed lips as two new figures emerged through the metallic doors of the bar. “Surprised to see Harrington out here. Isn’t his past his bedtime? You know I remember…” Heather’s voice faded away as you honed in your focus to the pair at the door.

Nancy Wheeler - her obnoxious perm and housewife dresses… You couldn’t help but hate her. She was everything you weren’t: safe, boring, square. Her manicured hand rested in a much larger hand, and that hand was attached to toned arms in a light cotton crewneck. You couldn’t help but feel the saliva pool in your mouth. Nancy looked up to her beautiful brunette with her stupid doe eyes and he flashed her a small cautious smile. They stuck out like sore thumbs. She didn’t belong here, but Steve Harrington was too good looking to be in this shitty bar. It’s like your friends could read your mind. Chrissy pinched you in the side and Heather let out a childish giggle.

“Don’t even think about it, Y/L/N. Nancy’s had him on lock since, like, junior year.” You were well aware. 

“Don’t even worry about it. I’ll be smart…” You challenged. Your friends were very aware of your determination. If you wanted something, you got it. And Steve Harrington was on the menu. You watched the handsome couple stalk to one of the tall bar tables across the room from your seats. Steve’s eyes locked with yours and you licked your lips. No matter how hard he tried, like a magnet, your gaze kept him locked on you. The man felt a tug on his arm as Nancy shuffled him to the table. As their conversation lulled on, you couldn’t help but attract Steve’s eyes again. You waved your arm to Eddie for another shot.

“I think it’s time to have some water, doll” the mophead behind cooed. For the first time tonight you ruffled through your purse to find a folded 20 dollar bill. You placed it in the hem of your bustier and flashed your sultry eyes at Eddie.

“You want a tip or not, Munson? I think I have already shown you how much I appreciate your customer service.” The man’s cheeks grew flushed as he grabbed the bill out of your chest with nimble fingers - hoping that his hands didn’t slip. Another tiny glass full of liquid in front of you. Before you put it to your mouth, you raised your eyes to Steve, his mouth slightly agape, having seen the performance you had just put on at the bar. You raised the shot glass to him in salute, he blushed and turned his eyes back to his girlfriend. God, his fucking girlfriend. 

He watched your neck tilt back as the burning liquid slid down your throat. He had to stifle a small chuckle at your scrunched face at the reaction to your shot. Steve always thought you were effortlessly beautiful. But you were dangerous. A junior when he was a senior, he knew about the boys you had left in your wake. He made sure to stay away, betrothed to the girl sitting across from him at the bar. He sighed a choked breath of relief when Nancy coldly told him she was going to the bathroom then to get them some drinks. He let his shoulders shrug and rearranged his pants, which were a bit tighter than when he walked in. He wasn’t left in his silence for long. His shoulders shifted back up to his ears and his cheeks grew hot when he saw you saunter from the bar in his direction. His heart was in his throat and beating harder than ever. What the fuck was happening to him?

Your moment to strike happened when you saw Nancy’s pleated dress slither out of her barstool and towards the bathroom. You mirrored her and pushed your wobbling legs one in front of the other. You carried two glasses of brown liquor with you. Your face was calm and cool, but your hands were shaking as you crossed the dingy hardwood over to a beautiful head of hair. 

“So, what is King Steve doing in a place like this?” You didn’t dare take Nancy Wheeler’s spot. You wouldn’t want to be compared to the likes. You leaned your torso over the table, edging closer to the man than you would be on a stool. You preferred it that way, and you had a sense that Steve does as well.

“I could ask the same thing to you, Y/N.” He mumbled, but you can tell his confidence was growing.  “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“Who told you I’m a nice girl?” You purred. “You looked thirsty over here, and I thought, since you’re in my domain, I could show you some hospitality.” You slid the drink over to him with a black painted fingernail and picked yours up and stirred it suggestively. 

“Bottoms up then.” Steve grabbed the glass and clinked it to yours. Your heart stopped as you watched the beautiful man’s neck strain upwards to take his drink in one gulp. It took all of the drunken strength you could muster to not sink your teeth into his strong neck. His Adams apple bobbed in strain and the liquor made his cheeks bloom a darker red than they already were. You sipped half of your drink, desperate to relieve some of the tension running through your body, but you felt like you would completely crumble if you downed it all in one go.

“So.. you and Nancy… That’s pretty… serious?” You couldn’t help the venom that seethed out of your lips. Steve cleared his throat and stared into the bottom of his empty glass. He shrugged his shoulders. You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Trouble in paradise, King Steve?” you jest. 

“Nah, It’s just… it's been a few years I guess.” Steve’s voice was cold. You sighed audibly. The alcohol and the pure lust was getting to you, and you could barely contain yourself.

“Too bad… the word on the street is I could treat you much better.” You could barely bring yourself to look into his eyes, but when you did, you were met with an intense stare. You couldn’t read all of the emotions behind his eyes, but it made your core quiver. 

“Word on the street is you know how to treat a lot of people.” Steve scoffed. His defenses were up. Why in the world were you coming to him now? He had always stolen looks at you. He knew how magnetic you were. He wished he knew you in high school. Maybe then he wouldn’t be stuck working at his dad’s law firm. With a girlfriend who he felt stuck with; no sense of adventure, no true love in sight. But then you sauntered up to him and made his heart believe in life again.

“Well you aren’t wrong. But I only have eyes for one right now.” You winked. 

“Wish we could have had this conversation three years ago…” Steve whispered, hoping that you didn’t hear him. You were delectable, and laid out in front of him; and he knows that if he were to have a few more drinks, he would have forgotten all about the girl that he had come here with - his… girlfriend. Fuck, his girlfriend. You flashed him a pout and a disappointed smile. You had him eating right out of your hand. 

“Well… Let me give you this.” You pulled out a sharpie from your purse and pulled his wrist towards you, pulling up his sweater sleeve. You began to scribble your phone number onto his olive skin. You had to breathe slowly to keep yourself from shaking. “Call me tomorrow if you want to pretend it was three years ago.” A look of need flashed on your face. You had been absorbed by Steve Harrington. It had felt like all of the bar had disappeared and it was just the two of you. Steve could feel that too, he had you right where he wanted you, totally absorbed and infatuated. You couldn’t help but think of Nancy and it made you shiver. You couldn’t have her invade this. Fuck his stupid girlfriend. You were determined to make Steve Harrington yours. 

The two of you stayed transfixed on each other for a moment more. Steve fixed his gaze between your face and the new ink that you had given him. He wanted to nurture it like it was a real tattoo. You couldn’t help but take mental pictures of Steve’s face, so you could imagine whatever meathead you ended up taking home that night was him. You wondered what he would look like underneath you, gasping and panting for breath. What his skin would taste like: sweaty and sweet and musky. You wished that you could take his fingers and put them in your mouth right now. You were thirsty, parched for his lips on yours. You wanted to show him what you looked like underneath him, you wanted him to hear you moan his name. You wanted to fuck his brains out, the way you knew Nancy “White Bread” Wheeler doesn’t. You were connected, and it scared you because for the first time in forever, you wanted to fuck, but you also wanted him to hold you, to tell you that you’re beautiful. You wanted him to hold your hand and buy you flowers and take you out. You wanted to cook for him and play with his hair and rub his back. 

You were torn from your world when you heard a small ‘ahem’ from behind you. Steve quickly adjusted his posture and pulled his sweater sleeve over his new love mark. You stood up straight and turned to see the frizzy haired brunette tapping her pleather pumps at you… tacky, you thought. 

“Can I help you with something?” She peeped. “Or is there another reason why you’re over here talking to my boyfriend?” Nancy’s angry eyes flicked between the two of you and her brow was furrowed. Your gaze had hardened and you couldn’t help but chuckle; she looked like a toddler and an old woman at the same time. Steve’s cheeks remained a rosy pink. He had found whatever was on the floor oddly interesting. You took a step towards the girl.

“Nothing at all, darling. Just thought I would say hello to an old friend and grab him a drink.” You breezed past her, knocking her lightly on the shoulder. 

“See you around, Harrington.” You sang behind you. You couldn’t see her anymore, but you assumed that if looks could kill, you would be on the floor. You strutted back to Chrissy and Heather and slumped back to your stool. You exchanged mischievous glances with the girls, and then turned proudly to Eddie, who was flashing you a disappointed look. A victory for you, a loss for Nancy Wheeler - or at least you hoped.

Steve continued to stare at the ground while Nancy eyed him suspiciously. 

“What the hell did she want, Steve?” she pried. Steve huffed before looking up at her. Her eyes didn’t glimmer at him like yours did. 

“She just came over to say hi…. I hadn’t seen her since Senior year.” 

“Did you even talk to her senior year? You know the reputation she has…I don’t like her, and I don’t like her talking to you, Steve,” within the past year, he had thought of Nancy more like his mother than his girlfriend. He had been growing more and more confused lately. The love seemed to be lacking and he had caught himself wondering what his life would be like if he left it all behind, left her behind and started over. You made the idea of abandonment way more appealing. He felt himself growing unreasonably angry with the blue eyed girl sitting across the bar from her. He needed to defend you. You were the only thing on his mind.

“Who the hell cares, Nancy? What do you think that she was going to do? Fucking make out with me in front of everyone? She asked how we were doing. She asked about you and me. Chill out and have fun or let’s just get out of here.” He scowled. Nancy was taken aback and slid a chilled PBR across the table to Steve with a scoff. She drank her vodka cran in silence. Steve couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to your figure laughing and smiling with your friends. He wanted to laugh with you. He downed his drink, took Nancy's hand silently and pulled her towards the door. She had a permanent frown on her face as Steve pushed her through the door. Before his body disappeared from the door, he took one more glimpse at you. Your eyes locked one last time and you sent him a wave as he disappeared into the Hawkins night. If he couldn’t have you, he’d fuck Nancy until he forgot about you. 

It was 3 am and your body literally couldn’t peel itself off of the plastic bar stool. Chrissy and Heather had gone home with Jason and Andy - your appetite spoiled when you watched the only person you wanted to be with leave the bar without you. You heard the stomps of old reeboks and the jingle of keys come up behind you. The lights had suddenly gone out.

“Come on, doll. Let’s get you home okay?” Eddie pulled you off the stool and wrapped your arm around his shoulder. 

“Can you stay over, Teddie?”

“Not this time, honey. You need sleep and you need water. You aren’t thinking straight.”

You pouted quietly, but you decided to finally take no for an answer. The thought of sinking into your bed and hoping - praying - that Steve would call you.

Steve had pulled Nancy into his bedroom of his parents’ empty house. He feverishly pulled at Nancy’s belt as she fumbled with the zipper at the side of her dress. Steve’s mouth didn’t leave her skin, and his eyes remained shut, save to navigate himself around his house. A flurry of clothes, soft sighs and sweaty skin. Steve had only had two drinks, but he felt drunk thinking of your encounter at the bar. He pressed his eyes closed as he mouthed at Nancy’s chest, wishing it was yours. He slid down her torso pondering what sounds you would make if he was kissing towards your sweet center. He pulled Nancy’s panties to the side and swiped his tongue along her heat, thinking about how delicious you would taste. He then flipped Nancy over on all fours and slid into her with a grunt. He couldn’t stand to look at her, wishing her body was yours, wishing her sounds were yours, wanting to hold you in his arms after. Steve finished quickly, his perversions towards you spurring him on. 

The couple collapsed into Steve’s king bed. Nancy traced small circles on his chest while they caught their breath. Steve felt satiated, his hunger for you ebbed, for now. 

“Steve! What’s on your arm?” Nancy yelped. Steve’s heart dropped into his chest. He frantically turned himself away from his girlfriend. Nancy’s small hands grabbed Steve’s shoulder to turn him back to her. Her nails drug down to the tattoo you had given her boyfriend and her face began to heat up.

“What the fuck is this, Steve?”

