96kurtswrld

[96kurtswrld]

maneater (18+)

pairing: steve harrington x reader

contains: sub/bottom!steve; gender unspecified reader; reader has a vagina and breasts; teasing; bit of mean!reader; desperation; begging; a HINT of puppy play; steve cums twice!!; unprotected piv; dirty talk; praise; some degradation/humiliation; steve big cock harrington (so painful sex for a split sec); breeding kink (also just a mention); some aftercare :)

a note from the author: i hope you guys like!!! a rare sub!steve treat for you on this spring evening 🫶🏻

You lean in. You pull back. Steve tries to chase you.

You lean in again. Steve’s close to winning, but you pull back just in time, his lips hardly brushing against yours.

His eyes narrow at you, frustration evident. You smile, eyes hooded.

“You know the rules.”

He huffs. Acts like he didn’t tell you in a drunken stupor two days ago that he wants you to call the shots.

“You’re fun to tease,” you say, leaning forward again, rubbing the tip of your nose against his. His eyes flutter shut, lips pursing, but you pull away before he has the pleasure.

Steve’s hands shoot up from the couch beside him, and you stop them right before he gets his hand on the nape of your neck and the small of your back. You tut at him, shaking your head, and press his eager hands back into the cushion.

“Please,” he whimpers.

You tuck his hair behind his ear, looking at him lovingly. “Please, what?”

His cheeks are pink. “Let me kiss you. Wanna kiss you so bad.”

You hum. “You don’t get to kiss me. You’re not in charge here, Harrington.”

You run your finger down the bridge of his nose. Steve’s eyes almost cross.

“Please kiss me,” he revises. He adds another please, but it’s hardly above a whisper.

“If you insist.”

His eyes shut again, his pretty face relaxing - relieved. You lean forward, cupping his warm cheeks with your hands, and press a light kiss to his lips.

You pull back a little. He’s expecting more, like that was just a warm up.

It wasn’t.

“Happy now?” you ask.

Steve groans. His head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenched.

You simply giggle.

“Baby,” he says, lifting his head to look at you. Beside him, his fingers flex. “What do I have to do, huh? Begging isn’t enough?”

You shake your head, biting your lip. You move forward to press your lips against his ear.

“Tell me every little thing you want me to do to you.”

To be a bitch, you grind down on his cock. He shivers, cock kicking in his jeans.

You know it’s hard for him to ask for what he wants like this. He usually just gets it, no begging required. It’s awkward, takes him a while to find his words. You watch with glee - it’s very hot to bitch him out.

“Want you to kiss me,” Steve starts. He keeps his eyes closed, and you don’t push it. “I want you to kiss me ‘til it’s hard for me to breathe.”

He shifts, groaning slightly as his cock ruts against you.

“And I want… I want you to give me hickeys.”

“Where?”

His hands twitch, but he stops himself. “My neck.”

You lean in once again, pressing your lips against his sensitive skin. He sighs as you kiss along his jawline.

“What else?”

“I want you to ride me,” he groans. “And when I cum… I want you to keep going.”

You grin, nibbling at him. “Where do you want to cum?”

“Inside,” he rushes out. “Please.”

“Hm. I’ll consider it.” You bite his earlobe. “Anything else?”

He whimpers. “Want you to praise me,” he says quietly.

You laugh breathily, making his skin prickle. “Then lose the attitude.”

You feel him swallow against your lips as you kiss along the skin, waiting until he whimpers at a particularly sensitive spot before sucking. He tastes fresh, a little salty. You lick up his neck and he gasps, hips bucking.

“Want me to mark you up so people know you’re mine, huh?” you whisper. “Maybe I should keep you on a leash, show everyone who owns you.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, his head falling back. You smile, sucking on his pulse point.

“Yeah? Wanna be my puppy, Steve?”

He nods, face red and radiating heat.

You kiss downwards towards the base of his neck, featherlight kisses placed against his scar. “Might as well. You’re acting like a bitch in heat.”

“Please,” he groans.

You gently bite his collarbone and pull away. He looks wrecked, face red, jaw clenched. “What is it, honey?”

“Kiss me,” he whimpers.

You trail your finger across his collarbones, staring into his eyes. He’s pleading, really selling the whole puppy thing. “If you could choose, would you rather kiss me or fuck me?”

“Kiss you.” He doesn’t even have to think about it.

Your cheeks heat now. “You’re such a romantic,” you coo. “Are you just being sweet with me to get what you want?”

Steve shakes his head viciously. “I’m - it’s the truth.”

Taking pity on him, you cup his jaw.

“No hands,” you remind, before pressing your lips to his.

You linger. You don’t quite kiss him hard, but it’s much firmer and longer than what he was previously given. Steve pants against your lips, hands clenching beside you.

You hardly pull away when you ask, “What would you do if I let you touch me?”

“I’d give you everything you want.”

It’s so tempting. There’s not a lot more that you love in this universe than having Steve’s strong arms around you, keeping you pressed to him. He’s always acting like he’s scared to lose you - everyone in his life, in fact - and you can’t quite figure out why.

“If you touch me, will you let me be in charge?”

He nods, coffee-brown pupils blown.

You hop off of his lap and he whines, reaching out for you.

“Relax,” you say, leaning forward to kiss the top of his head. “Pants and underwear off, honey.”

He moves fast with wide eyes and watches you remove your own clothes. You stay in your bra. It’s thin, and Steve’s eyes immediately hyperfixate on your tits. Your eyes trail down to his cock, painfully hard, tip pink and swollen.

You climb back onto him, straddling his thigh. Steve gasps, hands hovering, waiting for your permission.

“You’re so wet.”

“All for you, pretty boy.”

You take his hands and gently guide them to your hips. His hands immediately find purchase, fingers groping at the soft flesh.

“Don’t try to lead, Steve.”

He shakes his head as if he’d never even think about it.

He sighs as you move, eyes boring into the sight of your slick on his thigh. He sounds like you’re really fucking him, even though his cock is sitting neglected beside you. You glance down to watch it kick on its own, so heavy and lonely.

You bring your hand up to his mouth. “Spit.”

Steve’s eyes focus in. “Huh?”

“Spit, Steve.”

Confused, embarrassed, he does as he’s told.

“Again.”

He gives you much more to work with this time. Your hand snakes down to wrap around his aching cock and he gasps, hips jerking up into your fist.

“Uh-uh,” you chastise, loosening your grip.

“Christ, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please please please give it back!”

You’d never say no to him when he begs like that.

You stroke him in tandem to your hips movements, slow and drawn out. He’s sweating, making such an effort to stay still. His fingers bruise your skin, but you don’t quite mind it.

“You’re so goddamn hot when you beg,” you say, leaning forward to kiss him just a little. “Love seeing you like this. Big, strong Steve Harrington reduced to a little plaything.”

His cock pulses in your palm while his eyes roll back. His neck looks so pretty on display, your hickeys littering the skin, tendons flexing, that little silver scar around his collar like a necklace.

“You really are a good boy, Steve,” you continue, twisting your hand while he pants. “Always so eager to please. So sweet.”

“I love you,” he mumbles.

“I love you, too. Don’t get cute.”

“I need you,” he whimpers.

“Want another kiss?”

He nods, and you lean in. Just as your lips touch, you pull away again, teasing him like before.

He groans, sounding more frustrated than ever. “You’re killin’ me.”

“What’re you gonna do it about it, huh? Gonna pin me down, make me take it? Or is that my job?”

You clit throbs against his thigh, dragging slowly while you watch him short circuit. You bring your hand to your own mouth, spitting before jerking him off again.

“I think you like being out of control,” you sigh. “I think you like it when someone tells you what to do. Don’t you?”

He nods fervently, messy hair falling over his forehead. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if he can’t look at you.

“Then let me give you a task,” you say, moving off of his thigh to straddle both of his legs, the tip of his cock kissing your clit.

You take his hand from your hip and move it between your thighs. “Get me ready for you.”

There’s no hesitation. Steve has two fingers buried inside of you before you can process it, and you moan loudly. His fingers crook up right against the spot you like, making your legs shake.

“Good boy,” you moan, throwing your arms around his neck. “This - this is f-for me, not you.”

His fat cock leaks, anyway. Steve’s knuckles rub against it with every push and pull of his middle and ring fingers.

His thumb swipes across your clit, your nipples perking as he works on you. His eyes are glued to them, lips parted.

“Y’want my tits, too?”

He whines and nods. “Please, please, please give me something.”

“Your fingers in my cunt not enough?”

“I - I -“

“You’re so pussy drunk,” you pant. “Does - does your cock hurt?”

He nods up at you, pouting. His pace doubles down, pressing against your sweet spots firmly and consistently.

“Y’know I need one more,” you say, and he’s slipping his index finger into you, too.

The stretch is uncomfortable, but you’re happy to take the temporary pain.

“So good.” He’s praising you.

You laugh. “You’re my good - my good b-boy, stretching me out so sweet.”

You sink down onto his cock without much warning. So little warning, in fact, that he shouts. Let’s out a little “ah!” and swiftly bucks his hips upward, his hands grabbing your waist. You wince hard, the stretch too much, pain shooting through your pelvis.

“I’m sorry!” he says quickly. He breaks the no-hands rule to cup your cheeks, wiping stinging tears from your eyes. “I didn’t - you didn’t tell me —“

You shake your head, taking a deep breath.

Steve, his own eyes watering, grabs your hips and tries to haul you off, but you glare at him.

“Don’t pull out.”

You hear his breath catch in his throat as he stills. He looks confused, thick brows furrowing together, his chest and face red.

“Need a second,” you whimper. “No apologies, Stevie, my fault for not warning you.”

Kindly, Steve’s thumb finds your clit and he rubs gentle circles into it. You relax a bit, the pain slowly - so slowly - dulling.

“Good boy,” you whisper. “Making me feel so good after splitting me open on your cock.”

He groans. A bead of sweat trails down his temple.

Your chest heaves, trying to catch your breath, to focus on anything other than the stretch. “Tell me how my pussy feels.”

Steve swallows hard, his thumb still helping you through it.

“It’s - it’s really - uh, it’s really t-tight. So goddamn tight. And wet, and hot… You - you’re soft.” He shakes his head, widened eyes meeting yours. “I’m not gonna last.”

Steve’s words and work on your clit have your stomach tightening, the pain subsiding.

“You’re going to last, Steve,” you say, lifting up slowly. The relief is immense, but you feel so empty. “You better hold it until I cum. Got it?”

He groans but nods.

“Might as well keep touching me,” you say, giving the tip of his nose a quick kiss. “Need you to keep rubbing my clit, ‘kay? You wanna touch my tits?”

He nods again, eyes hooded. Probably feels so cold without your cunt on his shaft, just the tip inside.

You take one of his hands and move it to your breast. “Not allowed to touch anywhere else. No moving your hips, either. You’re going to take what I give you.”

“I’ll take it,” he agrees.

You sit down without warning and Steve gasps loudly. His thighs tighten under your ass and he grits his teeth, throwing his head back.

“Come on, Steve,” you strain, “touch me.”

He rambles while you ride him, his fingers pinching and pulling at your lace covered nipples and clit. You ride him slowly, looking down at him with your brows stitched together. He’s so gorgeous, so pretty when you get on top. So frazzled and needy. Your hickeys have since turned purple, the bruises on his skin blooming like violets.

You attach your lips to his neck again.

“Ohhhh phhhuuuck,” he groans, the hand on your breast squeezing.

“You feel so good, Steve.” You nip at his jaw and tickle under his ear with the tip of your nose. “Fat fucking cock fills me up so good.”

His eyes roll back. His throat vibrates under your lips.

“Shouldn’t … I shouldn’t have taken i-it so easy on you.” It’s hard to speak, your pleasure growing. “May- maybe I should just sit on you- your cock, keep it warm instead.”

“No no no no no,” he rushes out, shaking his head. “Gotta cum, please let me cum, oh my God.”

“But we just started,” you breathe, picking up your pace. You lift your head to look at him, watching him desperately try to keep his head on. “What’s the fun in that?”

You notice that his thumb has began to move faster, too. He’s clearly trying to get you to cum quickly. And it almost works. Stomach tightening, cunt throbbing around his shaft, and you know it would feel so good to clench down on him and take his cum.

But you maintain your composure.

“No cheating,” you pant.

“Not… I’m not,” he slurs. “Want you t’feel good.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Aren’t you sweet?”

“Lemme help,” he whines, rubbing his thumb over your nipple. “Wanna taste.”

Your pussy aches. “Through my bra.”

He lurches forward to suck and kiss at your tits, dampening the fabric with his spit. It feels so good, the rough lace rubbing against your nipple with each swipe of his tongue. He’s a great multitasker, too, still doing his best with your clit.

You’ve never heard him sound so slutty. He moans, groans, sucks, licks loudly. It’s such a turn on, your stomach flipping, your breaths growing heavy.

“Good boy,” you whimper, moving as fast as your legs will allow you. “So fucking pretty and hot, Steve, l-look at you, Christ. Make - make me feel so good. Y’r so big, f-fillin’ me up - y’gonna cum in me?”

“Please!”

Your legs are sore, shaking at the exertion. You press yourself against his chest, bracing yourself on him.

Your lips ghost over the shell of his ear. You feel him shiver.

“Fuck me.”

Ever obedient, he obeys. Planting his feet, he adjusts his hand to grip your hip and snaps his own up into you.

He fucks like it’s the last time he ever will. Like it’s the last time he’ll ever feel your sweet cunt around him. He groans expletives into the crook of your shoulder, biting your skin, sucking on your neck.

“Shit!” you gasp, your back arching.

Steve moves his arms to wrap around you, keeping you pressed against his chest.

He’s not allowed to do that. But you feel too good to stop him, so you decide to create some equilibrium. Your hands curl into his hair and you tug harshly, forcing his head back, the prettiest noise sneaking out past his lips.

“Gonna make me cum?” you grit, feeling your climax nearing. You don’t even need him to coax you with a finger on your clit. “Y’gonna f-fill my pussy up?”

“Fuck!”

You smash your lips against his, teeth colliding. It’s not a loving kiss - it’s ownership. You own him.

The moment Steve licks into your mouth, you’re done. Body tensing and trembling, you tighten around his cock and cum, hard and swift. He fucks you though it, though he’s whimpering loudly.

He won’t cum until you tell him to.

Using your remaining strength, you put your lips to his ear once more.

Smiling deviously, you whisper, “Fuck a baby into me.”

It’s comical how fast it takes him over the edge. His teeth bite into your shoulder and he groans, slurs out some words that you can’t understand. His warm cock pistons in and out of you until he buries himself all the way inside of you. The pressure is immense, but feeling the warmth of his cum fill you makes it worth it.

Steve’s still panting when you pull back. He’s blissed, fucked out, sweating and red. He smells like sex and sweat and sandalwood. You lean forward to kiss him, nice and soft and sweet, cupping his burning cheeks.

