#superbly subpar steve angst

[superblysubpar]

hi loml

can i get king!steve with the prompt “touch me. anywhere.”

*characters are over 18

A splash of water over your ankles, a holler of ‘turn it up’, the music thumping through the speakers inside the home straining to be heard by the entire town at this point. Warm beer on your lips as your eyes pretend not to roam over the Harrington backyard, searching for the only reason you show up to these sorts of things. 

He leans against the side of the garage, a cigarette hanging between his lips, unlit, rolling his eyes and fiddling with the lighter in his hand. Tommy’s in the middle of telling a story that’s probably false. Wild hands gesturing, a too loud voice and beer splashing from his can onto Carol’s arm as she shrieks. 

No matter how many times you’ve done this with each other, the sting from his eyes never quite meeting yours, the way he’s able to walk right past you all night, it never quite fades. It’s like a bad burn on your skin that never heals, always making you a tad too vulnerable for your liking. 

Which is why your giggle is a little louder and forced tonight, your dress hem a little shorter than normal. Why your hand rests on the chest of the idiot basketball player in front of you, shoving teasingly at his joke that you don’t even remember the punchline to. This time was going to be different. 

The boy in front of you leans forward, and you turn your head, his lips meeting your jaw, then your neck and your eyes meet smoldering ones by the garage. Suddenly the summer night is not the reason you’re feeling too hot, the alcohol not the reason your stomach flips. His arms cross, the muscles in his forearm flex as his jaw clenches. His foot presses to the cigarette he took one single drag of and he pushes off of the wall, slipping through the sliding doors inside. With the excuse of needing another drink leaving your lips, you untangle yourself from the handsy basketball boy, heading inside for a different one. 

It’s easy to pretend that you’re looking for the bathroom, for an unoccupied room. Everyone inside is either too drunk, too stoned, too passed out, or too busy with their lips locked on someone else to notice you tiptoe up the stairs. You find him in his bedroom, swiping at his lips and crushing a can, tossing it into the trash from across the room. 

The door clicks closed behind you as you whisper, “Wow, impressive on and off the court.”

“Don’t you have a throat to go stick a tongue down?”

You look over your shoulder, a hand pressed to your chest and eyes widening in faux innocence, “Me?”

He sits on the edge of the bed, rolling his eyes. The sight of his denim covered thighs spreading wider has your barely covered ones pressing closer together. 

“Don’t be cute.”

A smile tugs at your lips, a timid step forward with the sway of your hips to accompany the batting of your lashes. “You think I’m cute, Steve?”

“Sweetheart, don’t start this shit here.” His words hold no real threat, not when his eyes roam over your body all greedy, not when his palm rests on your hip as you come to a stop between his legs. 

Your fingers ghost over his lips, thumb holding his jaw as you lean forward and whisper in his ear, “Where should I start it then? You know, for future reference. Outside in front of all your friends? How about at the game? In front of your lock-”

The hand on your hip grips you harder, his other tugging on your chin and turning your face so he can look you in the eyes. The fingers so close to your neck has you extending it a little for him, wondering if he’ll wrap his hand around it like last time. But no, he just holds your jaw, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip and tugging a little meanly, but the result is still the same. Thighs slipping together in a search for some sort of friction, your breath catching in your chest just a little. 

He notices. 

He always notices.

Honey and moss eyes that glint with something that’s a little sharp - but never cruel - glance down at the movement and then back at your lips as he leans forward, voice just as quiet. “You’re being pretty fucking smart for someone who was just begging me to touch her, anywhere, in my car only a few hours ago.”

It only takes your lips parting under his thumb a little more when he smooths over it again, the hint of tobacco mixing with beer on his lips hitting your senses, and the buzz of his fingers pushing the hem of your short little dress higher for your hands to fall from his jaw, for the pretend confidence to falter. It’s how it always goes. 

So you shouldn’t be surprised at how your panties grow more damp when he kisses your bottom lip before he juts his out in a fake pout. “Poor baby,” his fingers have climbed higher, his smirk only growing more smug when his fingers brush over the wet lace, “She’s just a greedy lil thing, huh?”

Your whimper is embarrassing, and so is the press of your thighs around his hand. Your fingers curl into the sleeves of his shirt as he pulls away, a silent plea for him to stay.  

Steve leans his arms on the bed behind himself, propping up. He pushes his knee between your legs, nodding towards his thigh. His eyebrows raise, and you want to smack the smug look off of his face when he speaks again, his voice low, tinged with his own greed and want for you that he’d deny. 

“You want it? Take it.”

It’s not a surprise to either of you when you straddle his thigh, his fingers on your bare hips bruising as you rock back and forth. He’s still fully clothed, marking you up with pretty little bites across your sweating skin that you’ll never get to return the favor for. The party only gets louder beneath the two of you, the sky only grows darker, and your ache for it all to go differently for once never dulling.  

There’s always next time. 

[superbfics]

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[superblysubpar]

taylor, light of my life, woman of my dreams.

~ For your smut requests, via a previous conversation we both had. Your prompt is pathetic steve apologizing. maybe he’s on his knees, maybe he’s following you around a party, or you’re giving him the cold shoulder in your shared apartment. I don’t know, whatever you choose we both know we just wanna hear him say “Baby, baby, come on don’t be mad. I’m sorry.”

the song: Best Sex Ever by Vedo

warnings: some comparison to Nancy fucking Wheeler.

The red glow of the alarm clock mocks your wide awake state with numbers that tell you it’s far too late, or well early, to still be awake. You can hear the fridge hum a room over, the drip in the faucet loud enough to mix with the sheets shifting against skin - letting you know Steve is still awake too. 

Refusing to turn and face him, you stare at the open closet door, at the dress on the ground in a crumpled heap that never got a chance to leave the house. There was a lot said, but the only thing that is crystal clear is that you’ll never be Nancy fucking Wheeler. 