-

Taglist: @eddies-acousticguitar @mmunson86 @sadbitchfangirl @hideoutside @anxiousobserver @ali-r3n @brinleighsstuff @@filth-fiction-archive @vintagehellfire @kirstinjayjay @poofyloofy @sluggzillaa @aol19 @dark-angel-is-back @keikoraven @emxxblog @adrenalineeerevolver @crybabyddl @lovemegood @cherry-pop3547 @cozmiccass @leelei1980 @trixyvixx @skylar-ish-meh @harrysgothicbitch @emsgoodthinkin @micheledawn1975 @wendyfaw @thehuntresswolf @darknesseddiem If you would like to be included in my taglist, please fill out this form and consider following!

[singmyaubade]

If This Was A Movie

 ~ love can conquer all if given the chance

King!Steve/Steve Harrington x Female!Reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: King Steve made a lot of enemies but there was only one that Steve Harrington truly wanted to fix things with.

~ part one: when i had you

~ part two: i miss you, i'm sorry

~ part three: forget-me-nots

~ part four: come back to me

~ part five: it's not that easy

~ part six: work it out somehow

~part seven: you're finally here

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: eventual smut, cursing, angst, lovers to enemies to lovers.

"I just want it back the way it was before,"

[andydrysdalerogers]

Jennie ~ Five Kings of Boston ~ Book Three

Pairings: Ari Levinson x OFC! Jennie Parker-Rogers

Welcome to Camden.

A sleepy town, a happy town. Except for when its King is not happy.

And Ari Levinson is not happy. The town knows that he is being forced to take a queen. But what will the cost be to have a grumpy king, a reluctant queen and a danger from within?

Welcome to Camden, where nothing is as it seems.

Warnings: mob like story; arranged marriage, murder, smut, kidnapping, abuse (but not by either MC)

Ari I am well and truly fucked.

I am forcing myself not to stare at the goddess seated next to me. Jennie Rogers was supposed to be bratty, conceited, self absorbed. She is none of those things.

She is demure, poised, beautiful, regal. She is a true princess and I want her.

But, I can't. I shouldn't.

She is already in enough danger, becoming my queen. But to have the world know that this girl could potentially have me on my knees is something I cannot risk.

Even if she looks like a dream.

Jennie

I looked around the walnut walls before I heard a sharp intake of air. My eyes moved to Ari. God, he looked so good. Black suit but an open collar, letting a peek of his chest hair through. His longer locks were brushed back but then he tousled them with his fingers. 

This is my future husband.

And he's gorgeous.

A/N: Welcome back to the the Five Kings of Boston world and meeting our next King and Queen. These will have just a few but long parts. I hope you like it. The tag list is open!

Chapters:

Winter // Spring // Summer // Fall //

Taglist:

@patzammit

@texmexdarling

@slutforchrisjamalevans

@firephotogrl74

@tinkerbelle67

@before-we-get-started

@bunnyforhim

@alexakeyloveloki

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[lovebugism]

do something with king steve who secretly likes female/shy/reader

hope u like it xoxo — the one where king steve keeps his best girl a secret (shy!fem!r, secret relationship, fluff, 1.2k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

“Boo!”

You jump when a figure appears suddenly behind the door of your opened locker. They’re wearing bell bottoms and a sparkly clip in their strawberry curls. Carol Perkins giggles when her attempts to scare you work. Tommy Hagan follows just behind her, laughing louder until his freckled face scrunches together.

The only reassuring thing about seeing both of them together is knowing Steve isn’t too far behind. He’s got his tongue in his cheek, and his arms crossed over his chest, visibly unamused.  “What are you guys— three?” he scoffs, pushing the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows.

“Yeah, three inches deep in your mom,” Tommy retorts with a boyish chuckle.

Carol squints her made-up eyes at him. She deadpans, “That’s not the comeback you think it is, Hagan.”

You turn to Steve with a panicked glimmer in your eye. You’re so used to being the butt of all their jokes that being in their proximity now fills you with something close to ice-cold dread. You peer at the boy beside you with pinched-together brows, knowing he’s the only one who cares about you past cheating off your homework.

“What’s going on?” you wonder quietly, for only him to hear.

Steve grins, brows raised and eyes twinkling. “My house is gonna be empty tonight. ‘Cause, you know, my dad’s got a work conference or whatever, so… No parents. Big house—”

“A total recipe for disaster,” Tommy interjects with a laugh.

“You’re throwing a party?” you ask, voice trembling. There’s little more that scares you than crowds — well, crowds and loud music and drunk people. Parties were never your scene. Steve knows that better than anyone.

He corrects you quickly, stammering over himself because he never wants you to feel uncomfortable. “No! No, not a party. It’s gonna be lowkey. Just a— a get-together, you know? Just the four of us.”

“Ooh,” Carol croons from behind you. “So no priss?”

“Shut up, Carol,” Steve snaps.

“I’m just used to you following her around like a lost puppy, that’s all.” Carol and Tommy laugh about it together. ‘Cause that’s all they’re really good at — making stupid jokes and cackling like supervillains.

Steve rolls his eyes with an annoyed huff and turns his attention back to you. You take it from him wholly, every ounce of his focus. 

There was something ethereal in your vagueness — in how softly you spoke and how pretty you looked when you weren’t even trying. You’re quiet and mysterious and hidden. Steve desperately wants to be the one that deciphers you.

“Are you in?” he asks in a low, honeyed tone.

Your gaze falls to the tile. “I don’t know…” you murmur.

“C’mon,” he croons and steps closer to you. His sneakers enter your vision until you look up at him again, peering at him from beneath your lashes. His grin is pink and pretty and lopsided. “Don’t leave me with these assholes all night.”

“Dick,” you hear Tommy scoff from behind you. He sounds much further away than that ‘cause all you can see now is Steve. And his pretty hair and his pretty eyes and his stupid pretty smile.

You cave instantly. 

You never really stood a chance, anyway. Not with the way he was looking at you.

“I’ll think about it,” you mumble and turn back to your locker. You switch your English textbook for a History one and cradle it in your arms. Steve grins, knowing he’s forgotten his on purpose just so he could sit next to you all period.

“Good,” the boy hums.

“We’re finally wearing Wallflower down,” Carol muses, giggling to herself.

Tommy knocks you too hard on the shoulder. “You’ll be one of us in no time,” he grins.

You grimace as they walk off down the hall. That’s the last thing you’ve ever wanted. The thought of there being an ounce of similarities between you and them makes your stomach ache.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Steve tells you, smiling quietly when you nod. 

He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and passes you a folded-up piece of paper. He doesn’t look back at you when he follows his friends down the corridor. You don’t open it until he’s gone.

West wing chem lab, he’s written in chicken scratch. Come find me. 

—————

The hallway at the west end of the school is dim and empty. The floors are untouched, and the lockers are sparingly opened. The air is thick and noticeably stale. You open the door to the old chemistry room with a high-pitched squeak that sounds like something out of a horror movie.

Steve waits for you in the dark classroom, lit only by the natural sunlight streaming in through translucent curtains. He sits at a table in front of the window and toys with the burner at the end of it. He turns the thin blue flame on and off and on again, silently wishing he’d plucked a cigarette from Tommy before he left.

His honey eyes flit to yours when you walk into the room. He grins at the soft smirk on your bitten lips. “What’s that look for, huh?” he teases, turning off the burner and sliding off the desk.

You shrug. “Nothin’…”

“I missed you.”

You scoff when he wraps his arms around you. His wide palms smooth over your back. “You just saw me.”

“It doesn’t count when I’m with Tommy and Carol. I need you all to myself…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs lowly, ducking down to kiss you. His plush lips lock with yours, tasting of nicotine and chewing gum — a near-lethal concoction. He smiles against your mouth when you melt further into him. He parts from you with a gentle smack.

“They’re starting to like me, I think,” you mumble, smoothing your hands over his chest. “Tommy and Carol.”

“I think so, too.”

“It’s awful.”

“Absolutely disgusting,” he concurs, grinning wide when you giggle.

“But, you know, maybe we wouldn’t have to hide anymore,” you stammer, gaze falling when it becomes too hard to hold his. “If they don’t think I’m, like, the lamest person on the planet.”

Steve’s brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“Well, that’s why you don’t want them to know about us, right? ‘Cause you’re King Steve, and I’m… fish bait,” you conclude with a forced laugh.

“No,” he answers instantly. “What? No. That’s not— That’s not why.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t want them to know about us because they’re assholes,” Steve confesses. “I mean, they were awful to Nancy when we were together. ‘Cause they’re miserable, and they hate when other people are actually nice. I just don’t want them to… ruin anything, that’s all…”

You muss with a rogue thread at the neckline of his sweater and smile quietly to yourself. “I thought you were scared because you accidentally fell in love with the Wallflower instead of the Prom Queen.”

Steve scoffs. “I didn’t accidentally fall in love with you, first of all.”

“No?” you murmur, brow quirking in disbelief. 

“No, it was very intentional.”

“I don’t believe that,” you argue with a lighthearted chuckle. You think it’s easier than saying, I don’t believe you because there’s no way you love someone like me because you want to.

Steve’s palms squeeze your sides reassuringly, like he can hear all the mean thoughts swirling in your head. “Well, you didn’t make it any easier on me,” he tells you, a crooked smile tugging at his pink lips. “You started talkin’ all smart in Ms. Click’s class, and I started melting.”

“That’s when you knew you liked me?” you scoff. “After I gave a presentation about geopolitical tensions in China?”

He exhales sharply through his nose, licking his lips with heavy eyelids. “See what I mean? That’s hot.”

“God, you’re such a boy.”

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the pained peace treaty

fused with the foe, chapter one

a/n: oh wow, i have no idea how to introduce this beast of a story except to say hi, hello, welcome! i really hope you enjoy this story, as well as the rest of the trilogy, idk if i've ever gone as in depth and all out with any story as i have with these.

summary: “now, everything is already set into motion, so we don’t have time for any of your theatrics,” not looking you in the eye, he frostily told you, “you are to be married. A carriage has just arrived a few minutes ago to pick you up and transport you to Eflorr.”

warnings: king!steve rogers x reader, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, slow burn, innocent!reader, abusive father (like super bad. he is a garbage person), wedding, blood, injury

word count: 4813

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“Your majesty, I must warn you, if, gods forbid, our people come to discover the great lengths you’ve been willing to go in this disagreement over the past two decades, they might start an uprising. And if you keep going, then it’ll turn into a full-blown war and you know our kingdom wouldn’t be able to survive that, not with them. Our city’s walls may be high, high enough to keep out any beasts that may wander this far south, but it wouldn’t keep them out. You know better than most how people from Eflorr are. If you don’t wanna lose your crown, one way or another, then I’d strongly advise that we come up with some peace treaty.”

“I know, I know…” King Ivan leaned back in his gilded throne with a huff, the quality of his voice was as thin as his towering frame, “a trade I think should suffice.”

A different advisor then timidly pipped up, “but our mines ran cold ages ago, what could we possibly offer that would be satisfactory?”

Not lifting his cold gaze, the king stared at a fixed spot on the marble floor as he said, “I know one thing the king lacks that we may be able to provide for him… a wife.”

“A wife–,” both of the men’s eyes grew wide, “but do you mean–, your majesty, she is your only daughter, are you certain this is the fate you want her to have? Those people are barbaric! If one of the dangers that rule the north doesn’t get to her first, one of their citizens surely will. Sire, what if history repeats itself?”

“Then let it do so. In fact, perhaps this could have been her purpose all along and I just didn’t realise it. Couldn’t see past my own rage to grasp how useful she actually could be…”

Sharing a nervous glance, one of the advisors asked, “should we send for her? See if she agrees with the plans?”

“No, I’ll tell her when the time is right. Wouldn’t want her to do anything stupid and ruin the one good thing she could ever provide,” finally lifting his stony gaze, the king commanded, “make the arrangements, I’ll see to it that she doesn’t ruin it.” 

Deep within the opulent halls of the gilded palace, standing grand and safe behind Ingorn’s tall city walls, twisting up towards the clouds, up in a window in the western tower, there you sat. 