“So good for me, Stevie,” you murmur between kisses. “My beautiful boy, did so good.”

Steve nods, a lopsided grin spreading across his face, eyes almost closed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Your legs still shake, but you do as he requested before. You don’t stop. Your cunt is swollen and sore but you slide up and down his shaft slowly, gasping softly with each rise and fall.

“Hey,” he gasps, digging his nails into your skin. “Baby - woah.”

“You said you wanted me to keep goin’.” You play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

He throws his head back, groaning long and deep, writhing beneath you.

“Too much,” he breathes.

“Thought you wanted this, honey. Doesn’t my pussy feel so good? All full of your cum?”

He jerks violently. “Honey — oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Gonna cum again?”

He exhales loudly from his nose. Shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again. His stomach ripples and tightens, chest rising and falling rapidly while sweat pools at his hairline.

“Such a fucking slut,” you continue, smiling when he reacts with a whine. “Wanna cum again? Huh? Greedy.”

“I was good,” he chokes out.

And he’s right. It’s his first time, after all. He wasn’t bad for a novice.

“You’re right,” you coo. “Good little slut for me. So handsome when you’re fucked out… cum feels so good in me.” You sink all the way down, resting on his balls, swollen and sensitive. “Look, sweetheart, you’re fucking your cum right back into me.”

You run your nails through the hair on his chest. You lift up once, then down, and he’s cumming again, his back arching and burying himself as far inside of you as he can go.

You kiss around his face, his sweat salty on your lips. With a final peck on his hot cheek, you pinch his side and slide off of him gently, both of you hissing. You press your forehead against his and nuzzle your noses together.

“Hi,” you say softly.

Steve’s still planting. He nods. He can’t speak yet.

“You okay?”

He nods again.

“Let’s lay down, okay?”

You hurt between the legs as you stand unsteadily to let him lay down on the couch. He throws an arm over his eyes and sighs deeply, his spent cock softening on his lower stomach.

“C’mere,” he says hoarsely, reaching for you.

“I’m messy,” you whisper. “And so are you.”

His hand slides downwards, finding your cunt again. You gasp as his fingers weakly slide between your folds, and he groans when he feels his cum slipping out of you.

“Messy,” he repeats, a stupid smile on his face.

“Yeah, you are, too. You want a bath, or just a washcloth?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t go.”

You bite your tongue, trying to suppress a smile as you look at him. “If you get in the bath with me, you can do whatever you want to me tomorrow.”

Steve sighs again, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

“Might need a sec,” he pants.

You giggle and kiss his nose. “I’ll start running the water.”

[96kurtswrld]

Tumblr is pranking me again by hiding the request I want only for the day I want to post it :( but here it is: what do you think of Steve being a total gentleman, like walking closer to the road whenever he’s with reader, making sure reader doesn’t bump their head when they bend over to tie their shoe, holding every door … our chilvarous king

cw: lil bit of gender norms/patriarchal dating norms

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 630 words

For the record, Steve likes to think that he was always nice to you. Not because you’re a girl or anything like that, just because he’s your friend and that’s the kind of guy Steve is trying to be. But ever since last Thursday, when you’d knocked his hand away from his car radio to put your own tape in and looked over at him from the passenger seat with a smile that made his heart thunk frighteningly against his ribcage, Steve has found himself wanting to do things a bit…different. Not nicer, really, just different. 

He does things like letting you have the last slice of pizza from the box, and not giving you as much shit when you pick off all the pepperoni. He finds his hand shooting out on instinct to tug you away from sharp corners before you can bump your hip against them or cover the back of your head to keep it from hitting the bottom of a table when you’ve bent over to retrieve a dropped pen. You watched E.T. together last week, and instead of making fun of you for getting all glossy-eyed at the end Steve had the idiotic urge to kiss you dizzy. 

So, the insanity comes in big and small waves. 

Then there are times like now, when he’s just trying to be basically decent and you won’t let him. 

“I just feel like he’s gonna freak her out,” you’re saying, squinting despite your sunglasses as you walk down the narrow sidewalk to the donut shop near your place. “I mean, she’s probably already freaked out. If you like a girl, you ask her on a date, not loiter around her work like some kind of creep.” 

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, “Eddie is kind of a creep.” 

You huff amusedly. “That’s what he wants everyone to think, for sure. I know his intentions are pure and all, but if I were her I would definitely not think—what are you doing?” You turn around as Steve drops behind you, walking backward to keep him in your sights. 

“Nothing,” he says, trying to come up on your other side. But you maneuver to keep him on your right. 

You give Steve a strange look. “We’re not turning here. It’s still a few blocks.” 

“I know where it is.” 

“Then what do you keep turning for?” you laugh. 

Steve fights not to huff. “I’m not turning, I’m just—you’re gonna get hit by a car.” 

You look to the side, at the notably empty neighborhood street. You say, “I think I’ll be okay.” 

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, taking your elbow in hand to maneuver you to his other side. 

You let out a little laugh but allow yourself to be pulled. Your shoulder bumps into his teasingly. “Feel better?” 

“Yeah, actually.” 

You give him a sideways look, a smile hidden in the corner of your mouth. Steve feels like there’s a hornet’s nest in his stomach. 

You laugh. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“I’m not,” he says, but his voice comes out softer than he intends. “I’m not, Jesus.” 

“Okay, well,” you roll your eyes at him, “I forgot my wallet at home, so can you spot me and I’ll pay you back after?” 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’ll just get it.” 

You send him a look like he’s just recited the prologue to Romeo and Juliet from memory. 

“Relax, it’s thirty cents.” 

You keep looking at him like that, though, worse when he pulls open the door to the donut shop and steps aside to let you go first. You actually reel back a little. 

“You are being,” you say, side-eyeing him as you go inside slowly, “so weird.” 

Yeah, Steve is well aware.

[96kurtswrld]

constantly thinking about how steve was alone in the back of the ambulance at the end of season 3 watching everyone else reunite with their families

baby boy needs a hug

STOP it. i will throw up.

his sailor's uniform that was once so cheesy and endearing is covered in blood and sweat and vomit; his left eye so swollen that he can barely see out of it.

he can't find his car keys, so he's kind of resigned himself to walking all the way from the mall with a definite concussion and probably at least one broken rib. every intake of breath hurts.

and you spot him from over your mother's shoulder, though you're not sure what to say. what could you possibly say to console anyone who just went through what the whole of you went through?

you can barely get your mom to release you from her iron-clad grip long enough for you to go see if he needs anything. a ride home or a hug or a joint. something.

he's the only person here who doesn't have a mother holding him in her arms. the EMT's have even stopped paying attention to him. there's no reason for him to still be sitting there-- wrapped in that tinfoil blanket-- and yet, he hasn't left.

steve offers you a weak, barely there smile that doesn't reach anywhere near his eyes when he spots you approaching. his grins usually incite the cutest crow's feet by his eyes, smile lines adjacent to his lips. but not tonight.

"hey," he whispers when you reach him

"hey," you whisper back, "what did they say about your--" you gesture around your head, your torso.

"pretty gnarly concussion," he tries to play off, "bruised...everything else," he chuckles but it's so obviously not funny. you don't even crack a smile.

"steve..."

"listen, um," he clears his throat, "this is so--lame, god-- but could i maybe crash at your place tonight? i swear, i'll go home in the morning--"

"steve--" you take a microscopic step forward, hesitant to touch him, to comfort him, but aching to. "of course you can. you can stay as long as you need to. c'mon," you settle on offering him a hand to help pull himself up. at least that could be played off as simply friendly-- if either of you are capable of remembering this night years from now.

steve takes it, his hand clammy and blood-streaked in yours. you hope you won't have to do much convincing for your parents to let a boy stay over, given the circumstances.

"mom, this is steve. he needs somewhere to stay tonight--"

you aren't even able to finish your sentence before your mother, ever the caretaker, interrupts you, "of course, sweetheart. oh, you poor thing." you're not entirely sure whether she's referring to you or steve. maybe both.

after refusing your mother's several offers to swing by his house on loch nora to grab a change of clothes, she finally accepts and lets him borrow a pair of your father's sweats and a t-shirt. he's settled into the pullout couch in the basement.

"um, if you need anything, my room is the first door on the right upstairs."

he nods, you can tell it hurts him to do so, "thanks. and thanks for letting me stay, you didn't have to--"

"don't." you tell him firmly, "you shouldn't have to be alone."

you're unsure what time it was-- having never checked your alarm clock-- when steve trudged his way up to what he really hoped was your bedroom door, nudging it with his foot. you were still awake to no one's surprise, staring blankly at your ceiling fan as it spun in an endless, hypnotizing circle-- it's only job in life. how enviable.

you let steve crawl into your bed beside you after he'd confessed he couldn't fall asleep downstairs. mindful of his injuries, you pet his hair, smoothing it away from his face as you did. you hugged him close to you after that, rubbing soothing circles into the tense muscles of his back. you were acutely aware of his shoulders shaking at one point, a wet patch on the shoulder of your sleep shirt where his head rested. you wondered when the last time that anyone held him was. you didn't call attention to his obvious weeping.

"you're safe, steve. you can rest now." you whispered softly into the shell of his ear.

his nod was nearly imperceptible, but he did sleep that night. and even despite the circumstances, better than he had in a long, long time.

[96kurtswrld]

Steve Harrington x Female!Nerd!Reader

Summary: Back in high school, Steve Harrington and his friends made your life miserable. Now you have your chance to get your revenge...unless something unexpected gets in the way.

WC: 3.8k

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), big dick Steve Harrington, fingering, praise, unprotected p in v, past bullying, angst to fluff.

Divider credit to @strangergraphics

If you had it your way, you never would have returned to Hawkins. 

Your hometown seemed even smaller after you went away to college. You’d taken summer classes and slipped into jobs left behind by students who had gone home over the break. Anything to avoid seeing that dreaded “Welcome to Hawkins” sign another godforsaken time. But now that you’d graduated, there was no more hiding. 

It was temporary. Just until you found a job somewhere far away from here. Then you’d be rid of this place, rid of your parents’ house and the bedroom where you had shed too many tears over insults and backhanded compliments gleefully served out by Hawkins High royalty. 

Day three of being back involved mailing out countless résumés for jobs you knew wouldn’t get. The taste of envelope glue would probably stick to your tongue for days, and for what? A politely-worded rejection letter? Radio silence altogether?

You needed something to take your mind off of the stress, of the college degree you’d worked so hard for and was seemingly all for nothing. 

The bell chimed as you strode into Family Video. The absolute most brain-meltingly idiotic comedy—that’s what would get you through the day. 

And speaking of brain-meltingly idiotic…

Steve Harrington stood behind the counter, fumbling with a stack of VHS tapes. King Steve. Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington. Threw the best parties—not that you ever scored an invite, drove the coolest car, slept with the hottest girls. He was the kind of guy who skated through life, only making an effort to berate those who weren’t so lucky. 

And now, if that ugly green vest was any indication, he worked at a video rental store. 

“Can I help you with something?”

Shit. You were staring. Because in addition to being a total moron, Steve Harrington was incredibly handsome. 

It wasn’t hard to notice. During senior year, your locker was down the hall from his, and you couldn’t help but glance at him every so often. The way he’d run his fingers through his hair, giving it that effortlessly tousled look, turned your insides into mush.  

Four years later, it was still happening. 

“I’ve got it.” Eye contact was impossible, so you snapped your gaze to the rows of movies instead of the man who contributed to making your teenage years a living hell. 

“You sure?” Crap, he was walking towards you, and no amount of wishing would make him go away. 

You grabbed the first movie you saw. Adventures in Babysitting. Could be worse. “I said I’ve got it.” You held up the tape for good measure. 

Steve nodded, slightly taken aback by your terseness. Not like he didn’t deserve every bit of attitude, plus more. “Yeah, okay. Let me just…check you out over here.” He winced. “I mean, check the movie out for you. So you can watch it and stuff.”

There was an awkward silence as the two of you walked back to the counter, though you would have preferred it to what he said next. 

“I’m Steve, by the way.”

Humiliation seeped from your pores. Of course he didn’t remember you. Why would he? He was on top of the world, and you were just Weird Girl, according to him and Tommy Hagan. 

“Weird Girl, head’s up,” as a basketball whizzed past your head. 

“Watch where you’re going, Weird Girl,” like they didn’t purposely bump into you while you walked down the hallway. 

You straightened your posture and cleared your throat, the memory along with it. Steve didn’t remember you. 

You told him your name and waited for the moment of recognition, but it never came. Of course it didn’t. You never had a name to him; you were just ‘Weird Girl.’

“You, uh, got anyone to watch that movie with?” Steve’s forearms pressed into the counter. “Like a…friend or a…boyfriend, maybe?”

You shook your head. What was he getting at? What if he did remember you and was just setting you up to be the butt of another joke?

“Cool.” He nodded, though his demeanor was much more fidgety than his words suggested. “So maybe we could watch it together? Or,” he quickly added, “we could grab a bite to eat?”

He blathered on about the new pizza chain that opened a few months ago, but you hardly focused on that. Steve Harrington asked you out. 

Part of you assumed this was a prank. You’d make plans for dinner and when you showed up, he’d be waiting there with Tommy and Carol—were they still dating?—keeled over from laughter. Oh my God, Weird Girl actually thought I’d take her on a date!

But another part of you schemed. Maybe he really did forget you, and maybe that was a good thing. Maybe this was your chance to humiliate him for once. Get him back for all of the times he made you want to shrivel up and die right in front of your locker. 

You feigned a smile before you could chicken out. “Come over to my place at eight?” That was safer. No chance of his cronies hiding out ahead of time. And your parents were out of town, so there wouldn’t be any uncomfortable interruptions.

Steve’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly composed himself with a nod. “Yup, sounds good.”

You’d already begun formulating your master plan when you scribbled your address on the back of an old receipt. Guys like Steve Harrington only cared about one thing: sex. And not just sex, but how good they were at it. You couldn’t imagine the number of girls faking moans just to stroke his ego in hopes that he’d ask them on a second date.

You would not be one of those girls.

No, you were going to do the exact opposite. Steve would come to your house, you’d start playing the movie, and you’d go along with whatever handsy maneuver he’d inevitably try to pull. Maybe you’d make out for a little while, maybe he’d just immediately lunge underneath your skirt. Those little details didn’t really matter. No, the important part would happen once he was fully seated inside of you as deep as he could go. You’d look him dead in the eyes, furrow your brows, and innocently ask, “is it in yet?”

Just the sight of him feeling adequate for possibly the first time in his life would probably make you come. Not that you’d tell him, of course–no, you’d let him toil in shame before letting his softening cock slide out of you. If you derived any pleasure from this, Steve would never know about it.