Before you could leave, Steve’s palm had pressed to the wood front door over your shoulder, his forehead against your spine as he squeezed at your hip, thumb brushing back and forth under your shirt and begged you to stay, “Please. Don’t go. Let’s…”

You spun around, raised eyebrows and refused to let the sight of his glassy eyes or pink cheeks deter you from being hurt.

Steve blew out his breath, fingers cradling your jaw, “Let’s talk, fuck, let’s fight. Yell at me, I can take it. Just don’t go.”

So you yelled. 

Well, you tried to, mainly you just cried. You told him over and over again to just put you out of your misery, to go be with her. Steve remained adamant that would never happen, that Nancy Wheeler was nothing to him anymore - only for you to only throw back that you couldn’t even leave for dinner without being compared to her. 

Eventually the tears stopped and so did the words. Steve suggested going to bed, whispering once more that he liked that you weren’t Nancy, he loved that you were different from her, and that he was sorry. 

Now he stares at your back, he watches the rise and fall of your shoulders with each breath, he knows you’re still awake. He can still smell the new perfume on your skin, the crumpled dress and his suit jacket on the floor just visible over your shoulder and he sighs. He’s such a fucking idiot. 

His fingers reach towards your hip hesitantly, the pads brushing the little slip of skin between the big t-shirt and boxers that you stole from him years ago. Your body stills, but he lets his fingers brush back and forth, as he scoots closer to you. He leaves space between your bodies, fingers venturing to your arm and running them up and down as he speaks into your shoulder. 

“Are we still fighting?”

When he’s met with silence, his chest aches and he squeezes his eyes closed. 

“I’m an idiot, okay? I didn’t even think about how…I just…I don’t know, okay? I don’t know how to fix it, but I’ll do it. But baby,” he laces his fingers with yours against the mattress, kissing your shoulder and your resolve starts to melt, “Baby. Come on, don’t be mad at me. Please.”

His nose nuzzles into your shoulder, hand engulfing yours and you know he didn’t mean to hurt you and you’ve said all there is to say. If Steve is still here, then he’s still here for a reason.  

“I’m not mad.”

You roll your eyes at the feel of his smile against your shoulder as he asks, “No?”

“Don’t get excited,” you huff, but your body scoots back against his warmth and he has to bite his smile back when you continue, “You have a lot of making up to do, buddy.”

Steve’s fingers squeeze yours as he drags his nose over your shoulder to your neck. He presses a soft kiss to the skin there before whispering, “Well, good thing I have a whole plan then.”

Lips wet and breath warm as his kisses roam over your neck, up and down as you try to talk, voice breathy and making him smile against your skin as you question, “A plan, huh?”

He hums, nose brushing over your ear, “Mhm, first step, some kissing.” He breathes over a spot on your neck that has your fingers grabbing at the sheets, arching against him as his hand rubs up your arm. 

Your lip tugs between your teeth, fighting a moan as his teeth graze over the same spot, sucking a bruise into your skin as his hand continues its journey over your body, resting on your hip. Steve’s breath is shallow as he releases his lips from your neck, hands tugging you back against him. “Step two,” his fingers skim over the band of the boxers, slipping under and moving lower when he feels how wet you already are for him and he falters “Shit, uh, I-”. 

Steve’s eyelids flutter, his swallow too loud in the quiet room as you whine, “Steve. Step two?” 

His middle finger slides between your folds, coated in slick, back up and circling your clit and your fingers tangle the sheet between them further. Steve collects himself, making sure not to grind against your ass that pushes back against his dick harder - this is about you.

"Right, step two," he pulls his hand from your pussy, smiling against your jaw at the whine it causes and he shushes you softly, tugging on your clothes and trying to sound stern but he laughs through the words, "We gotta get all this shit off - patience baby."

Your body shimmies as Steve pulls his boxers and your underwear down your legs a little roughly, frantic with his movements. You kick them off of your ankles and begin to roll to face him. Steve's hand stops your knee, fingers running up your thigh and tapping lightly, voice growing rough and needy as he whispers into your ear, "Step three, open up wider for me, honey."

The shiver that runs down your spine involuntary when Steve whispers, "Good girl," as you hitch your leg higher, resting against his thigh. Steve's fingers continue to move up your skin, slipping easily back between your lips. You don't need to be worked up, to get ready for him, it's clear you already are. Embarrassingly wet if it weren't for Steve's own neediness and desperation clear in his actions and tone.

He slips a finger inside of you, pushing easily into your entrance and curling into the spot that has you gasping. Steve mouths at your neck, the soft fabric of his sweats doing nothing to hide his hard length or how it twitches against your ass when you beg him for more. 

A second finger inside of you without hesitation, they glide in and out effortlessly, his fingers hitting the same spot in a building rhythm that has your eyelids fluttering and your body heating up. Steve's lips press kiss after kiss into your neck, a drag of his teeth, nips to your skin soothed by his tongue. His thumb finally pays attention to your clit, soft circles as he grinds against you from behind, unable to help himself when you make noises like that.  

Your eyelids flutter, fingers wrapping around his wrist and holding him tighter against you as you shamelessly roll your hips down on his fingers. Your neck extends for him, back arching as your walls flutter around his fingers. You're so wet, leg digging into his as you whimper his name. 

Steve gasps against your neck, "Come on baby, relax. Give me one, please?"

Your walls tighten, the fingers wrapped around his wrist gripping harder as you release around him, somehow getting wetter as the coil in your stomach burns hotter, waves of your orgasm rippling through you. While you come down, Steve's careful to lay you on your back, to kiss up your stomach, your sides. Lips ghosting over your ribs and chest as he removes your shirt. Mouth sucking and licking at your skin as he pushes out of his own pants and lays above you.  