Book in your lap, you leaned back against the small pillow you’d propped behind you to make the wide windowsill more comfortable. Small paper butterflies hung from strings above and some dangled so low that the childhood craft that still decorated your window trickled the crown of your head. Flipping the page, your fingertips brushed down over the illustration that appeared in the agricultural tome you’d found in one of your brothers’ rooms. 

As long as you put it back before Angus returned then you’d probably be good. And if he were to somehow notice, then as long as he didn’t rat you out to your father then it would be alright. Both Angus and a few of the others that were closer to your age, Oliver and Francis respectively, were always a bit of a gamble whether or not they would do such a thing. They didn’t always have the same spirit as the eldest pair of your older brothers, Xavier and Callum. 

You missed them so much your heart ached. The older they got, the longer their diplomatic missions seemed to stretch out, making the quiet palace that much more lonely in your solitude. 

A knock then suddenly boomed at your door, causing you to jump edgily in your seat before you slammed the book shut and nervously stuffed it behind the firm pillow. 

“Come in!” you called out, swiftly straightening out your dress that had crumbled around your legs at the comfortable seat. As the door to your room slammed open, the figure that stood in it caught you by surprise, “Father–, oh, hello,” you straightened your posture that much further at his arrival. 

Skipping over any niceties, King Ivan simply stated, “you need to pack up your stuff.”

Your brows knitted into a fierce furrow, “what?”

“Not everything, of course,” he cast a cold glance around the room though didn’t take a step to enter it, “just the things you are particularly attached to.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” your head lightly shook from side to side, “where am I going?”

When his eyes finally gave you the time of day, it swiftly dropped to the floor as a heavy sigh flowed from his lips, “why do you have to be the spitting image of her…” the muttering was unfortunately just loud enough for your ears to catch. His disappointment was always just loud enough for your ears to catch. When he entered the room and you moved to get up, he swiftly said, “stay seated, Y/n,” before he planted himself next to you on the wide windowsill, “now, everything is already set into motion, so we don’t have time for any of your theatrics,” not looking you in the eye, he frostily told you, “you are to be married. A carriage has just arrived a few minutes ago to pick you up and transport you to Eflorr.”

“To Eflorr?” your gaze grew wide, “you wish for me to marry someone there?”

“Not just someone, you are to marry their king.”

“I–… I–…” your chest rose and fell rapidly beneath your rosy dress, “but father, you can’t–, I can’t go live with the people who killed mom.”

“We don’t know if they actually murdered her. But I do know that you did,” his glare locked upon you as he let himself seethe, “if you hadn’t been born then she’d still be alive,” the fact that the only thing he blamed more for his late wife’s untimely demise then the kingdom she’d perished in was you, remained a point that the sovereign had never been shy about sharing with you for as long as you could recall, “your duty is to protect and serve this land, this crown,” your eyes naturally fluttered up to gaze at the twisted gold balanced upon his head, “if you don’t go through with this, then those savages will come pillage and ruin your home. You are, regrettably, the very last hope this kingdom has of survival. You have no choice, Y/n. This marriage is the only thing that can stop a war we would never survive,” exhaling slowly, he then dominantly nodded in a concluding fashion, “pack your stuff, you have an hour.”

You felt tears sting your eyes as your bottom lip quivered, “an hour? But–, can’t we wait at least a few days before I leave? Can’t I get a chance to say goodbye to at least one of my brothers? None of them are home yet.”

Regret instantly washed over you as your father’s nostrils flared angrily. Seizing your arm in a bruising grip, he yanked you close as he hissed, “you listen, and you listen carefully, you little brat. You have been the bane of my existence ever since you took your first breath. You took away the love of my life. You don’t deserve a goodbye, you don’t deserve anything. Do you think I got a goodbye when your mother suddenly went into labour on that diplomatic mission? No. All I got was you. Not another son, but a living, breathing reminder of what I lost that day,” your eyes squeezed shut as your cheek tingled at the memory of his strikes, “now, be a good girl and go wet his prick, give him a few babies, do anything he’d fucking please, so that him and his barbaric army doesn’t come here and slaughter everything you know and love.”

“Your highness, are you cold?” the high-ranking warden sitting across from you in the carriage noticed the shiver that your body couldn’t seem to shake. 

Tearing your eyes off of the scenery along The Emerald Path that the narrow window granted you a view of, you glanced back at the warrior. The brown hair he had practically tied off at the base of his neck blossomed into a dark beard. A bare palm clasped over an inked one in his lap as you met his gaze and said, “no, I’m–…” in truth, you were scared, so scared that you were trembling like a leaf, but you couldn’t tell the foreign king’s advisor that, too much weighted on your shoulders, you couldn’t screw this up, “no,” glancing back out of the window, you only stared a moment at the sparse cottages that slowly came into view on the rolling hills before you turned your head again and let the nauseating nerves control your words, “pardon me, Barnes, is it?”

“Yes, your highness?”

“Sir, how much further till we get there?” your quiet voice echoed within the carriage, “it’s just–, it’s been days.”

“Oh, not long at all,” he shook his head lightly, “actually,” the knight leaned forward in his seat and cast his glance outside, “if you look out the window now, right there,” a small smile tugged at his lips as his finger shot up to point, “that river, that means we’re getting close to Borün city.”

As the river then suddenly curved before the dirt road, the clomping hooves of the horses that hauled the coach resonated as they trotted over a stone bridge. 

Twisting your head, you glanced out to your right and spotted farmlands curve over the rolling hills that swiftly blossomed into thickets and towering flora you’d only assume was the southern perimeter of The Noll Woods. Books about this kingdom had been banned in your homeland for as long as you could remember, but even though you were essentially going in blind, you still weren’t completely ignorant when it came to the dangers that called that sprawling forest its home, not that you were an expert in the slightest, but your brothers had from time to time told you tales of the monsters who dominated in this part. From giant and twisted insect-like creatures, to mischievous pixies, to even the rare dragon, those stories had always been your favourite. Apart from the rare occasion where Callum would share stories with you about your mother. Being the eldest, he was the only one who truly remembered her. 

Instinctively, your fingers fluttered up to fiddle with the opalescent stone that hung from a chain around your neck. In the middle of the milky jewel was a small rune engraved into it. You had no idea what it meant, but your fingers had still traced the carving countless of times before as it had hung from your neck for as long as you could recall. It hadn’t been till you were a ways into your teens that you’d come to discover that it had belonged to your mother. 

Casting your glance out the other side as you passed a tall watchtower, behind the wide city stables unfolded a port town so quaint that it surprised you. Over the small valley of gabled roofs towered a central tree, and beyond all of that, the sparkle of the sea caught your eye, a sight you’d never beheld before, haven not only stemmed from a landlocked metropolis, but also not haven been permitted to leave your room as much as your heart had desired. 

“This is Eflorr?” you asked as the carriage began to roll up the winding path to the stone castle that loomed on the cliff, granting you a new view of how the river that you’d crossed slid through the city and spilt into the ocean.

“This is Eflorr, your highness,” the corners of his lips twitched at the sight of how wide your curious eyes were. 

“It’s–… it’s–…” your stare danced over the lush ivy that climbed the solid towers, “not what I expected…”

“What did you expect?”

Tearing your gaze away from the window, you blinked, “oh, I didn’t mean–,” suddenly worried that your shock had come out sounding rude, “I just–… I don’t know a lot about this land,” in the few tales you’d heard about this place, there had been a running gag that the people of Eflorr had lived so close to the dangerous beasts that called this part of the continent their home that they too had turned into monsters, “it’s just different than I imagined.” 

Ascending the jagged hill and passing through the front gate, it opened up into a wide courtyard before you felt the carriage finally roll to a stop. 

The wagon creaked gently as Barnes stepped out first, though when his boots were firmly on the cobblestone, his frame twisted as he reached an outstretched hand back for you to grasp in support of your own exit. Ever so apprehensively, you slid your own palm into his as your other twisted in your long skirts before you slipped out of the carriage. 

Letting go of his gasp, the soldier's low timbre washed over you as your head tilted back to take in the vast stronghold, “his majesty, unfortunately, couldn’t be here for your arrival as there was a bit of a dryad problem further up north he had to take care of,” you gaze tore away from the fort and fell upon him, “but I assure you he should be back in time for the wedding.”

“Oh, alright,” you breathed, unsure if that fact made you feel better or worse about the entire predicament.

“If you’d like, I can give you a brief tour of the castle,” he offered as he led you towards the main entrance into the castle proper, “or if you’re exhausted after the journey, then I can just show you directly up to your chambers.”

Offering him a polite smile, you nodded, “a tour would be lovely, thank you.”

He only briefly went over the buildings surrounding the courtyard you’d entered into, as they were mainly designed as barracks and various other facilities for the local wardens, though the horses that stuck their heads out of the royal stalls in the corner did catch your eye before you moved on inside. 

Barnes’ voice echoed in most of the chambers he showed you in the castle’s western wing. The vast stained-glass windows that were in the ballroom for instance took your breath away as you saw how the light streamed through them and warmed up the room with glittering little rays of colour. 

Behind the great halls, squeezed in between and connecting the two major parts of the fort, there you crossed through a much more quiet and lush courtyard. The pebble paths that curved around the central fountain too curled around various topiary bushes that were trimmed to perfection like living sculptures. 

Though as your guide showed you the eastern wing that crested over the foaming sea below, your curiosity got the better of you. 

“Hey, Barnes?”

Slowing his leisurely stride, he tilted his head slightly, “yes, your highness?”

“What are dryads?” your brows knit lightly together, “you mentioned there was a problem with them, but what are they?”

“You don’t know?” he glanced over at you, clearly trying to mask his surprise as you shook your head, “oh, well, they are forest spirits, nymphs,” he explained as you roamed deeper down a broad hallway on the second floor, passing many private chambers both to your right and your left, “it’s not uncommon for them to wander and bother the folks who live further up the coast. Have you never encountered one? They are not as uncommon in Obelón as most of the other creatures that thrive this far north.”

“No, I’ve never seen one…” you shook your head as a low sigh flowed from your lips, “never really seen anything…”

“Not much of an outdoorsy person?” he guessed in a light-hearted tone. 

Forcing a smile, you replied, “you could say that…” as you hadn’t been allowed to be one even if you wanted to. Passing a set of double doors that stood wide open, the sight inside made you halt your steps, “is this the library?”

Shadowing you as your feet crossed the threshold, he nodded, “yes, it is,” then pointed back over his shoulder, “and your quarters are right down that hall.”

Numerous grand bookcases stood lined up all the way down to where a tall window allowed the sunlight in and let it stream through the rows. 

“Can I–… would it be alright if I read some of them?” 

“Of course, your highness.” 

“Would you mind showing me which ones I’m allowed to read?” you briefly peeked back at him as a bubble of anxiety fluttered in your belly, “I don’t wanna accidentally read something that I’m not allowed to.”

Barnes then blinked back at you a moment before he uttered, “your highness, you can read each and every one of them if you’d like. Why wouldn’t you be allowed to read whatever you wish? They are yours after all, or will be after the wedding,” the corners of your lips twitched upwards as he then asked, “would you like to peruse the titles now or do you want to see your chambers?”

“Oh, uhm,” you tore your gaze away from the tomes and turned back, “I’ll look later.”

“Alright,” he nodded, extending his inked arm to show you the way. As he pushed the heavy wooden door open to the room at the very end of the hall, his voice rang out once more, “this is the peacock suite,” following him inside, he settled to a stop near the exit for you to explore the space on your own, “you can, of course, change anything you’d like for it to match your taste.”

“Thank you,” you breathed as you slowly made your way deeper into the chamber. It was gently divided with a more formal area towards the front where both tufted couches and a crackling fireplace stood, as well as a set of doors that opened up to a quaint balcony. Towards the left, under a swirling archway, twisted a broad canopy bed up towards the tall ceilings, warm with blankets and furs, and in the corner, by a breezy partition, stood a deep cobber bathtub.