Steve arrived at your place at eight o’clock on the dot. His BMW pulling into your driveway tentatively, like it could sense that this was a trap. For a second, you worried that you’d be found out, the thoughts somehow jumping from your brain into Steve’s. But then he was closing the door behind him with one hand and carrying a brown paper bag in the other. 

Of course he brought booze, you thought, but your curiosity piqued as he approached. Whatever was in that bag wasn’t alcoholic in nature; not unless liquor rattled in boxes.

“Hey,” Steve smiled when you answered the door. You bit back a laugh when the scent of aftershave, or some kind of musky cologne, wafted towards you. He had even put effort into smelling nice. He really thought this was the real deal, that he’d managed to score an easy lay with a random stranger.

You smiled back, though not for the same reason he did. “Hey. Come on in.”

“Thanks.” He tracked your gaze to the bag at his side. “Oh, right. I bought some candy, but I wasn’t sure if you preferred chocolate or more, like, chewy stuff? And then I figured, ‘well, maybe she likes salty better,’ so I threw in a coupla bags of chips.” He turned the bag over, releasing an array of snacks. A box of Jujubes, a KitKat bar, a Snickers bar, a bag of M&Ms, a pack of Twizzlers, and three bags of chips scattered along the coffee table. You got a better look and saw that one was regular, one sour cream and onion, and one barbecue flavored. 

Steve looked at you expectantly. “You pick first. I’m good with any of these.”

If you were being honest, the selection was a bit overwhelming. You picked up the bag of barbecue chips before you could overthink this. Who cared about snacks? The goal wasn’t a good date; the goal was to reduce King Steve to a court jester.

He grabbed the M&Ms, gently tossing the bag in the air and catching it. “I’m more of a sweet guy, myself.”

You refrained from rolling your eyes. Yeah, real sweet. That’s why he spent your formative years making fun of you and not even bothering to remember who you were.

It wasn’t as though your looks had changed dramatically since you graduated four years ago. Sure, you might have grown into your features a bit rather than wearing them like a discounted Halloween costume. It was your confidence that bloomed as you learned about yourself, far away from the suburban sycophants that stifled your growth at every turn. 

Which was why you needed to exact revenge as soon as possible, before you were in Hawkins long enough for them to snuff out your light once again.

It was five minutes into the movie before Steve made a move. It was subtle: the classic yawn-and-stretch that ended with his arm around you. To his credit–and your chagrin–his hand stayed on your shoulder without wandering down to your breast.

You snuggled in closer, draping your legs over his lap. “Comfy?” 

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he nodded.

Every so often, you subtly shifted to create a hint of friction between your legs and his groin. Only once did he give any indication that it was affecting him, a slight bite of his lower lip as his fingernails dug into your calf. Yet his eyes remained glued to the TV screen.

You had to up your game.

This isn’t for real. You’re just getting him back, you silently reminded yourself as you leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to the side of his neck.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, resting his head back. You repeated the motion until he finally turned to you and kissed you back.

It didn’t shock you that he was a great kisser. Soft lips and hand on the back of your neck to keep you where he wanted you, but without a hint of force. It wasn’t until you placed yourself on his lap, facing him, that his tongue prodded for entrance.

You let him in without any reluctance, rolling your hips and eliciting a moan that came from deep within his chest. Everything about him was unfairly sexy: the flex of his biceps as he pulled you closer, how easily your fingers tangled in his silky hair, how his hips involuntarily bucked up each time you pressed yourself closer to him.

Focus. Stick to the plan. 

You tugged at the hem of his striped polo, breaking the kiss only to slip the shirt off of him. The moment it hit the floor, your lips returned to his.

“A little eager, huh?” Steve murmured against you.

“I know what I want.”

“Fair enough.”

Your shirt was the next article to go, immediately followed by Steve fumbling to unhook your bra. His eyes became saucers when he saw your breasts bared for him, nipples stiff from the air conditioning pulsing through your house.

Pink tinged his cheeks when you tilted his chin upwards. “My eyes are up here, Steve,” you chastised teasingly. 

“Right. Yeah.” He smiled, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “They’re beautiful, y’know. Your eyes, I mean. Not your…I mean, those are great, too. More than great. I just—”

“Steve.” You said his name more for yourself than for him, because there was no way that the stuttering, nervous man in front of you was the same Steve Harrington that once reigned over Hawkins High. 

You kissed him again, more hungrily than you intended. He was intoxicating, the way his fingers trailed over your body like it was a map to some coveted treasure. Your hands splayed against his chest, the muscle from years of basketball still evident. 

His belt buckle was nearly unlatched when he pulled away, lips swollen from where you’d nibbled. “Do you have a bedroom?”

The snark escaped before you could cap it. “No. I sleep in a hole in the tree out back.”

Steve raised his brows and let out a peal of amused laughter. “Sexy and a smartass? I hit the jackpot tonight.”

Sexy. Of every adjective he’d ever called you before, ‘sexy’ was not one of them. Weird? Pathetic? Suck-up? Sure. But not ‘sexy.’ Never that. 

It was all you could think about as you led him to your room. You closed the door behind you and tried to shake off the surprise compliment. 

“Now.” You batted your eyelashes and tugged on his buckle again. “Where were we?”

Pride flooded your body when you felt Steve’s erection straining against his jeans. You did that. You made Steve Harrington hard. 

“Are you sure about this?” Steve gripped your hips as he stepped out of his pants. 

Your response was simply palming him over his boxer briefs. 

And he whimpered. The man was putty in your hands. 

“Does that answer your question?”

“Y-Yeah. Sure does.” 

Steve’s tongue darted over his lower lip as he guided you onto the bed. And then he was on you, trailing kisses down your throat. His fingers searched for the zipper on the side of your skirt, but he couldn’t find it with his face buried in your neck. 

“Sorry.” He sat up, grimacing when he realized how far off he was. “It’s been a little while.”

Your instinct was to reassure him, to undress yourself and take the reins. But this wasn’t about his comfort; just the opposite, actually. 

You shrugged with the most nonchalant attitude you could muster. “S’fine,” you said breezily. 

He took off your skirt and panties in one go, and despite already being half-naked, you were suddenly too exposed. Maybe it was because you were fully on display and Steve still wore his underwear. 

There wasn’t time to remove them before you felt his middle finger brush against your clit. Despite your best efforts, you shivered. 

“Right there, right?” A ghost of a smirk glimmered on his lips. When you didn’t answer, concern anchored his mouth into a frown. “That—That feels okay, right?”

“Mhm.” But it was far better than okay. It was phenomenal. 

Steve touched your body like it was an instrument and he was the musician. His finger gently pushed inside you; he dragged it back out and rubbed your clit in slow, circular motions. Over and over, the same beautiful rhythm that soon became a melody. 

His other hand grabbed your breast, but instead of haphazard groping, he caressed it. He took your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the sensitive skin with precision and care. Christ, that felt so good, and a familiar ache formed low in your stomach. 

Wanting more was not part of the plan. Orgasming on his fingers was definitely not part of the plan. You needed to stop this before your desire overrode your anger. 

With every ounce of willpower you could muster, you nudged his shoulder. “Your turn,” you croaked out, your fingers dipping below the waistband of his boxer briefs. 

“You sure?” Steve’s brows knit together. He kneeled on top of the sheets. “You didn’t even get to…y’know…”

God, did you know. Your body begged for release, but you tempered the carnal inferno as best you could while you coaxed his underwear down his legs. 

His erection sprang free, the bead of pre-cum at the tip now touching his happy trail. You’d never seen a cock that big before. If you had offered to suck him off, you probably would have choked on it. 

Steve gazed at you through hooded lids, his hand instinctively wrapping around his length. “Lay back,” he murmured. “I’m not finished taking care of you.”

You tried not to seem surprised. Steve Harrington didn’t seem like a missionary position kind of guy. Especially not for a hookup. You had assumed he’d take you from behind or ask you to get on top. Looking into his eyes during sex wasn’t something you’d anticipated. Sure, you could keep them closed, but you intended to make eye contact when you humiliated him.

He was none the wiser as he pressed his cock against your core and ran it through your slick. “Shit,” he hissed, pulling back slightly, “haven’t been this hard in…ever.” He let out a surprised chuckle.

And then he began guiding himself into you, his touch slower and gentler than any of your previous experiences. He was in no hurry. With his other hand, he laced his fingers with yours. 

This was it. This was the moment you’d extract your revenge. And though you’d only formulated the plan this afternoon, you’d been wanting to make him as insecure as he made you back in high school.

“There ya go,” Steve smiled softly. He gave your hand a tiny squeeze. “Taking me so well.”

The tiny twinge of pain gave way to euphoria as he entered you.

Focus. Focus, focus, focus. Focus on the plan, not how perfectly he fills you…

“Oh, fuck!”

You heard his moan as though it was far away, detached from his body. But when you looked at him, you didn’t see someone in utter ecstasy; he was now full-on beaming.

“Yeah? That feel good?”

Oh, no. No, no, no.

That moan didn’t come from him. It came from you. 

Steve leaned in and kissed you, his tongue brushing against yours. “You feel amazing, fuck,” he groaned into your mouth. “Is it okay? Can I move?”

You nodded dumbly, your legs wrapping around his as you kept him as close as possible. Every part of the plan flew out of your head; the only thought you had was how fantastic Steve felt inside of you. 

He kissed you over and over before tucking his head into the crook of your neck. He steadied himself as he found the rhythm that had both of you melting. 

There was only you and Steve, your bodies moving as one. You threaded your fingers through his wavy hair, taking everything he had to give. Every moan, every thrust, every longing glance—it was all yours to accept. 

“Steve, oh my god, Steve!”

Your fingernails dug into his back as he quickened his pace. Though he went faster, there was nothing hurried about the way he moved. Everything was precise, his hazel eyes never leaving your face as he took note of your expression. 

“Tell me what you need. Let me—let me make you feel good.”

“‘S good,” you reassured him breathlessly. “So good. So good.”

Steve nodded. “Good.”

You couldn’t help it; instinctively, you arched into him and let go. A moment to release everything weighing you down and allow the pleasure to consume you fully. 

“Thassit.” A bead of sweat streaked down the slope of Steve’s nose and landed on yours. He snapped his hips against yours. “I—I’m…I need to…”

The moment you nodded, Steve gripped your waist and took in every ounce of your body. His thrusts became shallower, sloppier, as he chased his own release. 

“Holy shit,” he breathed, moving just in time before he could collapse on top of you. He propped himself up on one arm, his eyes softening. “You’re gorgeous, y’know that? How have I never seen you around before?”

Whatever contentment you clung to was whisked away by that one question. Between the hot tears streamed down your cheeks and the audible sniffle, there was no way to hide your cries from Steve.

“Whoa, whoa. Hey.” Steve tilted your chin so you looked right at him. “Did I do something wrong? I know I’m kind of a…dingus sometimes–”

“I’m Weird Girl.” It came out in one breath.

His brows knit together. “You’re…what?” 

“Back in high school,” you explained, tucking your trembling hands under the blanket, “you and Tommy and Carol…you used to call me Weird Girl.”

Recognition flickered on Steve’s face, along with something else. Shame, maybe? But was it shame for his past or shame that he’d been caught?

He sat up quickly, running his fingers through his mussed locks.

“I remember now.” His voice was hoarse with shock. “We…we were awful to you.” He pulled the blankets up closer around his waist. “Why did you agree to go out with me?”

You let out a terse laugh, wiping the remaining tears from your face. “I’m so stupid. I thought I could get you back. Y’know, make you feel worthless for once.”

Steve grimaced. “I made you feel worthless?”

“Did you think it felt good to have people making fun of me every day?”

“No, I…I wasn’t thinking about anything besides impressing those assholes. I figured you were just…used to it.” He cringed. “That sounds even worse, huh?”

“Kind of.” 

He chewed on his cheek. “So you just wanted to get revenge or something?”

“Yeah. But it clearly didn’t work. I didn’t realize you were so…”

“Good?” There was the unmistakable hint of a smirk on his lips.

You were going to say ‘big,’ but ‘good’ was definitely less embarrassing. “Y-Yeah.”

Steve stretched. “I don’t know if this means anything now, but I’m really sorry. I was a total dick and you didn’t deserve that. And not just because we just did, y’know, that.” Pink splotched his cheeks and down his neck. “You don’t have to believe me, but I’ve changed. I don’t hang out with Tommy or Carol anymore. And I’ve gotten my ass kicked enough times to know what it feels like to be on the losing end of things.”

“How many times?” 

“A lot.” He huffed a laugh. “Maybe we could do this right and I can tell you about it on an actual date?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “You want to take me on a date to tell me about all the times you got your ass kicked?”

“Or a better topic.” Steve smiled genuinely, and you returned it without any hesitation. “Look, feel free to tell me to fuck off. I’ll understand.”

“You probably deserve it,” you said wryly, “but considering you just consoled me after I burst into tears…why not.”

Steve pressed a kiss to your forehead with such tenderness that excitement fluttered in your stomach. 

Maybe you were no longer the weird girl. Maybe, if Steve was actually a good guy now, you could be his girl.

--

[96kurtswrld]

trust

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve confesses something deeply personal, your reaction only spurs him on with his newly found confidence

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, f oral receiving, body insecurity, scars, whiney steve, it's real sappy

a/n: this is long and half of it is filth, but it's sweet so it's fine!! steve is smitten and a lil pathetic, idk what else to say

series masterlist

Robin sat at her kitchen table in rumpled pajamas, hair slightly wild, nursing a mug of coffee that smelled dangerously bitter. She didn’t expect to be out of bed at this hour, but she had a rather pressing matter that demanded her attention.

Her best friend was perched across from her, vibrating with nerves. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so frazzled before noon—especially on a Sunday.

“Are you gonna tell me why you’re here at eight in the morning, or am I supposed to guess?”

Straight to the point, huh? 

He raked a hand through his hair—he’d already done it so many times this morning that it stuck up at all angles. 

“...We went on another date.”

“Right. You and your mystery girl.” A smile pulled at Robin’s lips. “That’s great, Steve, really. Super happy for you. But you needed to wake me up just to tell me you went on a date?”

When she says it like that, it feels like the understatement of the year. 

“I think I blew it,” he said flatly, the words coming out in a rush.

She snorted into her coffee. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No, I’m serious,” he insisted, shoulders sagging. There was a dullness in his eyes that told her this was more than his usual overreaction. “I’m telling you, I ruined it.”

“Okay, sure,” she put her mug down, leaning forward with a sigh. ”You’ve totally, completely ruined it. Wanna back up and give me some context here?”

He drew in a breath, gaze drifting to the wall as if he might see yesterday play out on its surface. 

“Okay, so I saw her again yesterday. Picked her up, had a great time—like, amazing. I’m talking, she’s laughing…” He trailed off, letting that memory blossom in his chest. He cleared his throat, pressing on. “Anyway, I drove her home, walked her to her door. Smooth, right?”