He taps at your thigh, pushing your legs wider as he kisses your jaw, your cheeks, and finally your lips. It's much sweeter than any kiss you've shared, his thumb brushing over your cheek, fingers curled under your chin as yours tangle in his hair. Steve rests above you, coarse chest hair rubbing against your skin as you squirm underneath him, his cock gliding between your folds as your hips roll and he licks at your bottom lip before sucking. Steve moans into your open mouth, the sweet apology kiss turning desperate and dirty as your legs wrap around his waist, coating him in more slick as your tongues meet. Hair pulled a little meanly, his teeth on your lip a little harder and you're gasping into each other's mouths. 

Steve's breathless, blinking down at you with hooded eyes, rosy cheeks and swollen lips. Nudging his nose into your cheek as he rasps, "Step 5, we have the best sex anyone's ever had."

You laugh, cradling his face and pressing your forehead to his as he slides inside of you easier than he ever has. Breathlessly asking, "Yeah?"

Steve nods, noses bumping and lips hovering over yours as you both adjust to the feeling of him inside of you, "Yeah."

Lips connecting again as he begins to thrust slowly. Steve's hands roam down your sides carefully and thoughtfully, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His hips roll against yours as his fingers squeeze your waist. You sigh, deepening the kiss as your thumbs swipe over his cheeks, legs wrapping around him tighter. Each thrust slow and meaningful as his mouth parts over yours, languid yet sure in each pass. 

Your arms wrap around his neck, back arching as his warm palms flatten against your spine when they envelope you. You're interlocked, bodies connected and touching everywhere they can.

Steve stops kissing you, whispering your name as his hips still. He waits until your eyes flutter open to speak. The honey in his melting and turning gold as the navy sky outside the window starts to break and turn a soft blue. 

"I'm yours, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

Your smile is warm, and you kiss his bottom lip, speaking into the corner of his mouth as you kiss over his jaw, "I know."

He captures your lips again, picking up his thrusts once more, a hand grazing up your spine till it's cradling the back of your neck and tilting you for him, kissing you even deeper as he pushes inside you in the same way, hitting a spot he never has before.  

You're happy you're not Nancy Wheeler and that you never will be when Steve gasps your name over and over again, making it up to you and then some for hours. 

[superblysubpar]

We'll Call It Love masterlist | It Had To Be You masterlist

the song: Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me) by Train // It Had To Be You playlist

warnings: this story is a part of the series We’ll Call It Love, and much of it would be spoiled if you read this first. It’s linked above, and I hope you love it! | series warnings pertain

2.8k words

A/N: After finishing this chapter, I highly recommend reading the one shot "You're Still The One" linked here, before reading the last story in the It Had To Be You collection | Also, as always, thank you to @rebelfell for her Halloween Party blurb about Eddie in this universe - you can read the story here which is hinted at in part of the story below

“This was a bad idea.” 

He drags his feet, shaking his head behind the girl dressed as Morticia Addams. 

“Oh my god, I did not listen to you talk about grand gestures and this movie for an hour while you changed in and out of the costume six times, Steve.”

“But-”

Leigh spins, resulting in Steve almost smacking right into her. She crosses her arms and huffs, “Did you or did you not say that if you show up in this costume maybe she would see how sorry you are, see how you really feel, see-”

“I know! But I really don’t think it was a good idea any more. She threw a beer in my face last time. Plus, I…I made my choice.” Steve goes to run a hand through his hair, remembering he has this stupid costume on and rests his hands on top of it instead. He kicks at the brick wall, avoiding Leigh’s perceptive gaze.

“Right. So then get inside. Tell her you’re a pirate. I don’t care. But I did not get dressed up for you to stand outside this bar all night and wallow.”

Leigh slaps at his chest, two quick pats and then spins him and pushes him into the crowded and dimly lit bar. 

“Drinks?” Leigh leans in, shouting over the throbbing bass playing, squinting in the purple neon light and strobes hitting her face. 

Steve nods and follows, glancing around, pretending he’s not looking for one person in particular. He needs to apologize, he needs to tell you what’s going on, he just needs…you. But when he finally spots a red dress, he’s suddenly finding it a little hard to breathe because you did come as Buttercup, and you’re more beautiful than ever. 

It feels a little like the first time he saw you at Argyle’s all those months ago. There’s a spotlight hitting you, and there’s suddenly a reprieve in the thrumming music and it feels a little like Steve is walking through jello to get to you. And when you engulf Robin in a hug, and your face is pinched in pain over her shoulder, every part of his body aches. 

When you separate, and face the bar, he watches the looks of bewilderment cross each of your faces, and he blurts out the first thing he can think of when Leigh elbows him in the ribs. 

“Well, there isn’t much money in revenge.”

Smooth, idiot. 

Steve doesn’t hear Robin at first, or watch Leigh. All he sees is the anger and hurt flash across your face at the sight of him. There isn’t an ounce of you that cares he’s in this costume for the reason he is. 

You hate him, and it’s too late to change that. 

“...if you want to ditch Dingus here…”

Steve’s too hot in this damn costume and he glares at Robin, because he can’t be mad at her for complimenting Leigh, but the way your face twitches when she does means it’s clearly not helping and he can’t say so…so…

“Seriously Robin? Are you being serious right now? Where’s Nancy?”

When Leigh asks you where your dress is from and you look like you want to answer but then spin to the bar and blurt out the name of the most expensive drink, Steve wants to throw up. It was all a  big mistake. 

“Robin, where is Nancy? And Eddie? I wanna wish him luck before they go on!” Leigh loops her arm through Robin’s tugging her away from the bar. It’s not lost on Steve when she looks over her shoulder and Leigh points to you, mouthing ‘Talk to her’ with a frown and glare. He rolls his eyes and waves her away. 