Haven not noticed that he’d moved, you then heard as Barnes creaked the doors to a close, “if you need anything, anything at all, I’ll be right outside.”

With a loud creak, the heavy double doors opened before you and revealed the grand hall. As soft music gushed out, you nearly didn’t recognise the space from your tour the other day as it was now decorated with vibrant flowers and flowing banners that dropped down from the high ceilings above, as well as being completely packed with a swarm of people. A thin path parted the giddy crowd right down the middle towards the opposing grand door that guards opened simultaneously to yours. 

A shaky breath filled your lungs as you stared at the man crossing over the threshold. The flickering candlelight caught the honeyed shine of the locks that came down to tickle the nape of his neck. A bit darker, his short beard was full and warmed up the bottom half of his gruff features. He sure looked like a man who could slay a kraken with his bare fists, as the soft fur cloak that draped over his shoulders did not conceal his bulky physic one bit. The neckline of his indigo tunic stretched low enough for you to see the concave of his fuzzy chest and the impressive battle scars that broke up the rippling flesh. 

You’d seen the portrait of the king that hung in the hallway that stretched up towards the throne room, but to see him before your very eyes, in flesh and blood and not precise paint, was something else entirely. 

The long and embroidered train of the blue silk kirtle you wore dragged across the store floor behind you as both you and the monarch slowly stepped into the chamber to join in the very middle. 

The enchanting music stopped as you reached one another and the parted paths to either exit slowly closed as the crowd gathered and enclosed around the sacred vow that was about to ensue. 

Parting the sea of people like a divine force, an elderly woman, with a braided grey mane so long that it hit the floor, stepped up beside the both of you. 

“People of Eflorr,” the crone’s calm voice boomed, “today marks a day of unity, a day of peace, and most of all a day of love. Like a seed planted in the soil, tonight we will all witness this relationship blossom and go on the journey of growing into a magnificent tree, with roots strong enough to endure any storm, to propagate new seedlings that will watch over and shade our kingdom when yours have fallen.” 

Looking to the king, she handed him a small dagger from her belt and spoke, “blade across skin,” and he reached out for your right hand, “strike out your seedling’s love line,” your breath hitched as you felt him slice the top of your palm. Crimson blood trickled down onto his own hand as yours rested atop it, “and claim it as your own,” he flipped the blade around and handed it to you, before presenting you his own palm, open in yours. He didn’t even blink as you hesitantly pierced the calloused skin and traced the line already adoring his broad palm, “weave your lines together, so they become the same,” he then moved to clasp your hands together, his wide grip engulfed yours completely. Your teeth sank into just the faintest bit of your bottom lip at the fresh sting of your wound as it bled into his, “and may this scar serve you as a reminder, of the vow you made on this momentous day.” 

And as the last of the matron's words flowed from her lips so did the roar of celebration that erupted throughout the crowd as the festivities of the night bloomed at an instant.

The feast had been nothing short of immaculate. Countless of dishes had been spread out on the crowded banquet tables ranging from the savoury braised legumes to the sweet and shiny pies. It was an impossible task to try and taste every one of them, but an excuse you still used to stay glued to your seat and not get up and mingle with the boisterous gathering of strangers. 

As a stark contrast, you thought you only noticed the king take two bites before he rose to greet some latecomers who had arrived. Laughing and chatting with the sea of people, he hadn’t offered you a single word, barely even a brief glance the whole night. Though your gaze still followed him from your seat up at the high table as he moved through the crowd like they were all his dearest friends. 

When the moon had floated up to be high in the sky, clearly visible on the other side of the stained glass, your head had dropped down into a propped-up palm as a deep yawn forced its way out of your frame. 

“Are you tired, your majesty?” a deep timbre suddenly found your ears, a specific tone that caused your spine to straighten out at once. 

Whipping your head to your right, your weary eyes grew wide as you saw the king again at his seat, “no, I’m alright,” you hastily coughed out, “I’m so sorry for behaving like that in your presence. This party is exquisite.” 

“It’s alright, you can yawn,” you suddenly felt the need to look away now that his ocean stare was finally fixed upon you, “it’s late, I was about to retire for the night as well, so I can only imagine how you must feel. If you’d like, I could escort you back to your chambers. I’m not sure how familiar you’ve become with the castle since you’ve arrived, but even I can still get lost when the corridors are this dark and I’ve indulged in perhaps one too many goblets of wine.”

A flutter of nauseating nerves rushed within your belly, but even so, you still pushed through and forced a smile, “if that’s what the king desires, then sure, you can escort me.”

It was your wedding night. You knew what was about to happen. 

Or, actually, you didn’t quite know what the marital act entailed, but you were sure a man such as Steve had enough of an understanding to take charge. All you knew was what little you’d been told. To strip down naked, not whine or scream, and do as he tells you. 

The soaring butterflies within you only grew more ferocious as you followed his long stride throughout the castle. Out of the ballroom and through a cold stone hallway, when you crossed the bridge that linked the two wings over a part of the cliff that descended dramatically, you nearly doubled over the parapet to empty your stomach over the town of Borün that blossomed below. 

But with a shaky intake of breath, your fist closed around the silk of your skirt as you settled yourself and forced your feet to keep moving. Even as you passed the threshold into the eastern part of the castle, you still shadowed the monarch up the many steps until his broad palm held the door to your chambers open for you to enter. 

The fire had been lit while you were gone, and the room was encased in the warm glow. 

“Did, uh…” you heard the door close behind you as the king attempted a bit of small talk, “did you have a nice time tonight?” 

“I did, your majesty,” you kept your answer brief out of fear that he’d hear the tremble to your tone. 

Slowly turning his back to you, his gaze washed over the room, “are you pleased with your bed chambers?” he settled to face the balcony, the door slightly ajar to let the night breeze seep through and rustle the sheer curtains, “because if you don’t like it, if you’d rather have a view of the town then the sea, then that’s an easy problem to fix.” 

“I think the view is just fine from here, but thank you,” you answered politely as you gathered up the last bit of your courage and reached back to undo the long row of buttons that went down the spine of the light blue dress. 

When the silky garment dropped to the floor, the quiet rustle was enough to draw the king’s attention.

First offering you just a quick glance over his shoulder, he then swiftly whirled around completely, “what are you doing?”

Weaving your fingers in the thin material of your chemise, you blinked back at his stunned features, “I’m sorry, am I doing it wrong?” sure that he could already see everything through the sheer, white fabric. 

His feet didn’t move as he asked, “what are trying to do?” before he averted his gaze to the stone floor. 

“Well,” you uttered quietly, “it’s our wedding night.”

“Oh…” was all he breathed. 

“To be transparent, I’m actually not quite sure what’s to happen, but I do know it’s something,” reaching up, you took the gold and twisted circlet, that crowned your head, off and carefully sat it down on the side table to your left, “I don’t know the details, I just know that I should strip down. Do you know what we’re supposed to do?”

“Fuck,” he cursed, briefly squeezing his eyes shut, “yes I do, but, your majesty, please, keep your clothes on,” his gaze flickered back to you as you slowly began to hike up the last layer. 

“Why?” your fingers froze, “isn’t it a tradition here for us to–”

“Well, yes, but–…” he let out a strained sigh before slowly stating, “I’m gonna go.” 

A chill crawled up your skin, “…oh, I see…” you uttered quietly as he crossed the room, “did I do something wrong?”

Halting in the doorway as he ripped it open, “no, you–…” but the rest of his words crumbled as his gaze settled upon you one last time, instead letting a low sigh flow from his lungs, “sleep well,” and added nearly subconsciously just before the door slammed shut, “goodnight, dove.”

Even though a wave of relief washed over you, a sting of hurt also followed suit as the king left. 

Had you done something wrong, or did he just find you that repellent, that hideous, that he refused to perform his marital duties?

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[talesofadragon]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐍𝐞𝐞𝐝

Synopsis: The Kingdom of Brooklyn needs a queen, and the Royal Council needs a noble princess. As for newly crowned King Steven Rogers, he needs a love that rebels against conformity, granting him the solace he yearns for. So what happens when all he needs is not what his kingdom wants?

Pairing: King!Steve Rogers x Chambermaid!Reader

Warnings: None.

Genre: Angst | Fluff

Word Count: 6.1K

Author’s Notes: Requested by the sweetest @crazyunsexycool. Thank you, Val, for this wholesome idea! To all Marvel fans out there, go check out her incredible work!🩵

All Masterlists | Steve Rogers Masterlist

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋 and deceiving word in history will evermore be art. At first glance, it’s enticing, delicate, and memorable. A barrage of emotional responses to the tragedies and the grievances of life. Whether in color or in monochrome, in words or emotions, art is a melodrama that lures you in, pulls you toward its undertow. Until there comes a time when you realize that all these stories were never quite this scintillating, they just were. 

“Your Majesty.” 

Steve shakes his head as the voice registers in his mind. It takes him a fleeting moment, about five seconds, to realize that he stands within the confines of his chambers. The vibrant rays of the morning sun cascade through the windows, casting an ardent glow. Another five minutes elapse as Steve blinks away his confusion, his gaze withdrawing from the withered pages of his sketchbook, evidence of the relentless assault of his charcoals and ink.

“Maiden Katherine,” he acknowledges the chambermaid in his room. Her eyes are downcast, evading his cerulean hues. “Pardon me, what was it that you said?”

The young woman gasps, though covers it quickly with a cough. Her errant gaze lands briefly on Steve before it strays away once more. “Your Majesty, I was merely asking if you needed anything more.”

A fleeting furrow emerges between Steve's eyebrows, and he casts a swift glance around the room. To his surprise, he finds it immaculate, untouched by the tumultuous night he had spent, forming dents in his rugs and battling wars within the confines of his sheets. 

As Steve turns his gaze toward Maiden Katherine, a gentle smile graces his lips. Unable to discern the woman's face due to her position, he finds himself succumbing to a glimmer of hope, however fleeting and insubstantial. Within the recesses of his imagination, he relishes the liberty to conjure an image of someone entirely different, a figure who embodies the yearnings of his heart.

“No,” he says, somewhat resentfully. Because his needs are conditional, and what he truly desires cannot be attained beyond the realm of his mind. “That will be all. Thank you.”

Maiden Katherine dutifully bows to her king, leaving him to his own devices. As soon as the door closes, Steve reaches back to trace the somber outlines of his sketchbook. Once more, his mind veers away from the confines of his chambers, transporting him to a realm far brighter.

SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO 

King Joseph and Prince Steven are a juxtaposition.

The King is the valiant moon. The Prince is the selfless sun. The former breathes preservation and prowess, while the latter longs for equilibrium and benevolence. And no matter their dualism, King Joseph sees otherwise, constantly building bridges upon bridges to force his son to concede and meet him. Not in the middle, but where he stands—light years away. 

Steve, though ten years old, has a keen sense of understanding. His mother, Sarah, never misses a chance to remind him that he’s a whirlwind for this world, and he couldn’t possibly disagree. 

When, like today, the pressures of the crown seem too hard to grapple with, Steve decides to step away. Not forever. Just a little while, until he’s able to face them all again. 

He’s at the Royal Gardens, a place he hasn’t visited since last spring after his allergies restricted him to his room. Now, almost a year later, he comes back, disappointed to see that his favorite tree has grown faster than he has. 

Steve approaches it, hands on hips and lips pursed in thought. How am I supposed to climb it now? he asks himself. He wishes Bucky was here, but he knows his best friend has sparring lessons, so he tries his very best to follow his own lead and climb it. 

He tries to climb, and he manages to pull himself up, but three branches and a half are more than enough to steal his breath. He sighs, seeing that he can’t climb higher. His hands ache from the effort. 

Just as Steve contemplates his next move, a small voice calls out, “What are you doing up there, silly?” Startled, he turns his gaze downward, meeting a pair of eyes that feel both familiar and unknown. 

“Who are you?” he asks the young girl in the blue dress. He knows she’s not a princess from the fabric’s quality, though her charming face suggests otherwise. 

“I asked you first.” 

