who wants to live forever, babe?

mostly blogging about steve and eddie / requests are closed / loosely on hiatus, most reblogging / American / 20s / AO3: the_edge_of_tonight

[harringtonfeels]

I'm Casey, and welcome to my blog! I use this blog to share my own Stranger Things fics and fics I've read and loved. I follow/like from my main, @sugarcult .

My requests are temporarily closed as of May 24, 2025. I am open to receiving requests, but I may not write them if I don't like them or just don't have the time. I work a lot and have a young kid, so I don't have quite as much time as I'd like to write. If you request something and I don't write it, please don't take it personally.

Masterlists:

Steve Harrington | Eddie Munson | STKinktober25

Things I love to write:

Friends to lovers

Enemies to lovers (but in a chill way)

Things I'm currently not interested in writing about:

Graphic depictions of non-con/dub-con

Intimate partner violence or graphic familial abuse

Characters I currently write:

Steve Harrington

Eddie Munson

[harringtonfeels]

Thanks @loveu2themoonandtosaturn for tagging me!

Six non-selfie photos from my camera roll

I've done an unusual amount of traveling and spending time outside this summer (for me at least, haha), so this is a great time for a photo dump!

My husband and my son on our first ever family beach trip! (ft. a seagull) - NJ

New book I've been reading! Brought it with me to read at the beach but was too busy chasing toddlers

My cat Guava photobombing a picture from our family tea party the other day (peep the blurry Mickey Mouse in the bg)

First installation of a synesthesia painting project I've been doing for Noah Kahan's The Great Divide album :)

Orange newt I found while disc golfing - PA

Overlook sunset in Shenandoah Park - VA

This was fun! I am notoriously terrible about responding to tag games, but I'm glad I remembered to do this one! No pressure tag for @wonderlanderings and anyone else who wants to do it!

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

THE FAVOUR | steve harrington

Steve Harrigton needs a date to his cousin's wedding and unfortunately for you, you owe your sister a favour.

pairing: steve harrington x mayfield!reader words: 8.5k contains: fluff, frenemies to lovers, (sort of) fake date, mention of precious king!steve behaviour, steve’s dad being a little awful, grief, guilt, mention of death of a sibling, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

author's note: ah so this one was so fun to write! i have never written a wedding guest fic before and oh, i just loved it! please enjoy

taglist | masterlist | 3k special masterlist | requests page

Steve Harrington could not believe his luck—or lack thereof.

The day before cousin’s wedding, Juliet had called Family Video to cancel on him and so, Steve had naturally begun to panic.

He knew how much the wedding was costing his aunt Edith—the only family member who he actually really liked—and so he knew how a last minute cancellation like this would stress her and his cousin Daisy out. Especially as he had already begged his aunt to allow him to bring Juliet with him in the first place.

He had called Robin but she was unfortunately sick with the flu. He had called his last ten dates but they were all either busy or flatly refused to go out with him again. He had even debated asking Nancy but shook the thought, she was his ex-girlfriend after all.

“Wow,” Max Mayfield grins in mild amusement as Steve rattles off the list of girls he had asked to be his emergency plus one. “You really need to find a hobby.”

Dustin—who had stumbled into Family Video over half an hour ago alongside Max to try and convince Steve into letting them rent an R rated horror for the party’s weekly movie night—laughs loudly, causing Steve to groan into his hands before resting his head against the cool countertop in defeat.

“I’ll just go alone,” Steve grumbles against his arm. “I’ll just look like a sad, sad loser going to alone to a wedding and—”

“What about Max’s sister?”

Steve can’t help it. He lets out a snort of disbelief before standing up straight.

He doesn’t miss the look of annoyance Max shoots his way.

“What’s wrong with my sister, Harrington?” She asks pointedly and Steve’s ears turn red.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with you per se. In fact, Steve had very briefly considered asking you the moment that he had gotten off the phone with Juliet. But there was just one small problem—

“Nothing!” Steve says quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Absolutely nothing! She just—”

“Hates his guts?” Dustin offers.

Max rolls her eyes in exasperation, folding her arms across her chest as she looks from Dustin to Steve.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Max insists. “She just—she just thinks you’re an asshole and would prefer not to be in the same room as you.”

Steve swallows. Something that felt like shame swirls in his gut. Of course, you had every reason to dislike him and Steve would be the first to put his hands up and say he probably deserved it. You two had very much gotten off on the wrong foot after you had overheard him call Billy’s family—and by extension your family—’trash’. It had been in the heat of the moment and he had only said it because Billy had been pushing his buttons all day. The moment he had realised that you were within earshoot, he had regretted saying it. But because he was stubborn and, at that point in time, cared more about what others thought of him than doing the right thing, and so he didn’t take them back. He didn’t apologise.