Standing next to you, in this costume, not talking, hurts more than he thought possible. It’s like words sit on the tip of his tongue, ready, needing to come out, but he’s too afraid to say them. And what happens if he does say them? Will you suddenly be a fan of relationships? Will you suddenly be able to tell him everything about yourself? Will this suddenly work?

Maybe, if he pays for your drinks, it’ll be the open doorway he needs. Start the conversation.

But you ruin that plan as you push crumpled bills over the bar quickly when he pulls out his card, and he sighs. 

“You’re not seriously wearing that.”

Steve’s not even sure you realize you said it. It comes out soft, timid, like you haven’t spoken in hours and aren’t sure you remember how to. Which makes sense, because he feels the same way, like not talking to you for the last few weeks has made him incapable of doing so all together. 

He watches your pulse on your throat like some crazy obsessive vampire-like guy, he memorizes the twitch in your jaw, the inhale and exhale making your chest rise and fall. He traces each dip and curve of your face, hardened and closed off when you finally look at him. Steve swallows, searching the entirety of your face for some sort of hint that you get what he’s trying to do. That you get why he’s in this costume. A sign. A nudge. A promise that if he keeps trying, it won’t happen right away, but you’ll try too. 

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” 

“Are you fucking kidding me Steve? After everything, after what you said at the game, you’re really gonna stick to not admitting what this is?”

You gesture to his whole body and something inside of him starts to bubble, sick of you not admitting it either. How you know why he’s in this costume. You have to know. And instead of facing your own feelings about it, you’re blaming him. 

“I’m just a pirate. I don’t know what your problem is.”

Steve stares at you and you glare at him and he wonders if it’ll ever be okay again. Will you ever give him a chance to talk and will he be brave enough to spit it out if you do and will you ever be willing to do so yourself. 

It’s this horrible, painful, awkward, long moment of him not admitting and you not admitting that you’re definitely wearing a couples costume embodying truest love - that you both know he’s not just a pirate - when a random asshat claps Steve on the shoulder and says “Oh nice! As you wish, dudes!”

As you flip Steve off, he decides to be the bigger person, to apologize, to try to explain why he’s in this costume even if it puts his heart out there for you to step on. But you’re already retreating through the crowd before he can, weaving in and out of it and towards the exit. 

Steve watches you blatantly ignore Eddie and that bubbling irritation inside of him starts to grow at the thought of Eddie coming to your rescue again. At the thought of you turning to him for comfort. 

“Dude, where are you-”

“I need to talk to her. Just…don’t let Robin see.” Steve pushes at Eddie, vaguely taking in the costume involving fur and glasses and the letterman jacket he can’t even begin to piece together, before he’s following you outside. 

The air is cool against his skin, forgetting how good it felt to not be inside that bar in only a few minutes. There’s a bouncer smoking, a few people down the block, and Steve pulls at the suffocating mask and hat when he spots you walking away. He reaches out for your shoulder, calling your name. 

“Don’t touch me, Steve.” 

When you yank your shoulder from his touch, the tone of your voice, something inside of him shatters. 

How can he be the reason you sound like that? How can he be the reason your face looks like that?

He holds his hands up in surrender, deciding he’ll just leave tonight. It was too soon. 

“Look, I just want to make sure you’re okay. You can-”

When you interrupt him, when you tell him he’s not your boyfriend, the irritation he’s been keeping shoved down begins to grow from its small simmer. And when you can’t help but get closer to him despite the words coming out of your mouth, despite telling him he’s not your friend, he knows he’s about to say things he can’t take back.

“You’d like that right?” That’s it, case closed. Y/N calls the shots and decides everything…” 

Maybe he doesn’t want to take it back. Maybe he needs to say this. To make it clear he’s not the one fucking this up. You are. 

“...You’re a spoiled brat who’s mad because you’ve lost a toy.”

If he acts like it doesn’t hurt, maybe it won’t. 

Your scoff and eye roll punctuate your words, “Me? The spoiled brat? Excuse me, Mr. 50th floor and Daddy’s Credit Card. Take a look in the fucking mirror, Steve!”

What the fuck do you actually have to be mad at him for? It’s not like you love him. It’s not like you care about him. It’s not like this was anything more than sex to you, right.

Right?

When he shouts, when he pleads for you to tell him what you have to be upset with him for, and your chin quivers and your eyes get glassy, he thinks you might admit it. He thinks maybe you’ll say it and he’ll say sorry and you’ll tell each other right here, right now, everything you’ve been holding back. 

And then you shove him. 

And you tell him he’s a hypocrite.

And a liar. 

An asshole. 

Bullshit.

Each word accompanied by a shove to his chest he doesn’t even try to defend himself against. He doesn’t even try to argue. Because are you wrong?

And when you tell him to lose your number, and he searches one last time for any sign of you feeling the opposite of what you just shouted at each other, he says the only thing he can think to say at that moment. 

The only thing to convey how sorry he is. 

The only thing to possibly tell you how he feels despite you breaking his heart right now. 

“As you wish.”

“This was such a bad idea,” you groan, tying a ribbon around a little mesh bag for the fifth time in less minutes. 

You sit in your living room on the carpet. The lights are off save one lamp glowing behind the couch, shining on Inigo passed out in his dog bed just under the blue glow of the TV screen.  Piles organized by category for the little favors to be left on plates for guests take over the entirety of the room and Steve stands in the dining room.

He swipes his wrist over his forehead, staring at his suit hanging from the overhead light fixture. Steam from the iron in his hand swirling around him as he grimaces at the stubborn wrinkles in the fabric. 

“I told you not to volunteer for that. Should have made Eddie do it. He hasn’t done a thing.”

It’s the hottest night of the Summer so far, and he stands there in only his boxers and a plain white shirt, barefoot, you in a sports bra and boyshorts, both surfaces of your skin glistening with sweat despite the AC running overtime. 