“Peak romance,” Robin deadpanned, eyes narrowed as she tried not to smirk.

Steve shot her a withering glare that only made her grin more. 

“Yeah, so then we… we kissed. Which is not new. Told you what happened in the classroom couple weeks back? God, that was—” He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling how your lips tasted that evening, reluctantly forcing himself back to the present. “I mean, you know, right?”

Robin took another sip. “Yes, I know. Please continue.”

“Okay. Sorry. So last night, we’re outside, and she’s leaning against the door. We’re both kinda… reeling, and then she looks at me—like, that look—and asks if I’d like to come inside.”

“Inside, huh?” Robin’s coffee froze halfway to her lips. 

“Yeah.” Steve nodded fervently. “And look, I’m not an idiot, okay? It was late. I know what inside means.”

“I’m… not following.”

A frustrated groan escaped him as he slumped forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands. 

He doesn’t want to say the next part—he can barely stand to close his eyes without seeing the look on your face. Disappointed. And knowing he was the reason why. It was so stupid. He could have said anything else, but of course, his brain chose to short-circuit instead.

“I said… ‘No, thank you.’”

Silence blanketed the room. Robin’s mouth hung open for a moment before she found her words. 

“You said what?”

He groaned again, louder this time. 

“I panicked, okay? Just… You should’ve seen her face. She looked so—God, embarrassed? And I… I just—I was stuck. Couldn’t think of anything else.”

“So you turned down an invitation inside after a date—”

“—and then I turned around and headed for my car,” he finished, miserably.

Robin cringed, setting her mug aside. “Oof.”

“I know,” he hissed. He lifted his head, eyes pained, as if replaying the moment in mind-numbing slow motion. The memory felt like a stone in his chest.

Her gaze softened as she took in her best friend's posture, how his fingers trembled around the rim of the coffee mug he hadn't even touched. 

She knew he’d had it rough—anyone who’d witnessed what he had would understand. But since he primarily talked to his therapist about this sort of thing, she often forgot just how deep those wounds really ran.

“Hey,” she said, voice gentler now, “it’s okay if you’re… not ready for all of that yet. It’s a big step.”

He lifted his head, eyes shadowed with worry. 

“I am ready,” he countered, a hint of desperation colouring his tone. “I want—I want to be ready for that.”

And he did. He wanted it so badly, his body ached with the image of your skin against his, even if the touches had never gone beyond heated kisses and tentative caresses. 

For the last few years, his mind had been stuck in survival mode—always scanning for threats, flinching at sudden noises, bracing for the worst. But now, when he closed his eyes at night, instead of feeling dread burrow into his bones, he found himself imagining the curve of your lips, the softness of your laugh. 

He wondered how you’d sound if he whispered filthy compliments against your ear, what your breathy giggle might feel like against his neck if his fingertips trailed down your sides… between your thighs. 

Sometimes he even caught himself shivering from the sheer longing to feel you. 

All of you.

But wanting that also meant baring more than just his heart. The idea of letting you see every inch of him—scars that told stories he wasn’t ready to retell, the ridges and marks that still woke him in cold sweats—terrified him. 

What if you asked about them? What if you stared too long? Worse, would you be disgusted? He imagined your wide eyes taking him in and feeling pity, revulsion. The thought was enough to make his stomach twist, to conjure that old, familiar panic.

He swallowed thickly, struggling to force the words out. Robin slid her coffee across and leaned forward, reaching out as if to anchor him to the present. 

“You can talk to me,” she urged. “You know that, right?”

Steve pressed his lips together, trying and failing to steady the whirlwind of fear in his chest. Finally, he looked at her, voice barely above a whisper. 

“What if…” He inhales deeply, “what if she doesn’t... like what she sees?”

It took a while for it to click, but when it did, her chest caved. 

Her eyes flickered with regret as realisation sank in, remembering the countless times she’d watched her friend hurl himself into danger so that she and the others could walk away unscathed. Always the martyr, always the hero, always the one with the innate urge to rush in and save those he held close to him. 

It was such a rare gift, but it was one that left the worst as a result. The physical reminders—souvenirs he never asked for. 

“Steve,” she said quietly, “everyone has scars.”

He let out a soft, humourless laugh. 

“Not like mine.”

Her heart broke for him, but her resolve was far stronger. 

“Hey,” she spoke, tone turning firm, “we’re not doing that.” She locked eyes with him, showing him the truth behind her statement. “Do you seriously think this girl would judge you for something that’s basically the reason you’re still alive?”

That we’re all alive.

His gaze darted away, thoughts churning. 

Robin was always like this—blunt, even when she was trying to be comforting. A stark contrast to Dr. Avery, but sometimes he preferred it. At least it meant honesty.

“Well… people are—”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” she cut him off, levelling him with a look. “I’m asking if you think, with absolute certainty, that this would cause her to stop seeing you.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and racked his brain for any moment he’d ever heard you speak ill of someone without good reason. He couldn’t recall a single instance—except for that one time you’d jokingly insulted his father after hearing the reaction to Steve’s profession, but that was more than warranted. Otherwise, you never had a negative word for anyone. Even when you probably should. 

He couldn’t picture you reacting with disgust. 

It just didn’t… fit.

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, though his voice wavered with uncertainty.

“I hate to say it, but it kind of is.” Robin pursed her lips. “She’s clearly into you, right?”

He hesitated. “Well—”

“Shh, yes she is,” she declared, waving a dismissive hand. “She wouldn’t be seeing you if she wasn’t. And if anything, that’s a bigger compliment, yeah? She wants you for you.”

“What if there are questions?” He gave a reluctant shrug, tension still rolling off him in waves. 

“Then be honest.”

He shot her a look. “Are you serious right now?”

“No, not that kind of honest.” Robin snorted. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said quickly, the mere thought making dread coil in his gut. That was the last thing he wanted to bring up in your presence. 

“There you go.” She lifted her eyebrows pointedly. “Tell her it’s hard for you to talk about. You’re not lying, you’re just… setting a boundary.”

“I’m not sure…” he admitted, leaning back in his chair.

“For God’s sake, Steve.” Robin sighed, exasperated but affectionate all the same. “I’m telling you this as your friend—you can’t let this hold you back forever.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

“You don’t know unless you try,” she pressed. “Do you trust her?”

“Yes,” he blurted, the word escaping before he even had time to think. You had never given him a single reason not to, the only thing you treated him with was unrelenting kindness. 

Robin’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Well, there’s your answer.”

A beat of silence passed before he nodded, finally letting some measure of acceptance settle in his eyes. Robin grinned back, pushing herself to her feet, feeling proud that they had reached a solution. 

“Have you eaten?”

“No.” He shook his head. He came straight here as soon as he woke up. Barely slept the night before, too. 

“Pancakes, then.” She arched an eyebrow, making her way over to the stove. “You’re gonna need the energy for when you go talk to her later.”

“Later?” Steve spun in his chair, panic creeping back in.

“Yeah, it’s Sunday,” Robin rolled her eyes as she pulled out a frying pan. “No time like the present, right?”

Steve spent the rest of the morning holed up at Robin’s place, grateful for her presence and the easy way they could slip back into normal best-friend banter. It helped calm the churning in his gut, the lingering phantom of your expression—slightly crestfallen—when he’d refused your invitation the previous night.

By the afternoon, he felt marginally more composed. Maybe it was the pancakes, or maybe it was the way she all but shoved him out the door with the gentle instruction to ‘fix it’ and ‘try not to overthink.’

Easier said than done.

Either way, he found himself stopping by a local florist before driving to your shop. The tiny bell above the florist’s door tinkled as he stepped in, and he spent a solid ten minutes agonising over which bouquet to get, recalling Robin’s reassurance. 

“No girl’s ever upset by flowers.”

Eventually, he left with a bundle of soft-petaled blooms—light pinks and whites and a hint of greenery—and the distinct feeling that his heart might pound its way right out of his chest.

Your shop front, normally inviting, appeared closed from the outside—lights off, sign flipped to “Closed.” He knew you rarely opened on Sundays, which was exactly why he was hoping you’d be here catching up on inventory, or maybe just tinkering with whatever behind the scenes stuff you did. The street was quiet, the afternoon light softer than usual, and he paused at the door, bouquet in hand, taking a quick breath to steel himself.

He knocked gently, three times.

At first, nothing. Then, after a second, he saw movement through the side window: a glimpse of you rounding the corner, curiosity evident on your face—until your gaze landed on him. Even at a distance, he saw your expression flicker between shock and uncertainty. His heart plummeted at the thought that maybe he was the last person you wanted to see right now.

Still, you came over, unbolted the lock, and eased the door open. 

“Hey, Steve,” you said quietly, voice uncertain yet polite. “I… wasn’t expecting you.”

His tongue felt like lead. 

“Yeah, well, um…” He awkwardly tapped the toe of his shoe on the pavement before glancing down at the flowers. His head spun with everything he wanted to say. “Can I come in?”

Your eyes flicked from the bouquet back to him, and then you stepped aside, nodding. 

“Sure.”

As you closed the door behind him, he took in a calming breath. The shop was dim, lit mostly by the fading light filtering through the front windows. It smelled of you in a comforting, barely-there way: a hint of vanilla, maybe a touch of something floral tied with old paper.

“Um,” he started, holding out the flowers. “I picked these up for you.”

You glanced at them, your features melting into something softer. The corners of your lips tilted up in the faintest smile. 

“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, reaching for them. He could see the tension easing in your shoulders, though it didn’t vanish entirely.

When you sighed, he braced for the worst—but your voice was gentle. The words leaving you not at all what he expected. 

“Listen, Steve, I want to tell you I’m… really sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have been so forward, and if I made you uncomfortable—”

“Hey—” The words rushed out of him before he could stop them. “No, don’t—I’m the one who should be apologising.”

Are you seriously the one taking the blame right now?

“There’s really no need,” you insisted, although your gaze slid away as though you couldn’t quite banish the awkwardness in the air.

He inhaled through his nose, summoning courage. 

Here goes nothing. 

“I, um,” he said softly, stepping a little closer. “I—I haven’t been—”

He tried recalling every single word Robin had told him—her reminders that you liked him, that a small truth wouldn’t change that. He tried to remember all the pointers his therapist had ever offered about vulnerability and the importance of speaking up, but the moment he lifted his gaze and locked eyes with you, every carefully rehearsed line vanished.

It was just you. Standing there, holding the flowers he’d given you in your gentle grip, your expression open and patient and just the slightest bit worried. The shop’s quiet seemed to magnify the pounding of his heart.

“Listen,” he began, voice trembling despite his best effort. “I… I like you.” Heat rose to his cheeks immediately; God, he sounded like a flustered high school kid. “And I know that’s not—I mean, maybe it’s not what anyone wants to hear. Probably think it’s bull, but I haven’t felt this way in a… in a while.” He swallowed. “Longer than a while, actually. And I—I just don’t want you to be…” He let out a rough breath, tongue tripping over the words. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” You tilted your head, brow creasing. 

It was a single word, but it reached right in and squeezed his heart. 

He wet his lips. This was the moment—no turning back. He could almost hear Robin’s voice in his head telling him to trust you. 

So he did.

“Yeah,” he managed, letting out a humourless chuckle. “I…” His pulse roared in his ears as he extended his arm, tugging at the sleeve of his sweater. 

It felt like every second stretched and stretched, infinitely slow, while he carefully eased the fabric up. He revealed the pale, uneven skin on the back of his left forearm.

There, a gnarled mark ran angry and taut, though it had healed better than it once was. It was still jarring against the rest of his skin, as if it didn’t quite belong on his body. 

He had half a mind to yank the sleeve back down, to hide it all again. Every nerve in him screamed to do so.

You stepped closer instead, a soft, careful movement that sent warmth fluttering in his gut. he forced a small, shaky smile, even as his voice trembled. 

“It, uh, looks worse than it is.” A lie, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully admit the pain buried there. “I just wanted you to know… in case we ever… in case you wanted to…”

He trailed off, heart hammering. The jumble of words in his head was impossible to untangle, so he let them die on his tongue.

Your gaze flicked from the scar to his eyes, and a stillness enveloped the space for a moment. You could see how hard this was for him, and you were doing everything in your power to keep this conversation tender. 

“There are more?”

There was no judgment in your tone—just gentle curiosity. He could’ve laughed at how badly he’d feared that question. 

“Yeah,” he answered, a quiet, wry chuckle escaping his throat. “Unfortunately.”

You nodded. Your expression was so compassionate it nearly knocked the breath right out of him. There was nothing unfortunate except the pain he had once been in. 

“Is this why you said no?”

He felt the tension in his shoulders tighten. 

“I—yeah.” In a rush, he continued, “I just wanted you to know what you were getting into. Wanted to… to give you the chance back out.” He swallowed, voice dropping.

Even he could hear the raw, unfiltered insecurity there—every fear he’d harboured for years, twisted into one desperate confession. 

He didn’t want you to leave. But if you had to, do it before he fell any harder. 

And then you smiled at him—so softly, so gently, it felt like a sunrise breaking through storm clouds. When you spoke, your tone was certain. 

You had never been more sure of a decision.

“There is nothing that could make me want you any less, Steve Harrington.”

He felt his chest constrict, tears threatening at the back of his eyes. Every flutter of panic from before turned into a wild, dizzy sense of relief. You—the person who made his heart race just by being—were standing here in front of him, telling him that not even the physical parts of his past could drive you away.

And that was enough to make him break. His eyes burned, blinking back tears before they could spill. He bit the inside of his cheek to hold them back.

You didn’t look repulsed or the littlest bit shocked. You just looked at him the way you always did, like he mattered. Like his fears and his uncertainties weren’t hurdles, just parts of him that you could hold with the same gentleness you held everything else.

You're a fucking dream.

For a few moments, the floral bouquet resting lightly in your arms, his tears barely contained. You tilt your chin up, eyes still carrying that same warmth that makes his knees feel suspiciously unsteady. 

“So…” You pause, letting the word hang in the air like a gentle invitation. “Are you busy for the rest of the day?”

He blinks, the question startling him out of his reverie. “Uh…”

There’s that teasing gleam again. You roll your eyes, but it’s playful, a faint smile tugging at your lips. 

“Not for that.”

A sharp, nervous laugh escapes him before he can stop it, his cheeks flushing.

“Right,” he breathes. “No—Yeah, I can be free today.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling that slight scratchiness of the sweater he still hasn’t rolled back down, and a wave of awkward self-consciousness washes through him. “Why?”

Your fingers flex around the stems of the bouquet as you look up at him, so much affection in your expression that he wonders if his heart can handle it. 

“Because I want to spend time with you… if you’re up for it.”