He later tried, after the first dance with the Upside Down together, after you had stopped Billy from almost killing him in Byers’ home with a syringe but you had scoffed and walked away like you didn’t buy it. You had made it very clear that you didn’t want to accept his apology, that you had made your mind up about him despite the fact your sister could not care less about the comment. He understood why—you were her big sister and you were protecting your family. Especially after Starcourt, especially after Billy died.

And so, Steve wasn’t exactly convinced by Max’s insistence that you didn’t hate him.

“There is no way she’ll go with me,” Steve says with a shake of his head, arms folded across his chest. “She hates—”

“—she will,” Max says with a knowing smile. “She owes me a favour.”

Steve blinks, looking from Max to Dustin and back again, as if waiting for one of them to shout ‘April Fools!’.

When neither of them does, Steve raises a brow at Max.

“What for?”

“She broke my skateboard,” Max explains. “I was gonna make her buy me a new one but making her go to a wedding with you sounds more interesting.”

Dustin laughs and the corner of Max’s mouth twitches but Steve looks thoroughly unconvinced.

“Gee, thanks Max,” Steve mutters, eyes shifting down to the pile of tapes stacked in front of him that he was meant to be rewinding. “But I really don’t think she’ll agree.”

And so, Steve spends the rest of his shift rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to his aunt when he called her to tell him he would be attending the wedding tomorrow, minus his plus one. 

Five minutes before his shift was due to end, Steve was carefully rearranging the candy selection just as the bell above the door sounded. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Of course—it was just his luck that a customer had decided to waltz in five minutes before his shift ended. He would put money on the fact it was a group of teenagers who would refuse to leave, teenagers who would mess up the horror display he had spent forty five minutes rearranging, teenagers who pick up the tape for Body Heat to try and convince Steve that they weren’t fourteen.

“We’re closing in—”

“—in five minutes. I know. I can read a clock, Harrington.”

Steve’s stomach turns at the sound of your voice. His head whips around so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t hurt himself. He certainly dropped all of the bars of candy that he had been holding. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Steve asks, blinking as he watches you approach the counter with a schooled expression. “Robin has the flu if that’s what you—”

“—I’m here to see you,” you interrupt, eyes flicking down to the peanut butter bopper still clutched in Steve’s hand before you look back up at his face. “Max told me about your—your plus one situation.”

“Oh,” Steve says, the tips of his ears reddening as he looks down at all the candy bars he had dropped, the ones he had been lovingly arranging for the past ten minutes. “Yeah um, that Juliet cancelled on me. She’s cat sitting or something so can’t um, make it.”

You quirk a brow and Steve can tell by the look on your face that you want nothing more than to make a comment, to crack a joke, perhaps even tell him that he had very clearly been stood up, that there was no way Juliet had actually cancelled on him to cat sit. But you don’t, instead you seem to take a deep breath before you say. “I’ll do it.”

The bopper in Steve’s hand falls to the floor. He scrambles to pick it up before looking back ar you.

“Seriously?” He asks, his eyes wide as he tries his best not to look too hopeful. “You—you’re not—this isn’t a prank, right?”

You frown slightly. “Why would I do that?”

Steve blinks before he shakes his head because really, he knew you would never do anything like that to him. 

“I—I dunno—I just—you know this is a wedding, right?” Steve asks you. “Like I’ll be in a suit and you’d wear—”

“—a dress,” you finish. “I know, Max told me. I have a dress if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Steve swallows, the bopper that was back in his grip starting to melt in his sweaty grasp. “I’m not worried about that, it's just—are you sure? Like, are you sure about coming to this wedding—with me?”

You exhale, looking away from Steve momentarily to look around the store, almost as though you were bracing yourself for something big.

“Yes, Harrington,” you say finally. “As a favour to Max, I’ll go to this wedding with you.”

Steve looks back at you for a long, long moment, as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming or that you weren’t going to tell him you were joking. When he realises that this wasn’t a dream and you say nothing, he starts to smile.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you so much. This means a lot. My family are—yeah—this is just, it’s really great of you to—”

“—but I’m not dancing with you,” you cut in quickly, fiddling with your hands as you look away from him. “Or doing anything remotely touchy feely. I’m just your plus one. That’s it. That’s all I’ll be.”