Steve laughs at the girl’s spirited nature. “I am sitting.” She narrows her eyes, unsatisfied with his response. “I like sitting up here. The tree overlooks the castle grounds. It’s nice.”

The girl hums, accepting his answer. She looks up and then around before meeting his eyes again. “Do you care for some company?” 

Steve would normally say no. Aside from Bucky, he doesn’t like to spend time with anyone. But the little girl seems nice and curious, something he decides that he likes about her. So he nods his head.

He watches the faint smile on her lips as she holds tightly to the nearest branch and places her weight on it. Within a couple of seconds, she perches herself on the branch facing him.

“Hi.” 

“Hi!” she giggles, kicking her feet in the air. Now that she’s closer, he can see that she’s much smaller than him. A few years younger too. He watches her lean against the tree’s trunk, gazing around with pure wonder. “You’re right. It is quite nice here.” 

Steve shares a laugh with her before speaking again. “Who are you?”

“I’m Y/N,” she announces confidently. He likes it. Both her name and her attitude. “And you?” 

He bites the inside of his cheek. Steve has been conditioned to answer this question in one way only: Crown Prince Steven Grant Rogers of Brooklyn. But he’s scared that if Y/N hears this, she might jump down and leave him alone. 

He thinks she’s adorable and kind. Definitely someone Bucky is going to like. So, instead, he says something else. Something he’s never said to anyone. “I’m Steve.” 

“Nice to meet you, Steve! How old are you?” 

“I’m ten,” he replies apprehensively. He knows that he looks much younger because of his height and weight.

Y/N seems to disagree, marveling at his answer. She beams, kicking her legs higher. “I’m six. Is it nice to be ten? My momma says the number ten is a two-digit number, so it’s bigger than six.” 

Steve barely blinks before a soft chuckle escapes his lips. He leans forward a little bit, making sure not to fall. Y/N is sitting there with anticipation governing her features, eagerly waiting for an answer. 

“It’s nice. I can retire to bed a bit later than usual.” That seems to satisfy Y/N, who claps excitedly in response. “I have never seen you before,” Steve then remarks.

Y/N hums. “My momma is Queen Sarah’s new chambermaid. I came to the castle with her.” 

“Oh.” 

Y/N nods. “And you? Does your momma work here, too?” 

“Somewhat, yes,” Steve replies. A comfortable silence stretches for a while, both kids hidden amongst the tree branches, listening to the humming of the birds and the voices of the wind. 

The birds fly around, some even landing atop the tree and catching Y/N’s attention. She marvels at them, then she suddenly stands up, looking at Steve. 

“It must be nicer up there for the birds to sit. Shall we go see?”

Steve hesitates. His blue eyes fill with apprehension as they count the number of branches left. There are six in total, two more than there were last spring. The tree is not too far from the ground, yet high enough for Steve to break his bones if he decides to venture up. 

“I can’t climb that high,” he sighs dejectedly. 

Y/N cranes her head to study Steve’s face. “Do you want to?” she asks to which he nods. “Then of course you can. You simply need a little help.” 

She says it so lightheartedly and surely, it makes Steve’s heart soar. Y/N braces herself and climbs one more branch. She extends her hand, palm open for Steve to take. He hesitates, knowing he shouldn’t and that his father will surely scold him for his actions. 

Y/N shakes her hand once, silently asking him to take it. Without thinking much, Steve does. Two minutes later, he finds himself atop the tree with two birds and a new friend. 

PRESENT DAY

Steve exhales loudly, his gaze fixed upon the tree etched within the pages of his sketchbook. He traces the delicate curves with his eyes, although he knows them by heart. Every intricate detail is etched into his memory from the countless days spent perched upon the tree’s branches alongside Y/N.

With a wistful glance, he closes the sketchbook and casts it aside, a reminder that before this artful piece and the memories it holds existed, there only ever was an unadorned tree.

“Your Majesty, I can say with absolute certainty that if you continue to wear that expression, it won't be long before the entire court assumes the Robe Bearers have skillfully concealed a stick within your regal attire.” 

“Bucky,” Steve grumbles. Though when he catches his reflection in the mirror, he relents, knowing his best friend, and Lord High Constable, isn’t all too wrong. He raises his hand to dismiss his attendants. They bow and exit, leaving the two men alone. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be anywhere else?” 

Dramatically as always, Bucky covers his heart with his palm. He looks down, seemingly wounded, before his cobalt blue eyes lift. “I am deeply wounded by your implicit dismissal and your forthright irritation, My King.” 

Steve rubs a hand down his face. He has endured twenty-seven years with this man, and sometimes, he wonders if befriending Lord James Buchanan Barnes was a good idea. He knows him all too well now. And if those remarks are any indication, Bucky is, without a doubt, mere seconds away from asking him what’s wrong. 

So Steve speaks his mind before the questions begin. “Must I attend this ball?” 

“You are the King,” Bucky replies. “And tonight you shall not only be celebrated but you shall also—”

“Subdue to the Royal Council’s wishes and secure the future of the throne.” 

Steve’s words have a bite to them. They’re sharp and terse, accentuating the resentment he feels toward this ordeal. He walks away from Bucky, attempting to gather his wits before saying anything else. He sits down on his large bed, one hand on his knee and the other holding his chin. 

“Do not think of it this way.” 

“How else must I think of this when I have no say?” 

“Perhaps you don’t have the freedom of choice when it comes to the matter, but you still have a choice, Steve,” Bucky reminds him. He joins his side, sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. He taps him on the shoulder, letting his hand linger there. “The Council has dictated that you shall marry, but only you shall choose who.” 

You couldn’t be more wrong, Steve says to himself. He looks away, the words a sharp slap to his face. He’s never been one for conformity, and Bucky knows this. He’s aware of Steve’s rebellious tendencies and audacious disregard for the Crown's decisions.

Steve knows what this kingdom needs—what queen it longs to have. So why should it be one of noble descent when it could be one of noble spirit? What significance holds the nature of her blood, when in truth, we are all blood in nature? 

“If the choice was truly mine, I would choose no one but her.” 

His eyes are still errant, following a pathway of their own. Though he can’t see it, he feels Bucky’s heavy gaze on him. 

“I should have known you were thinking of Y/N back then,” Bucky comments. He nudges Steve’s shoulder with his until the King concedes and gives the Lord his full attention. He remains quiet, though his eyes say it all. “When are you never thinking about her?” 

“How is she faring?” Steve asks. Each letter is spelled with a plethora of emotions. Carved with longing and desire. It has been a considerable length of time since Steve last laid eyes upon Y/N. Ever since his father banished her to a distant corner of the castle, accompanied by strict instructions to avoid any form of interaction with Steve.

“Well. Though it is beyond evident that she misses you terribly. The mention of you is the only thing that seems to brighten her day.” 

The answer draws a small smile on Steve’s face. He nods, his mind already taking a trek on its own accord, reminiscing the days Steve had spent with Y/N growing up, picturing her dulcet smile and the light that inhabited her eyes. 

Steve has forever been a captive of duty. The blood coursing through his veins tethers him to the crown while unwavering loyalty anchors him to his kingdom. His spirit, alas, was never truly his own, and his heart had long been barricaded by the Council. However, within his mind, a sanctuary exists where his thoughts could roam, untamed and unrestrained, as they collide and soar amidst the vivid memories of Y/N and the alluring freedom she perpetually bestows.

He is on the cusp of replying. With what, he isn't quite sure yet. The mere thought of Y/N has left him momentarily speechless, his mind struggling to find the right words. But the insistent knock on his door reverberates louder than any words he could muster.

“Enter,” Steve says as Bucky straightens and stands up. 

The door opens and in walks Peter, one of the new guards in Brooklyn. “Your Majesty.” Peter bows. “Lord Barnes.”

“What is it, Peter?” Steve asks. 

“His Majesty, King Father Joseph, is requesting your presence.” 

Something within Steve throbs, an ache that resonates through his being. His father possesses an innate knack for impeccable timing, a seemingly supernatural ability to intrude upon Steve's most cherished moments.

Reluctantly, Steve pushes himself up and follows Peter to his father's quarters. He treads the well-worn path, the bitterness seeping through every step. The portraits lining the walls and the chandeliers adorning the taupe ceilings are all too familiar, etched into his memory from countless prior journeys.

His footsteps weigh heavily upon the carpet, each one echoing his disdain for the impending encounter. He takes in a deep breath, steeling himself before the guards deliver a resounding knock, heralding his arrival. With a measured breath, he crosses the threshold and enters the room.

Upon doing so, the pain within him heightens, intensifying to a raw and poignant state. It feels as if every fiber of his being wants to claw its way out from within. His gaze fixates on his father, who lies weak and feeble on the bed, attended to by hovering nurses. Yet, within Steve's mind, contrasting images begin to form.

He envisions himself from years past, confined to his own bed, accompanied by illness and fragility as constant companions. But gradually, the image takes on a bitter-sweet memory.

SEVEN YEARS AGO 

Steve shakes, uncertain whether it's the cold air or his nightmares that make him tremble. His room feels empty and lonely since his mother's departure, and his father is too busy to give him a second thought. Bucky is off with the troops, stuck in endless meetings. The looming war hangs heavy in the air, and Steve's father has made his choice of soldier, and it's not him.

Steve hates it. Hates being so useless. He cannot even fight for his kingdom, so how is he supposed to rule it one day? He huffs an exasperated sigh, turning around in his sheets. He shuts his eyes, partially because he wants to sleep and purely because he’s trying to force himself not to cry. 

It’s not working, though, as he feels the world closing in. The ceiling’s shadows are suddenly creeping closer, and the walls are wailing as they speed ahead. The door to his chambers squeaks, and he thinks it’s flying off its hinges. But in an unexpected shift, the world around him takes on a different hue, one that brings a soothing and calming sensation he didn't anticipate.

“Stevie.” His eyes snap open, and in that instant, he becomes aware of the rapid pounding of his heart. 

“Y/N?” 

“I heard you weren’t feeling your best.” Y/N smiles sheepishly. She moves a strand of her long wavy hair away, taking a tentative step closer. “I thought, perhaps, you needed some company.” 

Steve wants to say a lot of things. But seeing her in her long blue-green dress made him fall quiet. He’s always loved that color on her. It’s his favorite. 

You look beautiful, he tries to say. I have missed you. How are you faring? But nothing of the sort comes out. 

“You will be in trouble if you get caught,” he hears himself say. Instantly he regrets it. But Y/N doesn’t seem to mind. 

She shakes her head and moves closer. “Being with you is no trouble at all, my prince," she murmurs, settling down beside him and clasping his hand in her own. Steve occasionally wishes his hands were larger, more powerful. He feels a pang of shame for the thoughts that have crossed his mind, imagining the different ways his hands would hold her and explore every inch of her being.

His temperature rises at the thought, and even Y/N feels it. She hovers over him, pressing her lips sweetly to his forehead. His eyes close involuntarily. One of his hands weekly clutch Y/N’s own while the other fists her dress. Steve moans under his breath. “You are burning up,” she says with concern lacing her tone. She moves away, and Steve instinctively reaches for her. She sees the worry in his eyes, deciding to brush it away by running her fingers through his hair. “I will not leave, Your Highness.” 

“Y/N,” he grumbles weakly. 

Y/N smiles, reaching for the bowl of water and the wet rag left behind. “I will not leave you, Steve. I promise.”

PRESENT DAY

“Steve,” King Joseph calls. 

Steve is engulfed in a whirlwind of internal battles, ignited by his father's actions that have shattered everything. Promises that were never his to break have been torn apart, and as a result, Steve decides that he's unable to forgive him. He feels no trace of mercy toward him. No trace of love.

The coronation ball is a spectacle of extravagance, opulence, and sheer absurdity. The entire Brooklyn Court has gathered along with monarchs from neighboring kingdoms. 

King Stark graces the event with his Queen and their young Princess, joined by King Thor, Queen Sif, and Prince Loki. Steve's gaze catches sight of his trusted Lord Chancellor, Samuel “Sam” Wilson, engaged in conversation with his father and the King of Wakanda. 