A warmth flutters through his chest, soft and giddy, making him feel as though he’s standing on the edge of something hopeful. He wets his lips, nodding. 

“I—I’d love that.”

He followed you up the narrow staircase, heart thumping with excitement at being welcomed into your space. It felt surreal, having spent so many days imagining what your home might look like—wondering if it would match the warmth you exuded—and now he was here, taking it all in with wide, fascinated eyes. Almost like the kids in his class. 

The flat upstairs was an eclectic oasis of mismatched pillows and faded rugs, vintage trinkets and framed prints. Everything seemed handpicked with care, though there was no strict colour scheme or aesthetic; it was simply you. 

Immediately, he found himself smiling. It was like walking into a technicolour daydream, a comforting patchwork of old and new. A soft blanket half-draped over an armchair, a scattering of books on the coffee table, and a hint of something sweet in the air—maybe a candle you’d recently burned.

He was acutely aware that he wanted to brush his fingers across everything, to learn more about you from the objects that made this space yours. Instead, he hovered in the middle of the living area, trying to keep his nosiness in check. 

He’d told himself a thousand times not to be weird, but his eyes kept drifting to the shelves crammed with random curios, or the cosy throws that didn’t quite match in colour but somehow still belonged together.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” You turned to him, a gentle smile lighting your features as you placed the bouquet down. 

“Yeah,” he answered quickly—too quickly, but he couldn’t help it. The idea of sharing an evening with you, in your home, felt overwhelmingly domestic. “Absolutely,” he added, more composed this time.

“Good.” Your entire face brightened in response, clapping your hands together with an almost mischievous air. Without further ado, you strolled over to the small open-plan kitchen. “That means you get to be my sous chef.”

He walked toward you, leaning against the counter. “Seriously?”

“Oh, absolutely. You don’t eat for free in my house,” you teased, trying to adopt an air of authority. “You gotta work for it.”

Even though you were clearly joking, his chest flooded with warmth. 

“Yes, Chef,” 

You snorted a laugh at that, pulling open the fridge door and glancing inside. 

“Okay… I went shopping recently, so I’ve got a lot of stuff. Definitely vegetables, so maybe we can do something with pasta, or a ratatouille.” You kept talking, your voice lilting with easy excitement. “Are you fussy? I think I have some meat in here if you’d prefer that, or we could make soup—although it was kind of hot today, so maybe soup isn’t ideal. Or we could—”

Your words came out in a single breath, a rapid-fire list of possibilities. It was adorable, watching you in your element: your hair shifting slightly as you leaned into the fridge, rummaging for ideas, lost in your own thoughts. His stomach tightened at how earnest you sounded, so eager to accommodate him.

He stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, feeling the softness of your sweater beneath his palm. 

“Pasta’s fine,” he said softly, gently drawing you out of your rambling.

You glanced over your shoulder, cheeks warming just a bit, as though you’d just realised how fast you were talking. 

“Yeah,” you agreed, shutting the fridge partway, “okay—pasta. Pasta is safe. Hard to mess up.”

“Hey, you’d be surprised.” He slid over to rest his hip on the counter, tilting his head and letting himself enjoy the way you flushed. “When I was younger, I didn’t realise you had to… y’know, put the pasta in water.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Yep. Didn’t occur to me.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Threw it straight in the pan.”

“Are you seriously telling me you burnt raw pasta?”

“Look,” he huffed, hands raised in mock surrender, “I am a lot better now, alright?”

“I should hope so,” you teased, a burst of laughter escaping you, brightening the entire flat. 

Reaching into the fridge again, you pulled out a bag of fresh vegetables, a small block of cheese, and a carton of cream—handing them off to him. Then you shut the fridge, leaving the two of you close in the small space.

That’s when Steve’s eyes landed on something pinned to the fridge door. A piece of paper, slightly worn at the edges, the pencil lines smudged but still recognisable. 

The sketch of you he’d drawn back in his classroom.

He froze, gaze locked on it. The memory flooded back—heart drumming in his chest, trying to capture your likeness with hidden, trembling hands. He hadn’t expected you to care that much about it, let alone display it so proudly.

When you noticed him staring, your expression turned a little bashful, a soft laugh slipping from your lips. 

“I… figured it deserved a place of honour,” you teased, brushing a fingertip against one corner of the paper. He could hear the truth behind the joke.

He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, his voice characteristically gentle. 

“You kept it?”

“Course I did.” You replied, echoing something you’d once said to him. “Told you I always wanted my portrait done.” 

A flush crept up his neck, and he rubbed it awkwardly. 

“Yeah, but…” He paused, unsure how to convey the weight of this small gesture. You’d taken a simple drawing—something he hadn’t even considered that good—and made it into a keepsake.

Before he could figure out what to say, you cut in, a casual shrug that did nothing to hide the fondness in your eyes. 

“I wanted to put it somewhere I could see it...”

Emotion welled in his chest, warm and insistent. He didn’t say anything right away. All he managed was a small, lopsided smile that hopefully conveyed some fraction of the tenderness he felt. 

You felt slightly awkward under his gaze, clearing your throat as you handed him the knife and pointed to the chopping board. Confirming to him you trusted him enough not to butcher your vegetables—or your kitchen.

He lays everything out in front of him, reaching to roll up his sleeves. He hesitates—just for a moment—before deciding to go through with it. There’s no point in hiding now that it’s all out in the open, but the brush of air against his marks still feels foreign.

When he glances at you, you’re not even looking. Not staring, not reacting, not bothered in the slightest. And something about that settles him. He wonders if this is what it could always be like—if, someday, this could be routine. If your space could become a place where he doesn’t have to hide. A place where he can just exist.

He set about dicing an onion, practicing the technique Robin had drilled into him: fingers tucked in, careful horizontal and vertical cuts. It wasn’t Michelin-worthy, but he liked to think he’d developed some culinary skills.

You, meanwhile, grabbed a block of cheese from the fridge and started grating. 

“So, I’m guessing you know how to cook a little now, huh?” you asked casually, taking in the even slices of onion gathering on the board.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

“Yeah, I do,” he said, scraping the chopped onion into a neat pile. “Kinda like it, actually.”

“Oh?” you prompted, quirking a brow as though intrigued by this domestic side of him.

“Robin—I’ve mentioned her, right?” When you nodded, he continued, “Well, after she saw what a disaster I was in the kitchen firsthand, basically forced me to learn.”

You laughed gently, the sound like warm honey. “I feel sorry for her.”

“Ouch,” Steve shot you a mock-offended look, then shrugged. “To be fair, she was super patient—more than I deserved sometimes.”

You nodded and he went quiet for a moment, focusing on the task in front of him as memories crowded his mind. He could see Robin’s exasperated grin as she dangled a spatula in front of him, telling him if he didn’t at least stir the sauce, she’d let it burn. 

He remembered the nights he couldn’t get out of bed—nights where his own mind weighed him down like lead—and how she would simply appear, commandeer his kitchen, and coax him into joining her.

At first, it had been embarrassing. He hated the thought of needing someone to guide him through the simplest tasks, hated the idea that he was helpless. But Robin had this uncanny knack of turning it into fun—into a moment of victory, however small. 

If he managed to perfectly chop a pepper or make a sauce without scalding it, she’d give him a triumphant little fist bump, like he’d just won a gold medal. 

Over time, cooking became a small but tangible source of confidence for him—proof that he could create something from nothing, sustain himself with his own two hands.

He cleared his throat, blinking back into the present. 

“She didn’t let me off that easy. Dragged me into the kitchen most days—but you know, she actually helped a lot.” He went on, sliding the diced onion into a bowl you’d handed him. “Once she and I got busier, we stopped doing it as much, but…” He gestured around your cluttered kitchen, eyes travelling from the mismatched mugs on your shelf to the bright potholders hanging on the wall. “It’s nice.”

He didn’t say the rest out loud, but you could deduce what he meant. He liked making something, building something. He liked feeling safe. 

“You know,” you say softly, glancing up from the cheese you’d just finished grating, “she sounds amazing. I’d love to meet her someday.”

He sets down the knife he was holding, taking a moment to wipe his hands on a dish towel. The genuine excitement lighting his face is almost boyish. 

“Yeah, she’d… she’d really like that, actually.” There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes—like he can’t wait to show you off, show Robin that he’s managed to find someone this wonderful, someone who sees him. “She already mentioned wanting to meet you, so we’ll, uh—” He swallows, looking delighted at the prospect. “We’ll plan something. Once we’re, y’know, all free.”

“Hmm,” you give a thoughtful nod, a small smirk tugging at your lips, “so you’ve been talking about me?”

“Uh, yeah?” He immediately flushes, cheeks warming under your gaze. “‘Course I have. Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrug, your eyes dipping away for a half-second before meeting his again. 

“It’s just… it’s good to know you’re, I don’t know, serious.”

“Did I make you think I wasn’t?” He asks, a hint of genuine concern threading through his voice. He can feel his heart rate pick up—he doesn’t want there to be any room for doubt.

“No!” You shake your head, flustered. “No—not at all. I just mean—”

He steps closer, determined to chase away any lingering uncertainty in your eyes. He doesn’t know what comes over him—maybe it’s the weight of everything that’s happened today, or maybe it’s the way your voice falters, just slightly, sending a surge of confidence through him.

He feels safe here. Your reassurance settles something in him, makes him bold. And now, he wants to test it. To push just a little further, to see how far this newfound feeling can take him. 

To prove—to himself more than anyone—that he hasn’t lost it.

“Because last night,” he says, voice dropping a little lower, feeling how the teasing tone feels on his tongue, “you wanna know what I did?” 

He leans in, invading your personal space in that deliberate way that makes your breath catch. Your reply gets stuck in your throat, and you simply blink at him, gaze darting from his mouth to his eyes, waiting.

Gotcha.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he confesses.

“I spent the whole night alone in bed, thinking about what it would’ve been like to have you there with me.”

Your eyes widen, and for a moment, you draw in a quiet, shaky breath.

Christ—confidence looks good on him. The way he’s looking at you, like a man starved, like he’s been holding this back. And now you’re left wondering—has he always felt this way?

With your expression emboldening him, he dips his head to press his mouth to yours. The kiss starts slow, a gentle lingering of lips, but it deepens as he grips your waist. He wants—needs—you to know how fervently he means every word. 

He pours it all into the press of his mouth: the latent hunger that’s been building since the first moment he realised how important you were becoming, the searing need to prove that last night was never about not wanting you. 

When you make a soft, breathy sound that vibrates against his mouth, his entire body goes warm. His heartbeat pounds so fiercely it’s almost dizzying, and in that moment he’s sure he’s a goner, absolutely done for—you’ve got him.

He tugs back just enough to look at you properly. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes gleaming in the low light of the kitchen, and the sight of you nearly undoes him. You tilt your head, a hesitant little smile ghosting your lips. 

“Hey,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, “we don’t have to do anything if you’re not—”

“I am,” he says, voice rough with need. “Fuck—I am.” His hand cradles your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek in a way that makes your lashes flutter. “Do you trust me?”

Your gaze flicks to his, warm and steady. “Yeah. But… dinner—”

He can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him. Dinner? Only you would be so concerned about practicalities when he’s two seconds from combusting. 

Still, he recognises the gentle out you’re giving him, a final check-in to see if he really wants this. 

And, oh, he does. 

“It can wait,” he promises, dropping his voice to that intimate purr that already makes your stomach flutter. “Please just—please, let me do this for you.” 

Let him show you. Let him take care of you. 

You meet his eyes, taking in the flush staining his cheeks, the raw want practically radiating off him. You manage a nod, hardly able to get the word yes out before he’s on you again—his mouth against yours with a heat that has you spinning.

It starts hungry, and only grows more desperate when your hands slide up over his shoulders, fingers curling into the short hair at the nape of his neck. A low groan escapes him, his body thrumming with adrenaline and desire. 

He forgot how good it could feel, how right it could be, to have someone he wants this badly—someone who wants him just as fiercely.

He crowds in close, big hands gripping your hips firmly, and in one swift motion he lifts you onto the counter. A startled gasp leaves you, and you toss a quick glance around as though you can’t quite believe the two of you are about to do this. 

“Here?” you ask, voice breathy with surprise.

“Yeah,” a cocky half-grin tips the corner of his mouth. “Right here.”

Any way he can have you. 

Every nerve in his body screams for more contact, more of you—he needs to taste, needs to feel.

He slots himself between your thighs, leaning in again to reclaim your lips. The tension in your muscles loosens as his hands drift beneath your shirt, sliding across the warm plane of your sides. The soft curves and dips of your skin drag a ragged breath out of him, especially when your hips roll against his.

You can’t help the little whimper that bubbles up, and the sound propels him deeper into the kiss. His entire body tingles with awareness of you, from the slight shiver that courses through you at his touch to the way your nails lightly scrape at his scalp.

When your fingers thread into his hair, a deep, full-throated groan vibrates from his chest—he’s powerless to stop it.

That breathy chuckle you give in response makes him shiver. You angle his head, your palm cupping the back of his neck. 

“You like that, huh?” you tease, eyes glinting with mischief.

His head falls back slightly as he exhales.

“Fuck—yeah—yes.” He’s beyond self-conscious at this point, need flooding through every cell. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing in the faint scent of your shampoo, before trailing his hand down to the waistband of your jeans.

“Gonna need you to do that again for me,” he murmurs, voice filled with confidence and trembling want.

You blink, momentarily puzzled, until he starts to tug at your jeans, his fingers hooking into both denim and underwear. Then you realise exactly what he means—and you waste no time in helping him rid you of the final barriers standing between his hands and your bare skin.

He tugs the denim down, heart thundering as he sinks to his knees between your thighs. He’s wound so tight he can practically hear his pulse in his ears. 

From his vantage point below, he takes in the sight of you, drawn to every curve and line. There’s something indescribably beautiful about seeing you like this, so undone, so ready.

He slides his hands over your legs, fingertips grazing soft skin and eliciting a shiver that makes his chest swell with pride. It’s been so long since he’s done this—too long. The anxious flutter in his stomach almost rivals the heat pooling in his lower body. 

But he wants to do this right. Needs to.

When he glances up again, you’re watching him through half-lidded eyes, a flush creeping up your neck. The way you part your lips as you inhale, the anticipation evident in your features—it all spurs him on. He lets out a shaky breath, leaning in to brush his mouth over your inner thigh first, planting a series of teasing, barely-there kisses as he makes his way closer.

Your hand tangles in his hair, fingers curling in a firm but not painful grip. It’s a silent command,  a reminder that you’re right there, in this with him. 

He shudders at the rush of arousal that flares through him. 

“Stop teasing,” you finally mutter, voice edged with impatience.

He flushes hot at your tone—low, wanting, confident. 

“Sorry, angel,” he murmurs, the endearment rolling off his tongue like a promise. “Gonna make it up to you, all right?”