The way you both are wearing next to nothing would normally have you finishing the job, tangled limbs and messy kisses, cooling off in the shower together. 

Normally, a wedding of your best friends would have someone grow closer to the person they’re dating and living with. Surrounded by all this planning, all this public devotion, all this love, should make a person imagine themselves in the same situation. 

You’re not normal. 

You hum, starting to go around to the piles, collecting hershey kisses and disposable cameras, chapsticks and pencils as you respond, “Eddie isn’t the maid of honor or the best man.”

If you were to look up, you’d see Steve watching you closely, see the way his brows knit together when you roll your eyes at the customized tic tacs. 

“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath, “This is exactly what’s wrong with weddings. I can’t believe Robin and Nancy are into all this.”

Steve sets the iron down, the newest but certainly not the first comment against weddings rubbing him the wrong way.

Again.

“Into telling everyone how much they love each other?”

You snort, shaking your head as you tie another bag closed and toss it in a bucket to bring to the venue tomorrow.

“I don’t think you need chocolate and lip balm and sunglasses and beer cozies to tell people how you feel.” 

“Sure,” Steve runs a hand through his hair and you look up, finding him leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossing over his chest as he keeps going, “Maybe they don’t need all  of that but-”

“I don’t think they need any of it, Steve,” you clarify before he can get too going about the beauty and meaning behind the day you’re all about to have tomorrow. 

Again.

“There’s nothing wrong with them wanting to tell everyone in any way possible they can, that they love each other.”

You sigh. “I don’t get why they need to tell people in the first place, Steve.”

Aside from a laugh track on the TV, it’s silent and you keep your eyes on your fingers tying green ribbon around pale pink bags. 

Steve finally breaks first, his voice soft when he asks, “What do you mean you don’t get why they need to tell people?”

Shrugging, you avoid his gaze you can feel on the side of your cheek as you start on another bag. “I mean, I don’t get why they need to tell people.”

“Like the entire wedding? You don’t get why they’re having a wedding?”

Your shoulders rise and fall in a shrug again. 

Steve’s heart hammers in his chest while yours pounds in your ears as his voice tries to remain even, but you hear it crack as it rises in volume. 

“You don’t think they should be getting married? You don’t think they should have a wedding?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I just don’t get why weddings exist. Does anything really change? Suddenly you have a legal piece of paper? Cool? After, what? Thousands of dollars. Stress. Bad food. Shitty music. I mean, we’ve watched Robin and Nancy fight over stupid shit like cake flavors the past year. How is that good for anything?”

Steve steps closer to you, his hand running through his hair making it stick up all over the place as his cheeks flush pink. 

“But they love each other and they want to tell everyone that-”

“Why do they have to tell everyone? Shouldn’t everyone already know? And why do they have to spend all this money and throw this big party? That’s all I’m saying.”

You stand again, going to grab the bucket of favors to bring it to the car so you don’t have to in the morning but Steve is shaking his head, volume and his thoughts ramping up.

“They want to throw this party because they love each other so much they just wanna scream it any way they can. Because they want it to be legal. Because they want to have fun with all the people they love and celebrate something so beautiful and unique and strong like their love. I don’t understand how you don’t understand that.”

You stand in front of him, holding the bucket, and maybe it’s the weight of the favors or the way his voice is getting louder and the apartment is getting hotter or the way his eyes seem to have you under a microscope that you snap back a little mean, that you get a little loud yourself.

“Because I don’t understand it, Steve, like I said! I don’t think you need to-”

“It’s not a need. They want to-”

“Fine! Want then! I don’t understand what possesses a person to want a wedding!”

Steve steps closer to you, his brows pinched and his hands running wild through his hair as he yells, “A fucking marriage! A partnership! A way to tell the world ‘hey this is my person, I love them’!”

“I don’t see why you need a wedding for any of that to be true!” You shout right back. 

You stand there facing each other, with ragged breaths that move your chests up and down almost in sync. 

Steve’s swallow is loud, his inhale louder. Time seems to stretch on forever as he stares at you, as his eyes soften into something you can’t quite describe, as flashes of the words he just said and what you said back swirl around you, almost tangible. 

You stand there, in a sea of pink and green, of things that are emblazoned with Robin and Nancy’s names and the words love and forever staring you down as Steve’s voice comes out sharp, cracked, vulnerable, loud. 

“You wanna marry me, right?”

[superblysubpar]

I Think I Only Want You, Under My Mistletoe:

modern!steve harrington x fem!reader

3.6k words

summary: Meeting The Harrington's, an office Christmas party, seeing Steve's big, hard d- Desk. Get your mind out of the gutter. // The prompts: [mistletoe] - a playful or romantic kiss under a mistletoe // [BEND OVER] - one muse bends the other over a table/couch/etc. 

warnings: THIS HAS BIG SPOILERS FOR MY SERIES WE’LL CALL IT LOVE ( #a we’ll call it love blurb // we’ll call it love masterlist) - this blurb takes place only a few short weeks after the end of chapter 5: Getting Older, and before the Epilogue. | slight description of reader worrying about her appearance/comparison and anxiety about what people think of it | slight angst with Harrington parent disapproval and judgement | alcohol consumption | SMUT: semi-public (steve's office) teasing, calling Steve Mr. Harrington and sir, illusions to unprotected PIV intercourse

day 1 of 12 days of superbly subpar writing // requested by @palmtreesx3 - thank you for requesting and continuing to encourage WCIL nonsense. Hope you love it babe! 💛

Steve: You found a dress right? You: Nah, I was thinking I’d just show up in my period sweats and that sweatshirt with the stain on it.  Steve: Honey, seriously, I need confirmation.  You: 🙄 You: yes steve. I got a dress. Relax. 