And though he cannot see him, he knows Bucky must be lurking in the shadows, sharing a hidden moment with Princess Romanoff.

Steve lingers for a few moments before revealing his presence. He stands atop the banister, peering down at the chaos he is about to face. His gaze sweeps across the room, longing for a glimpse of someone familiar, although deep down he knows it's merely a futile hope.

With a heavy sigh, he descends the stairs, fully aware that his destiny lies in wait.

"Announcing His Royal Majesty, King Steven Grant Rogers."

The music begins, and the doors swing open. Steve steps forward, discomforted by the weight of all the attention upon him. He offers nods as others bow and curtsy, attempting to keep a smile on his face. Reaching the throne, he settles into it with more haste than necessary. As soon as he is seated, his subjects rise from their positions.

"Thank you all for joining us tonight," he declares, projecting his voice with a hint of implicit hesitation. “We’re honored to welcome you to Brooklyn Palace. Please, do enjoy yourself. May this merry occasion pave the way ahead for our kingdom.” 

The crowd cheers enthusiastically, chanting Steve’s name and singing his praises. They raise their hands in the air and clap without restraint, though Steve doesn’t hear them. He’s out of tune with his senses, his consciousness hauntingly distant. Suddenly and prematurely, he’s thrust back into the moment. He doesn’t know how to react when Princess Sharon enters his line of sight.

“Your Majesty,” she curtseys. Steve has always noticed that she overdoes it, lowering herself far more than necessary. Sam once remarked she did it to appear meek and subdued—traits many men apparently seek in a woman—Bucky, on the other hand, remarked that she was desperate for attention. 

“Princess Carter.” 

“Sharon, Your Majesty,” she rectifies while meeting his eyes. “You may call me Sharon. If you please, Your Majesty.” 

To his ears, it’s more of a plea than anything else. Which is why he doesn’t recede. Engaging in idle conversation with her isn't what he desires, for he can already discern the thoughts swirling within her mind, mirroring the thoughts of many other women in the palace. His father had made it unequivocally clear that Steve cannot rule without a queen by his side.

“Your Majesty,” Sharon’s voice beckons. Steve gazes at her, failing to mimic her enthusiasm. “Are you not going to ask me to dance?” 

No, he feels the need to say. I do not wish to dance with anyone. But the musicians are getting ready and his father is pinning him down with a glare. 

Reluctantly, he extends his hand and picks Sharon’s. “Of course.” Steve kisses the back of her hand. Carefully, he leads her to the dance floor, front and center, waiting for everyone to join. 

Bucky stands to his right and Sam to his left. Facing them are Princess Natasha and Duchess Wanda, respectively. Kings Tony, Thor, and T'Challa join next, accompanied by their Queens. 

Gradually, the room transforms into a parade of eager guests, lining up in anticipation of the forthcoming dance. A cacophony of music erupts, and the rhythm permeates the air, setting the stage for a whirlwind of movement. 

The men bow with a flourish, while the ladies curtsy in graceful synchronization. In the timeless tradition of the dance, they take a bold step forward, closing the distance between them. Steve's hands, steady yet tinged with anticipation, find their place upon the small of Sharon’s back, guiding her with gentle precision.

He sweeps across the dance floor, leading Sharon in elaborate and pristine circles. Her gaze on him is imperturbable, features soft under the lights of the chandelier. Steve cannot understand how her eyes can be so alight—they’re looking at him as if he was the present and the future when he is, in fact, counting the musical notes, anticipating the next switch in partners. 

The dance is Steve’s “seven minutes in heaven,” as Sam so eloquently worded it. Though, in reality, it’s a vicious torment. This dance offers Steve the chance to dance with four women—three for two minutes and one for no more than a fleeting sixty seconds. And luckily for him, Sharon’s two minutes are now up. 

He spins her to the right, fueled by a sense of anticipation at the thought of stealing a precious moment of respite. She leaves his arms, and he breathes deeply for a moment before Princess Shuri joins him. 

"Your Majesty, do me a favor and grace us with a smile. I would hate for my brother to be proven right. He is constantly rambling about how my mere presence seems to unsettle everyone around."

Steve offers Shuri beyond what she has asked for. A heartfelt laugh tumbles from his lips, and he’s elated to know that the music is far louder than his unrestrained chortle. 

“Your presence is welcome and cherished, Princess Shuri.” Steve dips the princess, ensuring she doesn’t fall. He brings her back on her feet and continues with the rest of the choreography. “Tell T’Challa you are the single spark of joy and delight this evening has brought.” 

“Oh, I will most certainly tell him that.” 

With a final smile, Steve releases his grip on Shuri, allowing her to navigate her way toward Loki's outstretched arms. Though her departure may lack grace, it’s far more captivating to watch than the arrival of yet another noble lady, who is now nestled in his arms. 

Princess Carol’s face is stoic, and her movements feel robotic, pre-programmed. The silence between her and Steve is tumultuous as the prince leads her through the dance. He’s grateful for her aloofness, granting him the chance to focus on something else other than an unnecessary conversation, or worse yet, a proposal. 

His blue eyes meander, traversing the room with a wandering gaze. In the midst of his observation, he catches sight of Princess Natasha and Marquess Barton engaged in a dance. Their movements may lack the refinement of the other nobles, but they appear unperturbed, swaying to a rhythm that is uniquely theirs. Steve notices Natasha intermittently locking eyes with Bucky, exchanging playful winks and smirks that stir a bitter sensation within him.

He thinks he will never experience this. Never be given the chance to love with all his heart and not his mind. To love for love and not the kingdom. To live for his love to rule and not to rule for his love to die.  

Princess Carol slips from his grasp with unexpected swiftness, leaving Steve momentarily stunned. His attention lingers on her abrupt departure, forgetting the need to steady himself. 

As Steve's palm rests open, a hand slips into his, catching him off guard. His arm instinctively reaches out, hastening to steady the woman who has joined him. The sudden touch electrifies his senses, igniting a rush of anticipation within him.

Blue orbs lock onto a wistful masterpiece, refusing to blink and allowing the moisture to gather, lending a subtle glassy sheen. Steve's steps falter, his footing shaken. Only now does he realize that he has been granted six minutes to breathe and a single dance partner that has stolen his every breath.

At this moment, Steve grasps the true might of the human mind as the dance fades into the background though his feet glide effortlessly across the floor. His heart races with joyous abandon, his thoughts sprint in a frenzy, and his eyes struggle to keep pace, captivated by the dazzling radiance emanating from the figure in front of him. 

Steve's eyes fixate on the familiar turquoise dress adorning the woman’s figure, a sight he has imagined countless times in his most indulgent thoughts. Yet, reality surpasses any fantasy he could conjure. With fervent intensity, he absorbs every detail of the woman before him, noting the familiarities that stir his heart and the subtle differences that ignite a sense of curiosity.

He towers over her now, his height surpassing hers by more than an inch. His presence is imposing, a protective and ardent force. They stand close, near enough for her to catch glimpses of green in his eyes and for him to feel the softness of her bodice against his chest.

Time passes, maybe a minute, or perhaps more. He doesn’t know. Because with her, time is a paradox, too complex to comprehend. Or perhaps, plain unnecessary. 

He notes that no one is dancing, noble men and women retreating to the ballroom's margins. They're entranced by Steve and his partner. Their glances multifaceted, both welcoming and unnerving. But he doesn't pay attention to them. Not when the musicians are still playing, granting him an infinity of respite.

He clutches the woman tighter, lifting her up in the air. The light catches the tiara on her head, the one he had specifically requested for her as a gift on her sixteenth birthday. She had once refused to wear it, claiming she wasn't a princess. And she was right. She's not just a princess; she's a queen.

There is so much to say. Too many questions to ask. And yet, Steve can only whisper one thing as he sets her down on her feet, his lips lingering close to her ear.

“You are divinity in human nature, and I have evermore longed to confess to you this.” 

Y/N says nothing, but the gasp that tumbles out and the fingers that trace Steve’s elbow speak of it all. “You haven’t changed,” she notes. He shakes his head and gives her a disbelieving look as if to urge her to look at him again. “You are just as warm and just as kind. Just as beautiful,” she enunciates, whispering the last part. 

The words reach his ears, carrying with them a genuine sincerity that resonates deep within him. He releases a soft exhale, a breath that caresses her face. Her delicate lashes gracefully meet, pulling his attention away from her magnetic eyes to her angelic smile. 

Steve is captivated by every aspect of her presence, his senses entranced by the enchantment that surrounds them both. “I have longed for you,” he admits. Immediately, Y/N's eyes burst open, revealing a clash of waves within her irises—a turbulent ocean of swirling emotions.

“I’ve heard, and I’m here to satiate your longing, My King.” 

"Prince," Steve corrects briskly. As he holds her waist, Y/N places both hands on his chest. He tenderly caresses her bottom lip. "Don't cease to see me in a different light now, princess."

“I am not a princess,” Y/N refutes. “As for the last half of your sentence, no matter who you become to the world, you will always be my prince, Stevie.” 

In that brief moment, her eyes reveal a vulnerability that tugs at Steve's heartstrings. “Y/N, tell me you are truly here. Tell me this is not yet another deceiving portrait my mind has conjured.” 

“I am real.” 

“How?” 

“Queen Mother Sarah,” she admits. Her voice carries a tinge of sadness at the memory of the late queen. “Before her demise, she called for me. You were away at the time, fighting the war against Hydra’s army. She made me swear to attend your coronation ball. To be by your side once more.” 

Oh, mother. Steve stands in disbelief. Though his mother passed seven years ago, her presence lingers within him. A constant source of comfort and guidance. He can't help but compare the stark contrast between his mother's love and his father's hostility, fueling a mix of emotions within him. The dominance and aggression of his father's actions only serve to heighten his appreciation for his mother's enduring tenderness and thoughtfulness, even in the realm of the afterlife.

“I needed to be by your side, even though I know I will be in trouble.” Y/N’s voice shakes him out of his stupor. She’s biting on her lower lip, her long hair hiding half her face. “Your father will surely order me farther away.” 

“Let him try,” Steve challenges with determination, causing Y/N to wear a wearied expression of disbelief. With tenderness, he adds, "I'd like to witness anyone daring to separate the future Queen of Brooklyn from my embrace."

King Joseph seethes with a fiery intensity, teetering on the edge of explosion. Anger courses through his veins, overwhelming his senses in the wake of what he has just witnessed. With resolute determination, he guides his son towards the Council chamber, his mind already brimming with scathing words, poised to unleash his fury upon him.

“Of all of the women in this court and beyond, you have decided to entertain a chambermaid for the better half of the evening!” 

“She is not a mere chambermaid, father. You know well who Y/N is!” 

"A mere distraction," the King counters vehemently, his fist slamming down on the dark oak table with a resounding thud. "A disgrace," he continues, his voice filled with simmering indignation.

“A queen.” 

"Never! Over my dead body, you imbecile!" King Joseph retorts, his voice laced with venomous defiance, unwilling to yield to his son's audacious declaration.

"So be it then, father!" Steve roars with fiery determination. "All you have ever cared for is for Brooklyn to be the nexus of the Grand American Dynasty, no matter the cost, no matter the price! Your vision is so narrow that you fail to see the alternative paths, the possibilities beyond the ones you have carved for yourself."

“The avenues you traverse in your thoughts are nothing but insignificant alleyways leading to nowhere, boy!” 

"They are mine. All of them belong to me alone," Steve asserts with unwavering conviction. "They are the boulevards of my childhood and the thoroughfares of my future. They are paths carved by a woman who has treated me far better than my own father ever has!"

“She is insignificant!” 

"How dare you! You have waged wars and battles, leaving me to mend the relationships you have severed. You have sowed fear and wielded despair in your son and your kingdom, and I will not allow you to condemn me or my future any longer."

“Steven!” 