For both yesterday, and right now.

You give a quick nod, and he takes that as all the permission he needs. Gently, he lifts one of your legs to rest over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin just above your knee. Then he settles in, leaning forward until he’s exactly where he needs to be.

The first flick of his tongue draws a throaty moan from you, and his own breath stumbles at the sheer erotic charge of the moment. He’s nearly lightheaded with how good you taste, how you respond to every shift of his lips, every press of his mouth. 

It’s intoxicating, fueling him to explore every sensitive spot he can find.

“Should’ve done this last night,” in a husky, almost delirious voice. He hates that he ran from you, from this, even for a second. But it’s fueling him now, pushing him to worship every inch of you until he’s certain you’ll never doubt how badly he wants you. “Should’ve had you then,” he breathes, “So fucking stupid.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging him closer, and he lets out a muffled groan. You’re already trembling under his touch, each quiet whimper echoing in the small kitchen. The tile beneath his knees is hard, but he barely registers any discomfort—he’s too lost in you. The lust is overshadowed by a tenderness, a desire not just to please you, but to prove something to himself. 

That he can still be this person. 

Then you gasp, hips shifting forward in search of more, and your free hand flies out to grab at his arm. The moment your palm lands on the rough, uneven skin, his stomach lurches.

He half-expects to feel you flinch. But instead, you grip him tighter, holding on as though you need him close. That realisation sends a bolt of raw adrenaline right through his core, and he doubles down, dragging his tongue in deep, purposeful strokes.

Your desperate noises urge him on, and he moves in closer, pressing you more firmly against the counter. The scent of you and the haze of arousal in the air blur his senses. He’s focused on nothing but your pleasure—on coaxing more of those shaky, breathless moans out of you, each one sweeter than the last.

When your fingers tighten again in his hair, he lifts his gaze for a heartbeat, catching the dazed, blissed-out expression on your face, a wave of heat flashing through him,

He’s done for. 

He feels the telltale flutter in your core, the way your thighs tense around his head and the broken syllables of his name falling from your lips. His own heartbeat stutters at the sound of you gasping, higher and higher until you’re almost pleading.

“Steve—” you manage, voice trembling on the edge. “I’m gonna—”

He groans low in his throat, pressing in closer. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs hungrily. “C’mon baby—please—wanna feel you—”

That’s all it takes for you to come apart, back arching and legs clenching, trapping him in a burst of sensation. 

He keeps his mouth moving, coaxing every last pulse out of you. The tight press of your thighs around his head should be suffocating, but to him it’s pure adrenaline. He savours the moment, humming with open satisfaction at how your body shudders under his relentless focus, until you finally push lightly at his head, too sensitive to handle more.

He reluctantly withdraws, breathing heavy as he looks up at you. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling while you come down from your high. For a split second, he stands there on his knees, watching your every expression like you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

“Was that… all right?” he asks, voice almost shy now that the immediate rush is ebbing, your release still glistening on his chin.

You offer him a dazed little nod, and he can’t help the proud grin spreading across his face as he rises to his feet. The minute his lips touch yours again, you taste yourself on him—a sharp, dizzying reminder of just how thoroughly he’s had you. He smiles into the kiss, smugness in the way his hand cups the side of your face.

Your own hands move with eagerness, tugging at the hem of his sweater. The first spike of panic darts through him, and he tenses. 

No. Not Yet.

He knows what it would mean—bared skin, the possibility of further questions, it's unpredictable. His heart thuds as he pulls back minutely, not wanting to flee but unable to hide the flicker of fear in his eyes.

You pause, taking in the hesitation etched across his features. 

“Not ready?” you ask, gentle but direct.

His lips part, but no words come out at first. A flush creeps up his neck, embarrassment and self-consciousness colliding in his chest. 

“I… I’m sorry,” he finally mutters, feeling every bit as uncertain as he did the night before. 

So much for the surge of confidence.

Your brows knit in understanding, and you nod softly. There’s no accusation in your expression, no frustration. Instead, you lean up to kiss him again—light and sweet and reassuring. 

“Can I still take care of you?” you whisper when you pull back, searching his gaze.

Take care of him. 

“You… you don’t have to do that,” he mumbles, voice rough at the edges.

“I know,” you say, voice calm but insistent. One hand drifts to the fly of his jeans, carefully brushing over the hard outline straining there. He lets out a hiss of breath, tension sizzling through his entire body at the contact. 

“I want to,” you continue, thumb tracing a light pattern along the fabric. “Please?” You look up at him, meeting those warm brown eyes, “I want to make you feel good, too.”

And how could anyone say no to that?

“Fuck, angel… all right.” He exhales a shaky laugh, tipping his forehead to yours. “Yeah, all right.”

You free him from his jeans—he’s so hard it almost hurts, and the cool air hits him like a shock. Every nerve ending is lit up, thrumming with excitement and a bit of residual caution. But the second your fingers curl around him, that caution is drowned out by pure pleasure. 

His head falls forward as soon as your hand wraps around him, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a low, trembling groan.

It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this, and he can’t contain the steady stream of whimpers and half-broken words spilling from his lips. Every movement of your hand drags another rasping exhale out of him.

“God—” he mutters, voice pitched higher than usual. “You—fuck, you feel—”

His breath hitches again as you start slow, deliberately teasing him. He can’t help the ragged little laugh that escapes, face still hidden against your throat. 

“You’re killing me.”

But even then, there’s no mistaking the appreciation in his tone. He likes the way you’re taking your time, savouring the vision of him, watching him go boneless under your touch. His entire body thrums with the urge to thrust into your palm; he’s holding back with every bit of willpower he has, trying not to lose himself too quickly.

When you chuckle softly, your breath hot against his ear, he lets out a needy little sound that he never planned to let slip. 

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, shoulders shaking with pent-up tension. “I—I can’t—”

“Does it feel good?” you tease, your voice edging on playful, as though you already know the answer.

“Yes,” he blurts, shoulders jerking as a ripple of pleasure sparks through him. “Yes, it—it’s so fucking good.” His fingers dig into your shoulders, gripping the fabric of your shirt. “Not gonna last—”

You giggle, and he could swear that sound alone just about knocks the air out of his lungs. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, drawing a guttural noise from deep in his chest.

“You gonna cum for me, Steve?” you ask, voice lilting.

Oh, you’re cruel.

That sweet look on your face—so deceptively innocent, when he knows better. Like a siren, the way your voice teeters between soft and sultry, pulling him under, not allowing him to summon a coherent thought.

His cheeks are bright red, eyes shining with a haze of lust. His mouth opens, but he’s too far gone to form sentences, so he just nods, hair flopping into his face in a disheveled mess. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, tone shaky. “I’m close—I, shit—”

You give him a knowing, devilish grin and draw him down into a kiss—slow, thorough, open-mouthed. He tries to respond, tries to match your pace, but the rising wave of release scrambles his thoughts and tangles his tongue. 

All he can manage are broken moans into your mouth as pleasure overtakes him, and you drink them in eagerly. His orgasm slams into him so fast it nearly buckles his knees, and he grips you tighter, riding out each pulse as it wracks his body.

You keep stroking, guiding him through it, until he sags against you, spent and trembling. His head comes to rest on your shoulder, breath ragged in your ear.

The feeling of you envelops him—your clean hand softly cradling his face, thumb grazing the curve of his cheek. It’s such a gentle, grounding gesture that it helps his racing heart settle.

After a few seconds, he manages to straighten, eyes flicking down to the evidence of his release painting your thighs. There’s a flash of panic in his gaze, but there’s also a thrum of arousal still sparking in his veins at the sight. He fumbles to tuck himself back into his jeans, cheeks more red. 

“Fuck—I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice still rough.

“Shh,” you say simply, pulling him in for a kiss. He melts into it, relieved and just a little awed by how casual and reassuring you seem, like there’s not an ounce of shame. When you pull back, you brush a few strands of sweaty hair off his forehead. 

“Did you enjoy it?”

He lets out a huff of laughter—surprised you’d even need to ask. His face is still flushed, and he ducks his head. 

“Uh… yeah,” he says, a helpless grin curling his mouth. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“Good.” You give him a knowing smile. “Would’ve broken my heart if I couldn’t do that again.”

“Really?” he asks, blinking in genuine amazement.

“Mhm,” you tease, leaning in to peck him lightly on the lips. “Never gonna be able to cook normally in here again, though.”

That makes him laugh, a loose, buoyant sound that brightens his features. 

“Um, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the bathroom and… clean up a little.” You clear your throat, cheeks still pink. “Before we finish cooking.”

“Oh—shit, of course,” he says hurriedly, stepping back to make room for you. He tries to sound collected, but he’s still a little breathless.

You hop off the counter, bending to gather your discarded clothes. As you head across the room, you glance back, noticing him following your every move. A playful wink from you makes him chuckle under his breath, still riding the high of what just transpired.

Alone in the kitchen, he turns back to the neglected pot and quickly re-focuses himself. With a shaky exhale, he slides the diced onions into it. He sets the knife aside for when you return, mind swirling with the memory of your touch—the same memory that he would certainly be revisiting in the very near future. 

When you finally emerge, you’re wearing a pair of soft pajamas—something that looks cosy enough to curl up in. He catches the sight of you out of the corner of his eye and can’t help but beam, feeling that giddy high in his ribs all over again. He steps forward, gently tugging you back to your perch on the countertop.

“Hey now,” you warn, eyes dancing with good humour. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for round two.”

“No—neither am I,” he admits, pressing a quick, warm kiss to your cheek. “But I got this—just sit there and, I don’t know, look pretty.”

Your playful groan of protest is minimal, and he can’t stop smiling as you settle back. You watch him shuffle to the far side of the kitchen to grab a clove of garlic. He’s turning up the heat and chopping again with that same contented hum in his chest, as though he’s stepped into some domestic paradise.

He thinks about how someday, when he’s more at peace with his body, he wants to show you all of himself. He only hopes that next time, he’ll be a little bolder, a little braver—so he can give you everything you deserve.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni 

[96kurtswrld]

show-time

request: i cannot stop thinking about asking steve if he ever got himself off to you before you got together. he’d be so blushy and sheepish about it but man it’d be fun to watch him squirm 🤤

2.1k words, established relationship, masturbation (steve), gn!reader, MDNI this entire blog is 18+

It’s a universally awkward experience to have a sex-scene come on in a movie. Unless one’s watching it alone, of course.

You are not. Cuddled in behind you, cushioning you against his chest, Steve lounges, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Sure, in terms of awkwardness-rankings, watching this with your boyfriend who you also have sex with isn’t as bad as, like, watching with parents.

But still. You kinda can’t tell if you should be watching or averting your eyes — and you don’t want to peek over your shoulder to figure out what Steve’s doing.

The man in the film grunts, his hand in his pants jerking furiously, his eyes fixed on a polaroid of the film’s love interest.

You squint—surely this is stretching the truth a bit?

Yeah, yeah, guys jerk off, you know that - this isn’t your first day on earth.

You just didn’t think it would be like, romantic style. People in movies kiss in the rain and run through airports, so they’re hardly known for being grounded in reality.

The man in the film groans lewdly and you feel Steve shift slightly behind you, his fingers looped around your middle twitching.

Did he-? When you-? You suppose you’ve never really thought about it.

You’re asking before you can second guess yourself.

“Did you do this?”

Steve’s attention switches idly from the screen to you as you crane your neck to look back at him. His brows pinch together.

“Did I do what?” He asks, doting brown eyes searching your face.

You fluster a bit. This is certainly moving you up through the awkwardness rankings. But now it’s in your head —now you’ve said it — you can’t turn back.

The thought of it blazes hotly through your mind.

Steve, all those months ago, still just crushing on you, but never quite making a move. He’d told you, whispered his secret, when you’d finally gotten the nerve to ask him to be your boyfriend officially, that he’d been sweet on you far longer than you knew.

But the image of it is what has you interested. You imagine Steve, his fist stuffed into his tight jeans, working himself over and biting his fist to hide his moans, at the mere thought of you.

You’d had plenty of long, late night conversations on the phone before officially getting together.

The thought of if he’d ever touched himself while you talked, none the wiser on the other end, wanders into your mind — and your stomach clenches hotly at the thought.

Clearing your throat, you tip your head towards the screen.

“Like, before we got together?”

It takes Steve another glance at the screen to realise what you’re asking. A simmering, pink colour crawls up his neck and in a moment, you go from feeling awkward to feeling downright devious.

Steve clears his throat, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth from the screen to your face. “Uh, I- I mean, why do you ask?”

A coy smile curls at your mouth. “I wanna know how accurate it is.”

Steve stares down at you, the pink now creeping up his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. God, he looks delectable like this.

Is this how he looked when he did it too? Blushy and embarrassed to commit such a filthy act thinking of someone that wasn’t his? A hot buzz drizzles through your core, fringed with endearment.

Steve licks his lips nervously. His hands on your stomach stiffen and then relax. The film plays on in the background. His expression shifts towards something sheepish.

“It’s — I, uh, well, yes.” He stammers. “It’s accurate, yes.”

“How many times?”

Steve’s eyes narrow, but his face gets redder. “What is this, an interrogation now?”

You giggle, drinking in his evidently embarrassed state. The confirmation of him doing it solidifies the perfect image of him in your mind, your own film-scene imagining Steve in the same position as the character on screen. In real life, Steve moves his hand to tug at the collar of his shirt.

“I’m just… enjoying the idea of it.” You muse.

“Uh huh,” Steve says, tongue jammed into the side of his cheek. “Not just—” He fumbles for his words. “Just enjoying seeing me, I don’t know, like—”

His words trail off and his head tips back with a groan, exposing the delicious expanse of his throat. It begs you for kisses and love bites. He moves both hands up to cover his face.

You wait til he pulls them away to nod. “Absolutely, baby. Watching you squirm is far more interesting than this film.”

In the background, the man on screen gives a pornographic shout as he finishes in his pants. Steve manages to turn redder, even if he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

“But I’m just,” You huff and pout. “Put out, I guess. You did all that for me and I didn’t even get to see it.”

At the exact same time, you watch as Steve’s pupils dilate, blowing out in obvious lust, and something pressed against your back thickens up.

Steve, to his credit, only makes one strained noise which he immediately smothers with a cough. You feel his hips twitch beneath you and make a quick decision, confidence built on the sweltering heat of Steve’s face.

You push forward and up, then quickly turn, slotting your knees across either side of Steve’s thighs, perching atop them nicely.

You’re not outright in his lap—there’s room between the two of you for what you hope will happen.

It takes Steve another long moment to catch your drift.

“Wait, you want-?” He inhales sharply. You can see the twitch of his cock through his loose sweatpants. “To see?”

“To watch,” You clarify, smiling almost mischievously. “Yeah.”

Then just to check, “Is that okay?”