“That’s fine!” Steve says quickly, wiping his clammy hands over his jeans before setting down the bopper onto the countertop beside him, the wrapper crumpled and the chocolate inside a little gooey. “Makes sense. Yeah. Um, totally. No dancing. Limited touching. Ju—just my plus one.”

You look at him for a beat before finally, you nod. “Good. Glad we got that covered,” you say before you lean down to pick up one of the candy bars he had dropped and tear open the wrapper.

“You know you need to pay for th—”

“See you tomorrow, Harrington,” you say, smiling before taking a large bite from the chocolate bar and walking straight out of Family Video.

“Could you sit still? Just for two minutes?”

“Is this really necessary?”

Max looked back at you blankly in the mirror before shaking her head, returning her attention to your hair, ignoring you.

You huff but you don’t question her further.

You didn’t want to admit it to yourself but as it drew nearer to ten in the morning—the time that you agreed to be ready by with Steve late last night when he had called you in a slight panic, having forgotten to tell that the wedding was over an hour away—you found that you were starting to feel nervous. 

The pale green satin dress you were wearing—the one you had been saving for Max’s graduation—hugged your body in a way that you weren’t used to. Max and your mom insisted that you looked beautiful but you didn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Especially knowing you’d be spending the day and most of the evening on the arm of Steve Harrington.

“Is it too late to back out now?” You ask Max hopefully, setting down the blusher you had been applying while she was focused on your hair. “I mean—I could say I got the flu from Robin or—”

“—absolutely not,” Max snaps at you. “Just give him a chance? Alright? He’s not the asshole he was in high school.”

You hum in acknowledgement at her words but you don’t respond. You had heard that sentiment plenty of times before, you just couldn’t allow yourself to believe it.

By some miracle, you were ready just before ten o’clock. After slipping on some silver kitten heels, you stand up straight and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror next to your bed. It was hard not to smile at how pretty you felt.

“Still wanna back out?” You hear Max ask from the door of your shared bedroom, one of your mom’s nice silver purses she only used for special occasions clutched in her hands.

You look over your shoulder at Max before your eyes flicker back to your reflection, at the hair Max had lovingly styled and the makeup you had delicately applied but mostly at the dress that gave you a fluttery feeling in your stomach. 

“No,” you say with a small shake of your head before you turn to look at your sister. “I made a promise so I should stick to it.”

Max looks at you before she smiles. “You look really pretty, by the way.”

Your face warms a little at the compliment but you try to hide it, walking over to Max to take your mom’s purse from her hands. “Not bad for a last minute wedding.”

The corner of Max’s mouth twitches before she walks over to you to carefully adjust one of your hair clips. “You promise to be nice to Steve? Give him a chance to prove himself?”

“Max—”

Max cuts you off with your name and you look back at her carefully. “I’m serious. I want you two to get along. You’re important to me, he’s important to me.”

You feel yourself soften, just a little. Because if something mattered to your little sister, it mattered to you too.

“Just don’t—don’t tell him I said that,” Max adds.

You fight back a smile. “I won’t.”

It was five minutes later when there was a knock at the front door. Your stomach turned nervously as Max ran to answer it.

“You look great,” your mom smiles reassuringly. You smile back—not entirely knowing why you felt so nervous. This was just Steve. Just Steve—the guy who just last week you had yelled at for breathing too loud. Just Steve—the guy you were now going to a damn wedding with.

You take a deep breath before bidding your mom goodbye and following the voices of Max and Steve out of your room.

“—is the tie the right colour?” You hear Steve ask Max, a nervous edge to his voice. “‘Pale green’ was right of vague, I had to—”

“—you don’t need to match with her dress, it’s not prom, Steve—”

“—but I thought—”

You walk into the open plan living room and suddenly, Steve stops talking.

In fact, Steve Harrington seems to stop breathing as he looks at you.

He was looking at you in a way that took your breath away for a few short seconds before you remember just how infuriating you thought he was. But for a brief moment, you allow yourself to look at Steve—really look at him—and admire just how nice he looked. He had always been good looking, even you could admit that, but right now with his wide hazel eyes, parted lips and the suit he was wearing—the tie of which almost perfectly matched your dress—he looked stupidly handsome. The kind of handsome that made your stomach tighten.

The moment the thought enters your mind, heat spreads throughout your body. You determinedly ignore it.

“You’re late,” you say by way of a hello, hoping your voice doesn’t give any indication that you felt nothing but apathy for the man in front of you. “You know it’s rude to show up after the bride?”

Steve blinks, seeming to snap out of whatever momentary trance you had sent him in so that he could frown at your words.