“No! You will listen, and I will lend my ears no longer. I am the only heir to the throne. You and the Council be damned if you do not willingly allow me to marry the woman who will rule Brooklyn with far more grace and vigor than you ever had. Mark my words, I will take matters into my own hands and fight for love and justice, even if it means defying the entire kingdom.” 

“You would never," King Joseph says, his voice seething with anger and contempt, his eyes blazing with fiery defiance.

Steve smirk. It’s dark and vindictive, sending shivers down the spine of his father. “Watch me,” he whispers, his voice laced with a chilling determination.

He marches out of the chamber and onto the grand ballroom. His heart thumps in his chest, louder than the mellifluous sounds of the musician's instruments. 

He moves through the crowd like a lion king walking through his kingdom. His gaze locks on Y/N, standing beside Bucky and Sam. As their eyes meet, a mixture of surprise and anticipation reflects in the depths of her gaze, mirroring the emotions pulsating within him.

As the world around them fades into a blur, leaving only the two of them standing in the spotlight, Steve's years of etiquette training and courtship knowledge seem insignificant. Despite his mastery of courting rituals and the art of conversation, Y/N possesses the uncanny ability to shatter his carefully crafted facade. With a mere glance, she erases the learned scripts from his mind, leaving it a blank canvas, ready to be painted by her presence alone.

He doesn’t count his steps though he suspects they’re brisk. He reaches out and tugs at her hand, drawing her closer. Steve lets go of his thoughts and his constraints, deciding to focus on her. His lips are fierce as they suddenly clash with hers, and the sound of their lips moving together seems to echo louder than the

The kiss becomes a clarion call, a declaration of war and surrender in a single act. It symbolizes the culmination of suppressed emotions and unspoken promises, a deluge of feelings too long restrained. It ignites a storm of passionate responses, an uproar of joy and relief that reverberates through the room.

In that fleeting moment, it embodies Y/N's tenderness and longing, intertwining with Steve's defiance and resolve. The kiss bridges the fractures of their past and ushers in the promise of a shared future.

Like an art piece, it's crafted with meticulous detail and profound meaning. Its evocative power lingers in the air, leaving a trace of its essence. The kiss is not just a mere gesture. It's an effervescent expression of their love, unique and incomparable.

At this moment, Steve and Y/N claim their own narrative, painting their own masterpiece of connection and desire. It's an art piece that captivates all who witness it, leaving an indelible mark on their hearts and memories.

“I need a queen,” Steve breathes in haste. I need you, he’s trying to say. I breathe you. 

And Y/N laughs, delicately and boldly. She presses her palms against his cheeks, the warmth of her touch fanning the flames of Steve’s love. 

“Let me be everything you need and more.”

Steve Rogers has my whole heart, and I was unbelievably happy when Val overflooded my inbox with requests!! Still got one Mob!Steve and Professor!Steve one shots to write, which I'm super excited to start with. Btw, how the hell does Val know all my favorite tropes?

Anyhow, I was so excited, so I powered through this one. The others? Might take anywhere between 3 to 5 business months to release them. But Sab will try her best to release them sooner.

Don’t forget to send in your Marvel/Harry Potter requests!

Can’t wait to share more!!

[nemo-writes]

𝚒𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

➝ steve harrington + eddie munson x loser-club!reader

➝ synopsis; older and just a little bit wiser, you begin moving on with your life, only to find yourself in hawkins—by chance or fate. what begins as a simple mishap, quickly spirals into a twisting path of secrets and suspense, turning a simple pit stop into a pivotal crossroad. so, will you be strong enough to confront what’s coming?

➝ moodboard, playlist

chapter one;

chapter two;

chapter three;

chapter four;

interlude i;

chapter five;

chapter six;

chapter seven;

chapter eight;

interlude ii;

and more to come...

divider credit

[rustedhearts]

Severed Lamb Part II: Poor Thing (Pastor!Steve x Fem!reader)

summary: pastor steve's fondness for you grows stronger. you find comfort in his praise and attention.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♰ the steve collection ♰

♰ part i: blessed be ♰

warnings: religious imagery/trauma, age gap (delilah is 19, steve is 35), abuse of power, manipulation, heavy petting, alcoholism

♰ Wyndgate, Georgia July 1981 ♰

The room spun.

The wooden walls of the barn became a blur, the floor a pool of brown for you to twirl on, balanced on the tops of your toes. The pointe in your shoe started to splinter last week, shards of wood cutting into your skin and worsening the wounds already ruining your feet—but the air felt so cool whipping around you, billowing in your hair, torpedoing in an effort to catch up with your spinning speed.

You didn't want to stop. You couldn't stop. That quick-moving coolness became addicting in the Georgian heat that summer.

And when you were spinning, you didn't have to think about Mama, or the school sending envelopes asking for tuition money you couldn't pay. You didn't have to think about your old high school friends avoiding you in town, crossing to the other side to giggle and murmur across the street.

But even the spinning didn't put an end to thoughts of Pastor Steve. His broad shoulders, his handsome face, his silky hair, his soft pillowy lips against my head. Every Sunday you spent in that church feels like an eternity, but it was never long enough. You never get enough of his soft, doe-eyed stare; the tilt of his head, the quirk of his lip during a sermon when his eyes caught yours.

You stayed after last week to help pick up pamphlets and clean the pews. It was a particularly sticky, humid day, and wiping down the sweat left by old Amma May's oversized bottom became entirely worth it when Pastor Steve came striding down the aisle from behind the podium.

"That's awfully kind of you, Delilah," he murmured sweetly, voice like silk.

You turned, wet wipe in hand, barely trying to conceal your smile. All the Georgian heat found home in your cheeks. Pastor Steve tucked his hands into the pockets of his black slacks, pleated and ironed. His watch poked out from beneath the long sleeve of his shirt. The cufflinks had been loosened. You swallowed at the sliver of tan skin exposed.

"Oh, it's nothing. I'm happy to do it," you chirped quietly.

You glanced toward the open arched doors. Everyone was still lingering in the freshly mowed yard, loitering on the steps. Pastor Steve took that moment to gaze at you unabashedly, eyes licking over your pale green skirt, the buttoned-up white sweater with just enough room to show your collarbones and the top of your gold cross. Steve suddenly found himself longing to reach over and pop the top button. All he needed was the top of your breasts, the plump fat that cushioned the bottom peak of your cross perfectly.

Steve stepped closer, fingers skating across the smooth wood of the pew. You stiffened, heart thumping in your throat. Heat clung to the nape of your neck and the backs of your knees.

"How have you been, Delilah? You haven't been to see me," Steve noted in an even tone.

You closed your fist around the wet wipe in your hand, sudsing the soap. "I'm alright, sir. I...I been prayin' by myself, every night now."

Steve's lip quirked, though his eyes were down on his feet moving toward you. They clunked loudly against the wooden floorboards. His hands were so big, and you couldn't help but watch the right one make its way across the back of the pew, closer and closer to you.

"No need to call me sir, Delilah. You can call me Steve," he declared, finally lifting his head to gaze down at you. "But just keep that between us."

Amusement lightened his pretty face and twinkled in his eye. A beam of light shot through the stained glass behind you and cast a streak of emerald across his cheek. A thrilled burst settled in your chest at the way the color painted his skin. Green, the color of Hope.

Maybe Pastor Steve really was an angel sent from God. Maybe he was sent here for you, just like he said. A guardian angel, all for you.

Steve came to a stop when the toes of his loafers brushed your Mary Janes.

"O-Okay...Steve."

Steve grinned, sideways and slick. His hand, still on the pew, found the tip of your elbow, clothed in the soft fabric of your cardigan. You twitched, following his line of sight toward the sudden touch. He plucked a nonexistent piece of fuzz from your arm and flicked it toward the floor, returning his gaze to you. You were impossibly flushed and shiny.

"Praying is nice, Delilah. I'm glad you're taking the time to show your gratitude to our Lord. But, don't forget..."

Steve tipped his head again, chasing your gaze. You immediately looked at him, and he smiled at your reactionary obedience.

"...you can always talk to me. Whatever you say, it always stays between us."

You nodded dumbly, tongue fat and throbbing in your mouth. His lips looked as soft as they felt that night in your driveway, when he brought you close and pressed them to your head. You felt on fire, alight by every ray of sunshine the sun had to offer just from that firm press of his mouth on your body.

Steve chuckled, and you blinked harshly to clear the haze in your thoughts.

"Well...us and Him." He pointed toward the ceiling.

It'd been a week, and you had yet to take Pastor Steve up on his offer. All you could do was spin.

"Ah!"

Until the spinning hurt so bad that you collapsed on the barn floor with a thud. You instantly cradled your feet, clawing at the torn and dirtied satin ties around your ankles to free your feet of their pink confines. Your feet were a mangled, ugly mess: deep indigo bruises, bright red blisters and bleeding wounds. You hissed, pushing yourself up to stand, bearing weight only on your heels.

In your bedroom, after a lengthy cold shower where you scrubbed lilac soap over your sweat and dirt-stained skin, you plopped on your scratchy carpet and precariously wrapped bandages around your bleeding feet. You couldn't afford the fancy ointment the other girls had at school, but the balm they used for the cows did the trick enough—it was mostly lard and petroleum, but it helped ease the ache and sting.

Mama came home a few hours later cackling and stumbling around, and you concealed the click of your lock with a noisy cough.

♰ ♰

On Wednesday, you went to church.

Pastor Steve was in the front pew on his knees, hands clasped, head bowed. You paused near the back, respecting his privacy and time with God. You shifted, and the rickety floorboards creaked. Steve's head snapped over his shoulder, and he leapt to his feet at the sight of you.

"Delilah."

You took a step back, a sheepish grin toying on your lips. "I-I can come back, I didn't mean to interrupt—"

"—don't be silly," Steve gushed, waving you over almost too eagerly.

But you were oblivious—a blushing, flustered mess—and flounced over to Steve in your little pink sundress. However, you had a slight skip to your step, a little limp that left you askew, that made Steve frown.

"What can I do for you, Delilah?"

You clasped your hands together behind your back, fingers interlaced. "Well...I-I was hopin'...—you said I could come talk t' you, so..."

Steve's brows arched with delight, eyes twinkling again. "Oh, of course. Here, we'll go to my office."

He spun on his heel and headed toward the door off to the left, which you knew led to a hall and up to an attic office meant for the Pastors and clergymen only—but you'd never been up there before. You took one step forward and paused, glancing toward the pews.

"Shouldn't we...shouldn't we do it here...?"

Steve stopped, his emerald robe fluttering in the breeze, and followed your gesture toward the rows of pews. He smiled at you, a placating, pitiful smile, and placed his hands on his hips.

"God has ears everywhere, Delilah."

You reddened, ducking your head and cowering your shoulders to follow after him, feeling a little scolded and small.

The journey to his office felt like an eternity. You watched your shoes the entire time, catching only a glimpse of the back of Steve’s heels as he took long, bounding strides through the brief corridor. He mounted the staircase at the end of it, and the wooden planks groaned beneath his weight.

He was silent as the two of you entered the attic office. The rotting wooden floor was blanketed with a dark Persian rug, spots faded from the sun seeping through the arched, stained glass window. The walls were wooden, too, and standing in this room suddenly felt like standing in the barn behind your house. But this room was still, stiff with trapped heat, and smelled like Steve.

He sank into the swivel chair behind a sturdy wooden desk, cluttered with stacks of paper and a leather bound bible. Steve linked his fingers together and clasped them over his lap, crossing one leg over the other. It suddenly felt very formal, and you became terribly timid lingering there in the doorway.

“Come in, Delilah,” Steve cooed, beckoning with his hand.

You shuffled forward, easing into a hard wooden chair a few feet from his desk. He smiled once you were seated, and you twisted the end of your skirt around your finger. A wooden cross hung on the wall directly behind his head, above the desk.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

You swallowed, mouth running dry. Your eyes bounced toward the window, admiring the colors of the stained glass and the white cross in the middle of the fragmented pieces. In your periphery, Steve’s head tipped again.