Steve’s breath shudders out of him but he’s nodding before the question is completely out of your mouth.

“H-Here?” He checks. You nod, resting your hands atop your thighs to show you don’t plan on using them. Steve’s hungry eyes scan you up and down, the tent in his pants pitching up in arousal.

“Just show me how you did it,” You murmur, words on the side of sultry. Your own excitement, that faint thrum of pleasure, has already started to pool low in your gut.

“Yeah, but I normally don’t have an audience for it,” Steve mumbles, his left-hand reaching for the drawstrings of his sweats.

They come undone with a simple tug. Steve stretches the elastic out a bit and then slips his hand in.

You know the moment his large hand settles around his cock from the flutter of his lashes, the soft groan that curls out his throat, rough and sweet all at once.

This… This is new. You usually don’t get such a focused look at Steve’s pleasure, at the little shifts in his expression, too wrapped up in your own pleasure to pay proper attention. Getting this much detail sends a delicious throb between your thighs. You hardly want to blink.

Steve’s hand moves slow to begin with, slow, gentle strokes to get himself properly warmed up.

After a moment, he draws his hand back and some part of you worries he’s too weirded out now. But he only brings it up, to his mouth, and you realise what he’s doing.

Quickly stealing his hand, Steve’s eyes widen as you let spit drop from your lips and pool in his palm. Another soft, jagged noise drags from his throat.

“Jesus Christ,” He murmurs, more to himself. “This is not what it’s like when it’s just me, this is, like, ten fucking times hotter.”

His hand sneaks back into his sweatpants but this time when he grips his cock, the reaction this time is immediate.

Steve moans, louder this time, his eyes crushing closed and his hand starts moving faster. With the help of your spit, it doesn’t take long before you can hear it, the slick sounds of him fucking his cock desperately.

His head tips back against the couch and a piece of hair flops over, into his eyes.

You reach out and brush it to the side and Steve’s eyes crease open at the same time a whine threads through his moans.

“Fuck,” He grunts. He sinks in teeth into his bottom lip, his eyes desperately roaming your face. “Fuck, baby, you’re so pretty.”

“That what you thought bout?”

You’re impressed with yourself for the cool, calm demeanour you’re portraying. Steve nods, the motion a little wild, his hand still making those lewd, wet noises.

“Uh huh,” His voice shakes a little. “Just, fuck, dunno, like, your face and-uh-what y-you’d sound like.”

Your eyes glitter with interest, ego raring at the devotion your boyfriend is spilling out.

“What I’d sound like?”

“Y-Yeah,” Steve stammers, his breathing heavy. “Like, doing this.”

Now that’s a picture; Steve jerking off to the thought of you, hot and bothered with your hand between your thighs. You give a breathy gasp without meaning to.

Steve hears it, groaning louder as he quickens his pace. You sort of want to reach forward and ruck up his shirt, so you can see the glorious clench of his stomach as he rolls his hips up into his warm hand.

“Can I see more?” You ask tentatively. “Please?”

This time, it’s more like a whimper that creeps out of Steve’s throat.

“Oh my god,” Steve mumbles through a stilted moan. “Jesus Christ. Yeah, yeah, of course.”

He swallows heavily, his free hand reaching down to push at his waistband. You help, lifting up to help tug the fabric out of the way.

Obstructions removed, your mouth salivates. Steve’s cock is pretty — and it looks that much more enticing when it’s worked up, pink and the tip of it leaking all over his hand.

Steve’s a fucking vision. His head still lolled back, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. His throat, dotted with moles, crawling with pinkness. His big, veiny hand wrapped around his cock, pumping it steadily.

You think about how much you’d like the lick the trail of hair on his tummy, down, down, down.

“You seem close,” You say and it earns you a reedy whimper in response. “Is it- does it normally happen this fast?”

“Are you kidding me?” Steve whispers back. His eyes are closed and after a moment, you realise he’s trying to keep himself from cumming too quickly, even as his hand doesn’t slow. “I—ngh— n-normally don’t have such good, ah, material. My imagination is— is not this good.”

You’re equal parts flattered and flustered, heat twinging in your gut.

“Can— can I?” Steve whimpers out suddenly.

The question nearly throws you. You almost say Can you what? when the meaning of it douses you in fire.

He’s asking permission.

Oh, that does something to you.

“Yeah, Stevie,” You say, voice lilting closer to a coo. “I wanna see it, please.”

Something shifts in his motions, changing gear as Steve’s hand suddenly starts moving in smaller, tighter strokes, just over the head of his cock. His head tucks forward, his eyes scrunched closed, and he’s whimpers out, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

It only takes a few seconds, the whine in Steve’s voice pitching higher and higher, until something gives.

His hips take over, something desperate and primal shoving them up, his thrusts rapid and frantic. His hand doesn’t stop moving, not even as his cock starts to leak out ropes of cum, shooting out enough to cover the back of his knuckles. It joins your spit to rub slick against his cock.

He keens pitifully. For one long minute, you listen to Steve’s breathy whines get softer and softer, watch his desperate thrusts abate til an overstimulated shiver wracks through his body. Then, and only then, does he collapse back, sinking into the couch.

He’s a bit ruined, truthfully.

And you’ve soaked through your panties.

“You’re welcome,” You croak, throat dry. His hair is back in his eyes and lean forward, tenderly brushing it out of the way. You leave your hand there, cupping the side of his face, and Steve leans into it, still panting.

“What?” He asks.

“You were thanking me,” You point out cheekily.

Steve’s face plunges back to that scarlet colour you’re beginning to adore most ardently. He turns his face further to hide away in the palm of your hands.

“Shut up,” He mumbles.

“So you don’t wanna do that again?” You tease.

Steve pulls back and eyes you. “Now, hang on, I didn’t say that…”

[96kurtswrld]

thinking about getting fingered by Steve in the backseat of his car and being crowded against the door and sitting at an awkward angle but not moving because the thought of his fingers losing that spot is a million times worse than the sore neck… just UGHHH 😩

a hungharrington fic? in 2025? i'm just as surprised as you <3 1.3k, fem!reader, what the prompt says hehe MDNI this entire blog is 18+

The numbers on the dashboard blink in the night, reflecting the late night hour.

From the outside, Steve's car looks unassuming, parked in between the trees out by Skull Rock.

You're given away only by the faint fogging of the windows, though you have little doubt of how steamy they'll be soon enough. With the hot heat of Steve's mouth against the skin of your neck and the surety of his fingers, curling closer between your thighs, it's not an if, it's a when.

"God, I missed you s'much," He murmurs heavily. His words get smothered beneath his own fervent kisses, your skin tingling beneath the attention. He can't bring himself to break away from you for more than a moment.

Steve had headed out of Hawkins for the better part of a week, dragged by his parents who wouldn't take no for an answer. He'd returned just tonight, maroon car glinting the last of the evening sun up at your window.

You'd slipped down and taken the passenger seat always reserved for you.

And then, somewhere between there and now, Steve had cajoled you into the backseat, his hazel eyes bright with an adoring lust as he nipped at your neck.

"Missed you too," You gasp breathily.

Tilting back, your head gently hits the glass of the car window behind you. Your hair wipes some of the fog off and Steve nibbles a soft lovebite under your ear, soothing it with his tongue. His hands paw hungrily at your waist and you grapple to find purchase on his shoulders.

"Not as much as me, baby," Steve pants.

He finally pulls himself back from his affectionate attack on your neck, eyes darker, face flushed. His hand on your waist slides forward, following the line of your hips forward, down, til he's cupping your cunt. You think you get a little lightheaded from the way your blood rushes south, gloriously hot at the touch.

He kisses you, his groan seeping into your mouth. It fills your head, heavy and sticky with lewd thoughts.

"Thought of you every," He rubs you through the denim softly. "Damn," Another rub, more pressure this time. "Day."

You keen, hips canting forward, searching for more of that delicious friction. Steve gives you what you want; he always does. You reward him, your hands on his shoulders shifting. You twine your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, just how he likes it.

The inside of the car feels much, much warmer now. The windows can't be seen through anymore and it seems to cast the red light of the dashboard clock much further. Steve's heavy breath fanning across your face is the loudest thing in the car.

You should've worn a skirt, you think— right as Steve asks, "Can I?" his hand now up, thumbing at the button of your jeans.

His check-in douses the ember within you with gasoline, burning hotter, brighter, in an instant. You know what he's asking for, know exactly how well Steve knows how to use his fingers. The thought of them buried in you, crooked just right, suddenly has you aching for it.

Nodding, you murmur out your yes' as you shuffle about, working to kick off your shoes quickly. Steve pulls back to not be in the way, jumping back in time to help you peel the denim off from your legs.

You manage to get your fingertips beneath the elastic of your panties before you're interrupted.

"Keep them on," Steve says, knocking your hand aside. He surges back in, his fervour undulled, and his large hands find your hips, tugging forward.

You end up slightly perched in his lap, slightly pressed into the back corner against the window and the seat. It's an awkward position but when the warmth of Steve's fingers pet your cunt again, cotton stickier now, you can forgive it. You sling your arms around his neck to get closer.

"That's it," Steve murmurs lowly. He ducks his head to reignite every lovebite left on your neck as his fingers get bolder, pressing firmer. Your breath gets thinner, chest heaving more and more.

"God, my girl," He breathes, fingers spreading the wetness up and over your clit tantalizingly. You mewl at his too-soft motions, needing more.

"Steve," You urge.

He doesn't make you wait. Pinching the edge, he pulls your panties to the side and then dips his fingers into the well of slick wet waiting eagerly for him.

You make matching groans; Steve moaning at heat of your inviting cunt, wrapped around him, and you sighing at the way his long digit sinks into you, slow and so sweet.

"Steve," You say his name again, this time a honey, lusty thing.

Steve breaks his kiss to moan against your neck, feeding on the obvious salacious eagerness in you. His finger draws back and then he sinks it back in, beginning slowly to fuck it in and out.

"Missed you," He whispers. A second finger prods at your entrance and eases in gently, sending a streak of something white hot down your spine. Your arms around his neck tighten.

"Missed this," He continues, still a whisper. He's picking up the pace now, having found a lazy rhythm, fingers sliding in and out of your cunt so perfectly that it makes your clit twitch, envious and missing out.

You whine into the crook of his neck. "Me too."

Then, just as you think the angle of your back might be just a tad too uncomfortable, Steve curls his fingers.

A gaspy noise escapes your throat. Desire pulses wildly and you can feel the way you flutter around his fingers. Steve's other hand on your waist tightens, gripping you tightly.

"Fuuuck," He groans. "I missed that too."

Then he does it again, fingers crooked to hit that perfect spot that makes you feel like you might cry if he rubbed it too much. Your noises sound much louder now, jagged and pitching up.

"You're such a tease, honey," Steve accuses, his motions not slowing. "Keeping me from this. Keeping all your cute noises to yourself."

And, as if he'll know what it'll do, he stretches his hand, veins bulging in his forearm, and plants his thumb on your clit. You jolt against the new stimulation, another cute gaspy noise, and Steve moans against your neck.

His hand keeps moving, fingers still plunging into your sopping cunt, thumb rubbing tight, small circles on your clit. You cling to him, hips rolling to meet his strokes, the heat in you building, suddenly desperately fast. Your breathing comes out heavy and if it's not a moan, it's his name that slips from between your lips.

"Feelin' good? M' making my girl feel good?" He says raspily. "You deserve it, being left alone. So mean of me."

Something fiery swells within you and you inhale sharply, squeaking out Steve's name in warning. His hand, which must be cramping much like your poor back, still rocks into you, unfaltering.

"C'mon, let me have it. Please," He pleads. "Let me see you cum f'me, honey."

The sincere thread in his voice, the genuine plead, is what unravels your last ties. You tremble, lusty and quivering sounds that you bury away in his neck, as you ride his fingers through a dazzlingly hot high. It drags on, nerves glittering with a fresh coat of pleasure that have you whining Steve's name pitifully.

When your breath starts to settle, Steve eases his fingers out, already beginning to pepper little kisses along the side of your head.

"That was big, huh?" He says. It's mostly care in his voice but there, in the back, is a smidgen of smugness.

"Shhhh," You shush him, still gathering yourself, eyes closed. You body gives a volatile twitch when Steve politely moves your panties back to their original position. "I'm deciding if that was worth fucking up my back a little bit for."

Steve makes a wounded noise, realising that he'd had you crowded up in an uncomfortable position the whole time. He's a worrier. That's enough to make you lift your head off his shoulder, eyes lidded low.

"Mmm, decided." You hum, the pleased smile of post-bliss on your face. Steve softens at the sight of it, at your easy happiness. "Worth it."

[96kurtswrld]

guys i got a loooong slow burn keegan fic in the works....

[96kurtswrld]

Yes. Yes we can talk abt high steve. I think it’s like this.

taking an edible w steve always starts so giggly and then at the 30min mark he’s capital h Horny. ur joking abt something so inconsequential w him and suddenly he’s like “haha you know what’s really funny. i wont u…”

and you indulge him, let him paw at you and blab nonstop about how good you feel, and you only laugh a little when he acts like your tits are the most mind-blowing thing he’s ever seen, and just when he gets his mouth on you is when YOUR high hits. and you’re sitting there, feeling like everything around you is melting except for him, feeling both so in love and so carnal while he fucks you, and cums, and then keeps going because he’s Insane. and he doesn’t stop talking the whole goddamn time because he’s INSANE.

this took me a while to reply to bc i had to put my phone down and walk away…

it’s cute to think abt being best friends and you KNOW if you both get high with each other you’re going to fool around. but you never acknowledge it. it’s this unspoken thing.

so you’re both stressed out and decide to take an edible. sitting real close to each other on the couch while a random movie plays. you’re trying to pay attention - honestly. you both are at first, giggling, slowly getting higher and higher.

“think it’s kicking in,” he says, sinking into the cushions. his eyes are hooded. you’re pretty sure his high started a while ago and this is just the only time he’s verbalized it.

“you okay?”

“uh-huh.” his head lulls to the side. “you?”

“mhm.”

“you with me?”

“mhm,” you repeat.

you stare at each other for a long while. steve’s cheeks flush.

he giggles. you giggle. and then both of you burst into a fit of them, laughing beyond the point of being able to breathe, feeling exhausted and restless.

it happens out of nowhere, as usual. steve’s mouth is on yours quickly, hands enveloping your cheeks. he holds you so you don’t move away - as if you would. your hands curl into his hair and you sigh, relaxed, high becoming heady.

a hand moves down to your chest, big and warm as it grips your breast. you groan, leaning into him further. he gasps as he pulls away, looking fucked out, eyes red and hardly open.

“need you,” he moans, his fingers tweaking your nipple. “c’mere.”

you’re sat on his lap now, his hard-on pressing into your core. you wish you weren’t wearing sweatpants. wanna feel his cock, feel it throb against your cunt. and you know it’ll get there, but you’re impatient. steve’s moaning like a whore below you, hands exploring every single inch of you. groping your ass, your thighs, his lips trailing down your neck.