You tossed more popcorn in your mouth, trying to squash the nerves he wasn’t making any better by harassing you for the last week about the dress. 

Like it wasn’t enough to have a boyfriend after swearing off love. The boyfriend you now had after confessing all dramatic and movie-like that you were falling for the guy despite thinking he was engaged. The engagement he called off because of you, much to his parents' fury. The parents you were going to meet at this party. The party at the office he had just put his notice in to quit, again because of you. 

What was there to be nervous about?

The phone next to you lit up and Robin glanced at it, and you caught the name ‘Dingus’ as she  cleared her throat and locked it. Her voice strained to sound nonchalant. 

“Can I see what you’re wearing to the party tomorrow?”

An annoyed huff and strangled cry left your mouth. “That’s it! I’m not going! I’m not!”

You stomped to the kitchen and poured more of the white wine they brought as Nancy failed to cover her smile, coughing over her laugh. 

Robin sat up on her knees, green clay mask beginning to harden on her face, so only her bright blue eyes could convey her feelings. “Just let us see it so we can tell him he has nothing to worry about and he can relax.”

Your head shook, laughing despite being unamused. “Does he think I don’t know how to dress myself? Does he think I’m gonna actually show up in something disgusting? Does he think-”

“You haven’t met the Harrington's.” Robin interrupts, her voice far more serious than you cared for. 

Stomping off to the bathroom, you scrubbed the mask off your face, splashing cold water against your cheeks and tried to ignore the queasy feeling in your stomach. She’s right. You hadn’t met the Harrington's. You’d heard all about them, and you weren’t sure you’d like to meet them under normal circumstances, let alone these complicated, messy ones. 

“Are you-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” You interrupted Robin’s call down the hallway, closing the door to your room and stared at the wine colored fabric with your arms crossed. 

Slipping it on with resentment and nausea fluttering throughout your body, you ran your hands over the velvet material, tilting your head to the side in the mirror as you exhaled. Turning on your heel before you could find all the ways you hated the dress you once were confident about, you stepped out of the room. Nancy and Robin’s mouths dropped in tandem when you stepped into the light of the living room. 

“What?” You squeaked, hands crossing and curling around your waist. “It’s bad? Is the slit okay? I thought…”

Robin started typing on her phone furiously and Nancy held up her hand as you trailed off, “You are so good. Furthest thing from bad. Don’t worry.”

Your shoulders released their tension, but the crease over your brows deepened as Robin smirked down at her phone. “What are you telling him?”

She hummed, “Don’t worry about it. Relax.”

Relax.

Easy for her to say. 

You: steven. You did NOT send a limo.  Steve: 🤷🏻‍♂️ You: you think you’re so cute, huh? Steve: I think *you* think I’m cute.

He clicked at his desktop more, glasses falling down the slope of his nose as he tried to finish work. He felt awful that not only were you nervous, but he was already here, you had to arrive alone, and he still hadn’t seen your dress. His phone vibrated and he looked down to see a picture of you, in the back of the limo, holding up an entire bottle of champagne just for you, and much to his dismay, a coat covering your dress.

You: you know what won’t be cute? When I down this entire bottle of champagne and puke from nerves all over your parents six thousand dollar shoes harrington Steve: they’ll buy new ones You: 🙄

He continued to work on his computer, people calling into his office and asking if he was coming downstairs to which he nodded and said soon to, until the lights started to turn off and it was just him. Hand running through his hair as he flipped back to his conversation with Robin last night.

Robin: DUDE Robin: You’re gonna go into cardiac arrest when you see her Steve: you’re not helping Robin: your mom will love her, you know she will Robin: Well, eventually. I did. Sort of. Steve: Again, NOT helping Robin: honestly your dad is gonna try to sleep with her Steve: you’re sick, you know that? Robin: The way she looks in this dress is sick steve Robin: ILLEGAL Robin: wow. You have wonderful taste in women Steve: YOU HAVE TO STOP 

Despite already having been to Steve’s office, the sight of it tonight still has your jaw going slack. When the limo stops and the door opens for you, the vast and towering skyscraper shimmering with snow swirling around it seems more intimidating than ever. As you push into the warm lobby, the two story Christmas tree steals your breath further. Decorated in golds, silvers, and crimson, two staircases curling on either side of it. 

You make your way up slowly, admiring the decor, hand gliding over the banister and reeling from the noise coming out of the transformed large ballroom. The space was used for a variety of events for the company, anywhere from big convention type conferences, parties, presentations and more. Steve had told you they’d put in a bar, a dance floor and stage, claiming this year’s Christmas party to be the biggest yet. 

Lucky you.

The room overflows out into the hallway with loud chatter, a jazz band playing familiar holiday songs. Boisterous laughter exploding each time the doors open and close, no doubt louder and more easily flowing from the contents inside the glasses you can hear clinking together and the pops of corks. 

You know you’re supposed to text Steve that you’re here, he said he’d come out and walk in with you, that he had been pulled in by his soon to be former boss. The thought of just going in by yourself is somehow easier though. Perhaps no one will even spare you a glance, not when you don’t have him next to you.

The room is even louder once you’re inside. The air smells like leather and cigars, champagne and scotch, stiff and overpowering floral perfume. It drips in luxury - mahogany tables, three Christmas trees, silver and gold candlesticks over burgundy table runners. 

Your feet carry you inside cautiously, and you spot the bar on the other side of the room and head towards it, ignoring the heat of strangers' stares. Feeling like every woman around you is eyeing you from head to toe, their judgment pushing up their chins and noses, rolling their eyes. Their dresses far more expensive and their makeup and hair done professionally. This was worse than the first time you went to Steve’s apartment. 

This was a big, big, massive mistake. 