“It’s Mama. She…she…”

Steve leaned forward, reaching out to place two fingers gently atop your bouncing, clothed knee. You stilled instantly, wide eyes snapping toward him. His eyes were soft again, melting into you.

“It’s just us here,” he murmured, voice low and silky smooth.

The sound of it instantly soothed you, and you nodded your agreement. You kept your leg still when he pulled his hand away and returned it to his lap.

“What about your mother, Delilah?”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek for a moment, looking down at your lap. You sought comfort in the cool metal of your cross, fondling the shape between your thumb and knuckle against your chest. Steve watched you all the while, heart thumping hard in his chest.

"She's....drinkin' again."

Steve was quiet for a moment. You broke the skin of your cheek with your teeth, and a metallic taste filled your mouth.

"She drinks a lot, your mother?"

You released the severed skin, eyes flashing toward his black, clothed knees. All your words tasted like blood. Unease sat heavily in your stomach, like maybe you shouldn't be saying this. Maybe Pastor Steve shouldn't know about this. Mama'll be mad.

"She used to," you murmured in a whisper.

Steve tapped his finger against his knuckles, still placed over his lap. You lifted your heel to bounce your leg again, but with one glance toward Steve, placed it back down. He was silent again—he knew there was something you weren't telling him. There was more to this story. It's just us here.

You gazed off at the cross just beyond the peak of Steve's shiny, chestnut hair. "I...I don't feel..."

Steve gave you a moment, but when that flustered sheen began to gather on your cheeks again, and your hand flew to your chest to fondle the cross once more, Steve leaned forward and placed his hand on your knee.

"You don't feel what, Delilah?" That soft voice again. Like melted butter, like mud in the rain.

His hand was so warm against the cotton of your skirt. You could see the blue veins beneath his skin, the callouses on his knuckles.

"I don't feel...safe...when she drinks."

Steve inhaled deeply. When you hung your head with shame, Steve smoothed his gentle grasp on your knee to a full-palmed caress. Every inch of your skin began to buzz at that muted touch. His movements shifted your skirt, causing it to bunch at your thighs. But you let him rub your knee, caress the bare skin that his own ministrations bared to him. It was a man's touch, hot and rough—but Steve was so gentle and delicate.

"Oh," Steve sighed, and your chest filled with a flutter. "You poor thing."

Somehow, his chair had moved closer as he rubbed. Now, his knees brushed yours, the toes of his loafers knocking into your Mary Janes, and you could smell the coffee on his breath. His lips looked soft, wet from his tongue. They were the rosiest shade of pink. A faint collection of dark stubble collected along his jaw.

Your breathing shallowed, and Steve bit back the quirk of his lip at the way your chest rose and fell with struggle. He pulled his touch away, and the wheels of his chair squeaked as he rolled it back toward the desk to open the top drawer. He retrieved a brown, cardboard box, which he propped up with his palm and tore the top off of. In it, Steve revealed an assortments of dark chocolate.

"Here," he soothed, extending the box to you, "it'll make you feel all better."

You brought a slow hand toward the chocolates, glancing toward Steve, apprehension clear in your furrowed brows. But Steve just nodded, a soft grin toying on his mouth, and you plucked a heart shaped candy from the box. He pulled the box back to sit in his lap, and his eyes immediately sought the parted cavern of your mouth, as the chocolate touched your tongue. His throat bobbed with a thick swallow when your tongue shot out to lick a speck of chocolate coating from your lip.

The chocolate was tart and a little bitter, but bursting from its confines came a silky, rich goo that sweetened the sour. A delighted smile touched your mouth, and Steve mirrored it.

"See, isn't that better?"

You nodded. Steve placed the box on the desk, but didn't reach in to take one himself. His fingers interlaced again, and he brought them to his lap.

"Sometimes we have to indulge. Keeps us good," he claimed in an even tone.

Good. Were you good, for taking the chocolate? Did Steve think you were good? Did God? All you wanted was to be good.

All you could do was nod, eyes ducking back down to your knees. Steve sighed again, and this time when he reached out, he took your hand. Your fingers were stiff in his soft palm, eyes wide on your hands touching. Your stomach throbbed, chest aching. He was being so nice.

"Thank you for sharing with me, Delilah. Know you can talk to me at any time."

You nodded again, fingers twitching in his hold. Steve chuckled, closing his palm around your hand and giving it a little squeeze. A gasp slipped from your mouth, and you immediately burned at your own mistake. Just as an apology formed behind your teeth, Steve let go.

"Want a ride home?"

♰ ♰

In church, Steve was godlike. He was massive, an otherworldly figure that seemed to burn your eyes if you looked too long. But in the front seat of his BMW, Steve was just a man. A handsome man with a long nose bridge, and high cheekbones; a man with hair that turned copper in the sun, and lips that looked like pillows.

The windows were all the way down, and the stereo was off. You perched in his passenger seat like an angel, hands delicately clasped in your lap, and Steve glanced at you constantly. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other dangling in the window. The glass face of his watch caught beams of the sun and blinded you. The car smelled like him, and your heart hammered at the scent of it.

"God, I don't think I'll ever get used to this heat," Steve huffed, swiping his palm across his sticky forehead.

You smiled down at your lap. "Takes a couple years."

He looked at you sideways. "Yeah? You lived here your whole life, though, huh?"

You nodded, picking at the skin around your nail. "Yeah. It was hard to leave for school, but...I love dancin' too much to stick around here."

Steve glanced at your feet, and remembered what they looked like wrapped in tattered pink satin.

"You really are a beautiful dancer. God gave you the grace of an angel."

A giggle burst through you. Steve straightened at the sound, head snapping over to peer at you.

"That's real kind a' you, but...I-I don't think so," you protested meekly.

"Well, we have a line of communication, God and me," Steve declared, and his voice took on the echoing bellow it has when he preaches.

He took a turn down the dirt road toward your house. You could see the shape of it in the distance.

"You know what He tells me, Delilah?"

You turned to Pastor Steve with the sun in your cheeks again, blinking slowly. "What?"

The car slowed right before the gravel drive of your house, and Steve put his foot on the brake pedal to turn his full attention to you. His head cocked like it always does, those hazel eyes dragging over the shape of you in his passenger seat.

"He told me to pray every night for you," Steve murmured, like he was sharing a secret you weren't supposed to know. "God told me you were special, Delilah Anne, and now I think my prayers are comin' true."

Your breath hitched, and for once, Steve let a sly smile touch his mouth. He devoured your full-bodied reaction like a man starved, and as you boiled with flustered nerves, and squirmed against the leather of his seat, Steve popped the locks.

"You be safe now."

♰ ♰

You writhed around in your sticky sheets that night, playing Pastor Steve's voice on a loop in your head. ...now I think my prayers are comin' true.

How could this man have prayed for you? How could you be so special to him? The more you thought about it, the more nonsensical it became. As ridiculous as it sounded, you were truly starting to believe that God sent him here for you. What were the odds that he appeared right when you returned home from school? That he took such a liking to you?

God was the only answer.

You saw him a few days later at the community pool. A dirtied, leaf-infested, pathetic excuse for a pool—but people flocked to it when the heat was too unbearable to stay at home, even with all the fans on.

You set out with a yellow bikini hidden beneath a white sundress, blistered and bruised feet slipped into a pair of sandals. A towel over your shoulder and sunscreen in your hand, you trudged down the dirt road toward town, and made it to the pool just in time to find nearly all the lounge chairs taken by sunbathing teens and mothers in bathing suits half a size too small.

The gate squealed as it opened, and clanged shut behind you as you shuffled across the scathing pavement toward a lone chair in the corner. You glanced around, watching for prying eyes as you toyed with the hem of your sundress, but all eyes were on the sky or the dirty water filled with giggly kids. You yanked the dress over your head and tossed it on the pavement, delicately draping yourself over the plastic chair.

You baked in the sun, feeling its heat gather in your cheeks. The nape of your neck grew damp against the chair, the backs of your thighs collecting slick sweat. You shifted and squirmed, both irritated by the stinging sun and pleased by its warmth.

When you pushed off to rotate onto your stomach after what felt like an eternity on your back, you fell short at the sight of someone just beyond the gate. Sitting in the yellowed grass against the trunk of a rotting oak tree, wearing a pair of jeans and a blue button down, was Pastor Steve.

You stood there a moment, watching him cock his. Though his eyes were concealed behind a pair of black shades, you knew where they were fixated—on you. His hands were lying limply in his lap, legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles. No book in sight, no picnic basket or friend to keep him company. But there he was, watching the pool. Watching you.

A stampede ran ramped in your chest, and swallowing grew difficult as you reached for your crumpled dress. You were half naked and exposed, but even from across the pavement and beyond the gate, Steve could spot your gold cross glinting in the blazing sun. Your hand flew to fondle it as it habitually did, and Steve smiled fondly.

Your walk along the pavement was slow—head hung low, shoulders meekly pinched, but legs moving so swiftly it seemed more like you were floating. Steve appreciated a walk like that. So graceful, so languid, and smooth. It was only as you began your journey along the grass, dress billowing in the breeze and hiding your yellow bikini once more, that Steve noticed your feet.

The consequence of such strict and demanding elegance, the bloody side effect of beauty.

“Hi,” you chirped, coming to a stop at his feet.

Steve pushed his sunglasses to the crown of his head. They parted his hair, pulling the silky locks away from his head to reveal a patch of ivory skin.

“Hi, Delilah. It’s nice to see you again.”

Your sandals were hooked between two fingers, dangling at your side; a terry cloth towel slung over your shoulder. Steve tipped his head again to admire you, letting his eyes roam free over your form. You grew hotter than sunbeams under his stare.

“I-I didn’t know you came here,” you murmured sweetly.

Steve shrugged, shoulders wide and hands still tucked neatly in his lap. The top of his button down was open for ventilation, and you could see the rope of silver chain resting against a patch of dark, thick hair. You were suddenly parched.

“Just enjoying the scenery.”

His eyes glinted when he said that, squinted against the sun and narrowed amusedly. You flushed, ducking down to focus your gaze on your aching feet. Steve followed your line of sight, reaching out to tap your toes. They twitched at his touch.

“What happened there?” he asked.

Your chest tightened with humiliation and shame, and your hands disappeared behind your back. “Oh, um…s’ just from my dancin’ shoes.”

Steve’s brows furrowed, and your toes curled toward the soil to hide them from him. He tore his eyes away, tipping his head back toward you with a pout smeared on his face.

“Are they supposed to hurt you like that?”

You giggled, the apples of your cheeks firm and colorfully warm. “Can barely feel it once I start. The girls at school have fancy shoes, and I hear those hurt just as bad.”

Steve hummed, nodding his head in understanding. His fingers slipped into his hair, pushing his sunglasses back down to the bridge of his nose. He looked so handsome.

“But you’re such a beautiful dancer.” He always said that.

You grinned sheepishly, squeezing your squeezing your fingers together behind your back. “Thank you…Steve,” you murmured.

Pastor Steve smiled, handsome and half-cocked. “Now you go on and finish tanning, enjoy your day. I’ll see you soon, Delilah.”

He rose to his feet, tall and thin, and shot you another sweet smile before staggering toward the curb. You lingered in the shade and watched him go, waving when he appeared in front seat. He didn’t wave back, but you could see his grin as he drove away.

♰ ♰

Two days later, you were in the barn again, twirling in your ratty shoes and collecting wind in your arms. Your leaps were quiet, landing like a feather with a quiet tap of your toes. Through your twirls, you could’ve sworn you saw Steve between the slats of wood. But you were certain it was in your mind, overtaken by his low voice and handsome face.

You spun and twirled and leapt all day, until the sky turned to an ashen rose, and then sun disappeared behind the tree line. You threw open the door of the barn and stepped into the cool.

Something pink gleamed near the screen door on the porch. You squinted, quickening your pace to reach the house. When you got there, you paused at the welcome mat.

There they sat: a pair of brand new pointe shoes made of pale pink silk.

They were just your size.

♰ ♰