“keep - keep doin’ that,” he begs, fucking his hips up into you. “feels so good, you’re so good to me.”

“steve.” you’re breathless. you can feel your heart beating so hard and heavy it almost scares you. you’re hyper sensitive, needy, grinding harder.

“tits,” he gasps. “need your tits, baby, they’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

you laugh at first, but it’s really not funny when his lips wrap around a nipple. you’re whining like a whore now, so desperate for him, for anything he’ll give you.

you’re really fucked up now, too. finally on his level, and all you can think about is him. everything is purely carnal. you’re hardly even thinking.

“leave hickeys,” you moan. “please, wanna remember.”

he sucks love bites eagerly into the plushness of your breasts.

“oh,” he whispers, “need to feel you, please?”

when you’re both bare and you’re sinking down on him, your favorite steve comes out - chatty, pussy drunk, touchy steve. hands moving everywhere again, five new hickeys on your body. he talks to you in between each.

“pussy - this pussy is made for me, huh? like we’re meant to be. perfect fit.”

you wouldn’t exactly call it that. he’s so big you feel like you’re splitting open. the high soothes the pain, feeling fuzzy rather than sharp.

“uh-huh,” you say anyway.

“i’m gonna cum. gonna cum in this tight — shit — mmmph —“

“yes,” you gasp, hips rocking. you’re both moving slow even though everything feels like it’s moving fast. “yes, steve, feels so good when - i love it when you -“

you shudder. you can’t even get the words out.

“say it,” he grits. “quick, i’m close.”

your stomach flips violently, clit pulsing. his thumb lazily flicks against it.

“love it when you cum in me.”

he plants his feet and fucks into you, rough and sloppy, making you fold into him. you bury your head into his shoulder and wail.

“my best friend,” he grits. “fuckin’ love you.”

you press open mouthed kisses to his skin. “i love you. oh my god, i love you, please cum.”

his grunts and groans are pornographic, unloading into you, so warm. feels so good when you’re high - spreads the bliss through your body. you cum a moment later, just from the feeling of his balls pressed against your ass, his thumb still swiping.

but he doesn’t stop. you squeak, a little sore, a little overstimulated.

“steve -!”

“i know,” he groans, continuing to fuck you. he’s breathless, so goddamn hot with his messy hair and dark eyes. “i’m sorry, i can’t stop, y’feel so goddamn good i just - i can’t - need more, please?”

“okay,” you breathe.

he sighs. “my good girl.”

[96kurtswrld]

Say my name | Steve Harrington

Summary: Steve hated his name, until he heard you say it

Fluff, comfort, slight angst, kind of smut

♡

Steve Harrington was never fond of his name. It felt plain and boring, blending into the background of everyday life. Yet, it carried an immense significance. Named after his great grandfather - a man everyone revered - Steve bore the weight of the Harrington legacy. Perhaps that’s why his posture was never perfect; the invisible load of expectations and history bore down on him, a constant reminder of the greatness he was expected to live up to.

Maybe that’s why Steve always tried to be recognized as something other than himself, his father’s son, Nancy’s (ex) boyfriend, or the highschool King turned loser. But no one really knew Steve. Beneath the labels and legacy, there was a person who felt unseen, lost in the shadows of who he was supposed to be.

Every time his name left someone’s mouth, he would wince, almost forgetting it belonged to him, hating the way their lips formed around the rough noise of the “v” and how they would draw out the “e,” as if speaking his name was a chore.

–

The first time you said his name, it was like unlocking something buried deep inside him. You didn’t even notice how your voice softened, how the word Steve seemed to linger in the air, hanging between you. It wasn’t just a name—it was a recognition, a moment of something real, raw, and quietly powerful. He had been called “Steve” a thousand times before, but this was different. The way you said it felt like the beginning of something, and it made him feel seen in a way he never had before. Steve didn’t sound plain or burdensome—it felt like a truth you were just discovering together.

It started so simply. He’d introduced himself with an easy smile, his hand extended toward you. “Hi, I’m Steve,” he’d said, his voice steady but laced with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place—nervousness, maybe? Hope?

You smiled back, slipping your hand into his, and without thinking, you said, “Hi, Steve.” The sound of his name on your lips was unassuming, almost casual, but it did something to him. The way you said it felt warm, like the sun breaking through a cloudy sky. Your voice carried a quiet sincerity that lingered in the space between you, and for the first time, Steve didn’t feel like just a name. It felt like it belonged to him in a way it never had before—personal, meaningful, significant.

He held onto that moment longer than he meant to, replaying the way your voice pitch changed and the way you dragged out the e a perfect amount to keep him longing. It wasn’t just the first time you’d said his name—it was the first time it had ever truly meant something.

_

The moment leading up to your first kiss was a quiet symphony of stolen glances and charged silence, where every movement seemed deliberate and every breath felt heavier. You were standing close—closer than you ever had before—your shoulders almost brushing as the night wrapped around you like a cocoon. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of leaves and distant rain, but all Steve could focus on was you. The way your eyes flickered to his lips for the briefest second before darting back to his, the way your breath quickened ever so slightly, and how your fingers fidgeted nervously at your sides as if they were itching to reach for him.

Steve felt like the world had narrowed down to just this moment, this heartbeat where he could lean in or step back, caught between the fear of messing it up and the overwhelming pull of you. His heart thundered in his chest, loud and unruly, as if it were urging him forward. He searched your face for a sign, a hint, anything that might tell him this wasn’t just him, that you felt it too—that invisible string tugging the two of you together.

Then, you tilted your head ever so slightly, your lips parting just enough to breathe his name softly, “Steve…” It was barely above a whisper, but it was all the permission he needed. He leaned in slowly, his hand brushing against yours as he moved, tentative yet desperate to close the gap. The world seemed to hold its breath, the seconds stretching out as his lips finally met yours.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like a question being asked. But then, as if some dam had broken, it deepened, filled with all the unspoken feelings that had been building between you. It was everything and more—sweet, electric, and full of possibility. And when you pulled back, breathless and glowing, your eyes met his, and you whispered his name again.

“Steve…” you breathed, and it was like the world held its breath for a moment. You spoke his name with the same sweetness and stickiness found in honey, each syllable melting into the quiet night air, tasting like something sweet and familiar. It was a sound that wrapped itself around him, settling deep inside his chest, and he couldn’t help but shiver at the weight of it. He realized, for the first time, how his name could sound when it was spoken with love, with tenderness, with a kind of intimacy that had been absent all his life. His name had never sounded so soft, so intimate, as if your lips were tasting the very essence of him, drawing out everything unspoken.

_

The lead-up to that night unfolded naturally, like the quiet turning of pages in a story you had both been writing for months. Every shared glance, every lingering touch, seemed to hold a question neither of you had dared to voice yet. The air between you was charged but unhurried, a quiet intensity building with every stolen moment.

It started as it always did—a night spent together, lost in conversation, the kind that made time slip away unnoticed. You were sitting close, your legs brushing against his, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm halo around you both. There was nothing particularly unusual about the moment, and yet, something had shifted. You could feel it in the way he looked at you, his gaze lingering a second longer than usual, his thumb absently tracing circles against the back of your hand.

His touch felt different that night—more intentional, though he still hesitated, as if waiting for you to meet him halfway. He laughed at something you said, but his voice wavered just enough to give him away. You could sense the nervousness behind his easy smile, the way he was holding back, testing the waters.

You weren’t immune to the nerves either. Your heart raced every time his fingers brushed against your skin, every time his gaze lingered on your lips just a little too long. You could feel the questions hanging in the air, unspoken but loud enough to drown out the quiet hum of the night. Would this change things? Would it be everything you’d both dreamed it could be?

When his fingers finally laced with yours, it wasn’t a grand gesture, just a simple, quiet moment that felt heavier than it should have. Your heart raced as his eyes met yours, his expression soft, almost reverent, as if he was memorizing every detail of your face. Then, as if by some silent agreement, you leaned into him, and he met you halfway. His lips found yours, soft and searching, as if he was trying to pour all of his feelings into that one kiss. It started slow, hesitant, but quickly deepened, the nervousness giving way to something more sure, more consuming. His hands found your waist, tentative at first, like he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t—you stayed, leaning into him, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest.

It wasn’t planned; it didn’t feel rehearsed. It felt real, like the natural culmination of everything that had been building between you. The world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you, and when his lips finally met yours, it was tentative at first—soft, searching, full of questions neither of you needed to ask aloud.

And yet, even then, there was a quiet hesitancy, a moment of pause where the weight of what was about to happen settled between you. “Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice low and steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes.

“Yes,” you said, the word carrying more certainty than you thought you could muster. In that moment, the space between you disappeared, and the unspoken tension finally gave way to something deeper, something that felt like it had been written into the very fabric of who you both were. The nervousness was still there, but it was joined by a sense of trust, of connection, that made everything feel right.

When the two of you finally gave in to the pull that had been building between you, tangled in a haze of desire, your voice broke the quiet with his name, and everything seemed to fade except the feeling of him, the sensation of your bodies moving in unison. “Steve,” you moaned, and it was like a spark, a rawness that ignited in him.

His name, slick with need and desire, slipped from your lips and hit him like a wave. It was as if every syllable of his name was drawn out by the rhythm of your breath, hanging in the air like a fire that kept burning, fueled by the need between you. Each time it left your mouth, he felt it in his chest, in his bones, the way it shifted from something ordinary to something undeniably his.

The sound of his name now was everything—urgent, desperate, and filled with so much connection. It wasn’t just a name—it was a thread that tied you together in that moment, every syllable carrying the weight of the desire that you both shared. And in that moment, all of the nerves, all of the fears, melted away, leaving only the two of you, completely and irrevocably intertwined.

_

Steve was barely conscious when he heard the sound of your voice, soft yet filled with a tremor he couldn’t ignore. The pain was sharp, every breath a struggle, but your voice cut through it, like a lifeline pulling him from the edges of everything dark and dizzying.

“I love you, Steve,” you choked out, the words trembling with raw emotion. It wasn’t a confession made in some grand, orchestrated moment—it was born out of desperation, of the fear of losing him. Those three words carried everything you couldn’t say, every ounce of love and fear and hope tangled together.

His eyes widened, softening as they met yours, and for a moment, he forgot about the pain, focused only on the sound of your voice. He wished he could gather the strength to hold you, to pull you close and reassure you, but all he could do was listen, feeling the weight of your words in the marrow of his bones. You spoke his name with the same quiet reverence as someone would speak of a cherished memory, tender and unhurried, yet desperate enough to feel like a plea. The way you said it made him feel like he was more than the hurt, more than the moment—like he was yours, and that was all that mattered.

He never expected it to be so simple, so pure, but the way you said his name made him feel like he belonged in your world. You spoke his name with the same quiet reverence as someone would speak of a cherished memory, tender and unhurried, with an understanding that transcended words.

“I’m okay,” he whispered, his voice weak but filled with something unshakable, as if the weight of your love was enough to hold him steady. But you only shook your head, tears spilling over as you said it again, quieter this time, softer, “I love you, Steve,” as if repeating it would make him believe it more, make him understand the depth of what you felt. And in that moment, he did. Every word, every breath of yours seemed to fill the cracks in him, stitching him together with something stronger than anything he’d ever known.

_

Years passed, each moment with you stitching together a life he never imagined he could have. There were quiet evenings, shared laughter, and moments of tenderness that wove themselves into the fabric of his world. The milestones came in small, beautiful bursts—there were birthdays, each one a marker of how far you had come, from the first one where you celebrated together as a couple. Then came the day you packed up your past in boxes, willingly unpacking it in the new solace, with Steve by your side—the simple act of combining your lives into one space, where every corner felt like home because it was with you. And then, the wedding day—a small, intimate moment at the courthouse, just the two of you standing together, hand in hand. In that quiet, unassuming space, he saw his future stretched out in front of him, brighter than he'd ever dared to dream. The anticipation was palpable, the air thick with the weight of the moment. There was a quiet nervousness, but also a profound sense of peace, as if everything that had brought you both here—every laugh, every tear, every shared glance—had been leading to this single, perfect instant. It wasn’t a grand ceremony or extravagant celebration—just a simple vow, a promise made in the presence of each other, where the world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you and the love that had quietly woven itself into your lives. When you spoke your vows, it wasn’t just words—it was a reflection of every moment you’d shared and all the moments yet to come. And when you sealed it with a kiss, it felt like the universe paused, holding its breath for a brief moment, before gently exhaling with the realization that this was just the beginning.

This moment, in the quiet of the delivery room, marked the culmination of everything that had come before. It was there, amid the exhaustion and the flurry of new beginnings, that he realized just how much had been building between the two of you all along.

The air was thick with anticipation. You were both exhausted, caught in a haze of nervous energy as you prepared to meet your son for the first time. The weight of the moment pressed in on him, but when your eyes locked, time seemed to stop. In that moment, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you, waiting together to give your child a name—a name that would carry the love and the journey you’d shared, and the life yet to be written.

You looked up at him then, a soft smile playing on your lips. With a tenderness that made his heart ache, you whispered, “Steve.”

The name hung in the air like a promise, a future unfolding in the space between you. It was more than just a word—it was everything.

He stared at you, his heart swelling, feeling the weight of your words, of the moment. “Steve?” he asked, his voice filled with disbelief and awe, as if trying to understand why you would want to name your son after him.

You met his gaze, a soft laugh escaping your lips. You shrugged slightly, the smile never leaving your face. “It’s simple,” you said. “Steve is my favorite thing to say.”

And in that moment, it hit him all over again—this name, his name, wasn’t just his anymore. It had become something more, something that felt right in a way he had never imagined. It was the name of a legacy, a symbol of your love. His smile softened as he shook his head, overwhelmed by the significance. “I’ve never loved my name until I heard you say it.”

You spoke his name with a reverence that made it feel timeless, making it something bigger than just the two of you. It wasn’t just a name anymore—it was the thread that would forever connect them, a bond that would last for all time. And it was his.

[96kurtswrld]

guys sorry i removed carlos as a character i will write for please don't hate me...i tried writing for him and it just didnt feel right and i would hate to put out content that feels half assed and inaccurate

[96kurtswrld]

Finally got the game, would recommend 100/10

[96kurtswrld]

[no content]

[96kurtswrld]

SEBASTIAN STAN ENDINGS, BEGINNINGS

[96kurtswrld]

i wanna write for keegan but i fear the version of him i have in my mind nobody on this platform will fw....

[96kurtswrld]

guys help what should i write are you guys like itching for anything

[96kurtswrld]

ʚ♡ɞ eddie munson

🤍-comfort 🎀-fluff 🦋-smut

nothing yet!