When you make it to the bar, you order champagne that you can see already being prepped, hoping it’s comped or on the lower end, mentally preparing yourself for Steve insisting he’ll pay for it despite the zeros. The sharp bubbles slip over your tongue as you try to sip it slowly, eyes roaming over the crowd in search of Steve. 

“You look lost,” a deep voice comes from beside you. 

Turning, you find a man in a three piece navy suit that costs more than your rent. His hand holds a glass with three fingers of amber liquid over ice, a silver watch on his wrist that glints. His other is deep in his pocket, his posture nonchalant and lazy yet oozing with the confidence of a man who knows what he wants and how to get it. His jawline is familiar, clean and sharp, leading to soft brown eyes that roam over your face. He has two freckles next to his ear, and dark brown hair that’s just starting to gray. 

Your swallow is louder than the saxophone solo coming from the far end of the room as he removes his hand from his pocket, extends it to you, and says, “John.”

Fuck. 

“Mr. Harrington, it’s so nice to meet you,” your voice is calm, hand shaking his firmly while the inside of you screams, alarms inside your brain going off, shouting abort, abort, abort!

His lips twitch in a far too familiar way and he cocks his head, “Now, how do you know me and I don’t know you?”

You’re certain that everyone in this room knows who John Harrington is, and he knows it too. You squash the nerves inside of you, taking a deep breath. 

“Well, uh, Mr. Harrington-”

“Please, call me John.” He smiles, encouraging, and you nod, plastering on a bigger smile. 

“Right, Jo-John. I’m-”

“Honey, you don’t recognize her?” A softer, sweeter voice comes up behind him and her warm smile makes a little bit of your nerves disappear. That is until she says your name, and then:

“This is Steve’s friend.”

Friend. Friend. Friend. 

“Oh!” He snaps. “I forgot he decided to bring someone after all.”

Your lungs deflate, your stomach churns, you hear the way your heart cracks, chest aching from the pressure. 

Steve’s mom sticks out her hand, “Vivian.”

Introducing yourself far less confident, voice barely a murmur, cracking as you push out, “It’s really nice to meet both of you.”

“So,” John has a cigar in his mouth now, patting at his pockets for a lighter, frowning when Vivian takes it from between his lips, but he continues, “What do you do?”

“Oh, um,” you take a larger gulp of champagne before finishing, “I’m an assistant right now. But I hope to-”

“I’m sorry, what?” John interrupts you, his brows furrowed. Mrs. Harrington’s hand squeezes his bicep sharply, a smile plastered on her face. But he keeps going, “An assistant? How old are you? Your parents can’t be thrilled with-”

“Dad.” His voice is ice, a protective hand on the small of your back, appearing out of nowhere.  

You’ve heard Steve’s end of phone conversations with his dad, you’ve seen the way the people in this room acted just passing by him in the last few minutes, so you are shocked beyond belief when John Harrington closes his mouth at Steve’s singular warning. 

Vivian’s smile relaxes, her voice warm and syrupy, “Hi honey.” She hugs him and he only returns the gesture with one arm, the other keeping a firm grip on your waist as she pulls away and smiles, “We were just getting to know your friend-”

“Girlfriend,” he corrects quickly, strong, and nods at the bartender. You watch as the man behind the wood bar grabs a bottle from the very top shelf, pours two fingers, neat unlike his father, and Steve grabs the drink he didn’t have to order. Despite the last few moments, the tone and action has your thighs pushing together and you clear your throat as Steve’s thumb swipes over your spine. 

Vivian smiles, quietly correcting, “Right, girlfriend. She was just telling us what she does, right sweetheart?” Vivian pinches John’s arm again and he straightens, forcing a closed-lip smile. “So, an assistant, that’s…exciting?”

“I think we’re gonna go dance actually, we’ll talk to you later.” Steve’s voice leaves no room for argument. 

He starts to pull you away and you call over your shoulder, “It was nice meeting you.”

Steve pulls you through the crowd, his shoulders tense and the scotch tipped to his lips in one sip. He sets the empty glass on a passing tray, grabbing your champagne flute from your fingers as well. He stops in the shadow of one of the trees, his hands finding both of yours as he turns. 

“Honey, I think we have a real problem.”

Your heart and stomach drop even more, voice frail and small as you ask, “We do?”

He nods, face solemn, though his lips seem to be fighting a smile as sighs, “I’m afraid I can’t let you out of my sight all night in a dress like this.”

Relaxation floods over your veins, soothing your nerves as it feels like you finally exhale a breath you’ve been holding since last night. Still a little frazzled from the interaction, but a smile twitches your lips up slightly, forcing a light tone. 

“It’s okay? Up to the Harrington standards despite the girl inside it failing miserably?”

Steve hums, leaning in close, spice and stinging scotch on his breath as his nose traces yours. “I think the dress and the girl surpass all Harrington standards. They rearrange the meaning of the word babe.”

Your eyes roll, but your shoulders hunch again, hands smoothing over the lapels of his tux. “That’s a nice sentiment Mr. Harrington, but I think your parents would disagree on the matter.”

Steve’s eyes flash at the use of Mr. Harrington and your eyebrows raise, curious if it’s the authority of the name or the potential of you being a missus, but he’s too quick for you to investigate, bold and something in his eyes hungry. “Fuck my parents and their obnoxious standards. Every other person in this room wants to be you or be inside of you.”

“Steve.” Your head ducks at the forward compliment, “God, how much of that scotch have you had already?” 

“First glass.” His lips part, tongue licking over his top lip as he smirks, “I think you liked it though.”

“The comment or the way you ordered the drink?”

Steve, breathes into your lips as you tilt easily for him, mouth parting as he says, “Both.”

His hands press to your spine, a barely there kiss, when his name is called. He sighs, spinning to shake someone’s hand. The rest of the evening is spent with men clapping on his back and saying they’ll miss him. He holds your hand as he introduces you to co-workers he seems to genuinely like, flagging down servers and getting you glasses of champagne before they’re empty. Shushing you and kissing your temple when you ask how much it is. Maybe it’s the bubbles in your system, the pink flush to Steve’s cheeks when he stares at you, your name on his lips when he introduces you as his girlfriend, but the interaction with John and Vivian is long forgotten. 

All you can think about now, is how tonight has shown you a side of Steve you hadn’t seen before, and he looks good. He holds his drink that keeps being refilled without being ordered, slipping bills in waiters hands almost imperceptibly, their quiet ‘thank you Mr. Harrington.’ even more so if you weren’t listening. His suit is tailored to his body nicely, pieces of his hair falling over his forehead when he laughs in a charming and confident way. Steve is also handsy, and has been since he pulled you away from his parents. Squeezing your hip, running up your spine in the keyhole along it, pads of his fingers following the straps that hang off your shoulders back and forth, back and forth. Each touch of his skin to yours sparking like frayed wires. 

You excuse yourself quietly in the middle of a conversation about trading and something or other you can’t be bothered to listen to and Steve grabs your wrist, cocking his head in a silent question. You call out a little too loudly, maybe a little too flirty, “I’ll be right back, Mr. Harrington.”

The men around him smirk into their glasses and Steve watches you walk away, the color long gone from his eyes as his pupils take over. You feel the presence of his stare on your back as you make your way to the bar, only turning around when you have another glass in your hand. 

Steve’s still across the room, and you watch the path his eyes take over your body, heat rising to the surface of your skin in their trail like he’s physically touching you. He tracks you as you make your way to the exit, starting on your ankle, up your calf, then thigh. You’re almost able to feel his fingers sliding over the velvet, tracing the slit that exposes the skin. The cinch of merlot fabric on your hips and the way his hands would pause there and squeeze. You take another sip as they travel over the curve of your sweetheart neckline that shows off maybe a little too much. Tracing the path his lips could take over the straps, up your collarbones and neck, and they finally meet your eyes. 

His jaw is tight, tongue wetting his lips and gulping. His eyes narrow as you smile and you glance up at the familiar green holiday leaves hanging above the door, dropping your head and forming a fake pout. 

It takes Steve less than thirty seconds to cross the room, the now empty glass on a tray as he passes yet again, freeing his hands to grab onto your waist as he leans in. You let your bottom lip slip between the two of his, teasing and innocent. 

Steve groans as you bump the door open with your hip, letting your fingers linger on his chest, sighing, eyes wide, “Oh, I bet the view of the city is so beautiful on the 65th floor. You have a big, fancy office don’t you? Do you think I could see it, sir?”

He’s a man possessed. His mouth and hands haven’t stopped moving since the elevator closed. Clumsy lips and your name leaving him breathlessly as he pushed you into the railing as the floors climbed higher and higher. 

“Look too good, illegal, she was right,” he mouthed at your neck, slipping lower into your cleavage enough to make you laugh. 

“Wh-who was right?” 

He growled something that sounded like Robin’s name which made you laugh harder, stopping only when his mouth found yours. 

Steve shushed your giggles, leading you down the dark floor to the office at the corner, pulling the door closed and clicking the lock. 

A brown leather couch, gold lamps, a bookshelf and a cart full of bottles of fancy liquors and sparkling glasses. A giant, wood desk with a tall leather chair. A name plate that glinted and said Steve Harrington with a pair of wire rimmed glasses. 

You’d seen it before, but not on a night like tonight. Not with all the lights off, snow falling lazily across the skyline. Not with champagne in your system, not with your boyfriend. Your boyfriend who had confidence and charm, who commanded respect and attention. Who stood up to his parents for you, for what he wanted.

Steve stood behind you, hands on your hips again as he led you towards the desk. Sucking a bruise under your ear, tongue soothing the way his teeth scraped down your neck. He was wrecked, gone, could cum in his slacks right then and there with the view of you in his office in this dress. Would he miss being in charge at a place like this? Sure. But he had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time he was a boss. 

His voice was strong, cinnamon and scotch on his breath as he commanded, “Bend over, baby.”

You laughed, arching over his desk slowly. Looking over your shoulder as you spread your legs and pouted, “Kind of bossy, Steve, not gonna even say please?”

Steve watched under heavy lids as you kept your gaze on his fingers moving over his buckle, the way your chest moved up and down quicker as he freed himself. He knelt behind you, pushing up the fabric of your dress. Kissing up your calves, your thighs, nipping at the curve of your ass and smirking when you yelped. 

He stood, hands landing on the desk on either side of yours, mouth a ghost over your ear, heaving chest pressed along your spine, and his hard erection pressing into your ass. 

“You think you’re cute, huh?”

A shiver ran through you at his tone, the way his breath hit your cheek and fingers overtook yours on the desk. 

You gasped out, parroting your conversation earlier, “I think you think I’m cute, Harrington.”

Steve’s nose skimmed the curve of your ear, tutting, “No more mister already? Where’d your manners go baby?”

He slid his tip against your clit, circles to it until your head fell forward in a gasp, slick coating his cock with barely anything to prompt it. 

Steve finally moved lower, his lips on your neck and his tip nudging at your entrance but pausing as he laughed, smirk pressed to your skin. “You are cute, though, honey. Prettiest,” he kissed your shoulder, “Sexiest,” a kiss below your ear, “Cutest thing here tonight.”

He kept his tip pressed to your entrance, waiting until your hips squirmed, till your fingers twitched below his. Breath warm on your jaw as he kept his voice even, confident, pulling himself back up to your clit and starting all over again as he spoke. 

“Know what’s even cuter though?”

You whimpered, head empty, nerves buzzing, and stomach burning as his lips brushed against your jaw with each word, head circling your clit and tapping again. 

“You’re about to be begging for me.”