“It was the tie! And there was some construction near the—”

“—still. You’re late.”

Steve seems to bite his tongue with whatever retort he had ready to go, his eyes flickering over to match who Max watches the exchange, thoroughly entertained. 

“Ready to go?” Steve asks you, choosing to ignore your remark as he steps towards the door.

You nod, opening your mom’s purse to check you had your lip gloss and some extra hair clips before looking back at Steve. “Yeah. Ready to—”

“—wait!” Max exclaims and you know what was coming before she even opens her mouth. “Let me just go grab the camera. I want this moment framed.”

Neither of you stop yourself from groaning loudly at that.

The drive to the wedding venue took a little over an hour and the car ride with Steve was almost completely silent, save for the radio that seemed to be the saving grace of the journey. 

It dawned on you that you hadn’t ever really spent one on one time with Steve before. Sure, you two had been through a lot together when it came to the upside down, but you had never hung out, not really. But now—you face the prospect of spending the entire day together. At a wedding, no less.

One thing you quickly learned about Steve was that he hummed while listening to music. A lot. Like it was beginning to grate on you kind of a lot.

“Do you have to hum while listening to music?” You ask him in a terse voice after almost thirty minutes of biting your tongue.

You watch Steve stiffen slightly out of the corner of your eye, watch the way his knuckles tighten around his steering wheel and you register the instant ceasing of his humming.

“It’s my car,” Steve points out. “I can hum in my car if I want.”

You open your mouth to snap at him, to tell him that his humming was incredibly annoying and to tell him to stop. But then you thought of Max, you thought of your promise to her that you’d try to be nice to Steve, that you would give him a chance. You find yourself pursing your lips, carefully considering your options before you decide to let this minor annoyance slip. 

Baby steps.

But when Steve pulls his Beamer into a church car park that was swarming with pastel coloured dresses, fascinators and expensive suits, it felt more like diving headfirst into cold water than tentative baby steps.

“Are you ready for this?” Steve asks you gently, sensing your apprehension as you make no move to leave the safety of his car.

You swallow nervously, soothing down your dress as you nod because suddenly, you were acutely aware of the fact that your dress cost less than thirty dollars and that your heels were scuffed, owing to the fact you had bought them secondhand from a thrift store.

“Yeah,” you lie because Hawkins was over an hour away and both you and Max had put too much effort in your appearance to turn back now. But as Steve’s hand moves to open the door, you add, “it’s just—I’m not—I’m not great with family.”

Steve’s hand stops mid-air, inches away from the door handle as he looks over at you carefully before the corners of his mouth lift into something akin to a smile. “That makes two of us,” Steve tells you. “So don’t worry. My parents hate everyone. Just don’t take it personally and you’ll be fine.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

To his credit, the moment that you finally stepped out of his car, Steve was right by your side. His hand, though tentative, rests on the small of your back as you walk towards the church, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You were already regretting the heels.

As you walk by throngs of Steve’s relatives, he gives you a very quick run down of who’s who while you try to keep up.”

“That’s my uncle Simon,” Steve tells you, nodding to a man in a suit that looked so expensive that you briefly wondered if you were even allowed to look at it. “Been married like three times. Doesn’t seem to understand what monogamy is.”

You bit back a laugh.

“That’s my great aunt Sara—”

“—great aunt?” You repeat, looking at the women Steve had subtly pointed to who did not look old enough to even be considered a great aunt. “Are you sure she’s—”

“—she had a face lift,” Steve explains and you nod slowly. “Well, we all suspect she’s had a face lift. She’s never actually said. She just keeps saying it’s because slathers herself in honey or egg whites every morning.”

Another laugh you had to fight back.

Steve was just telling you about some falling out between his grandmother and cousin as someone calls his name. Steve stops talking mid-sentence to look over at who had called out his name and smiles.

“And this,” he murmurs to you as a woman with a kind, heart shaped face and bright smile approaches. “Is my aunt Edith. She’s a bit much but—”

“Stevie! Oh, look at you!”

You watch in fascination as Steve Harrington—the guy who had been known as King Steve, the guy who had once held a keg stand record for almost three years—turns bright red.

“Edith—”

“—what?” Edith beams at the sight of Steve, carefully adjusting his blazer and fusing over his tie. “Is it a crime now to say hello to my favourite nephew?”

Steve doesn’t respond as even the tips of his ears turn red but his aunt doesn’t tease him any further, instead her soft eyes shift over to you.

“And who is this beautiful young lady?” Edith asks, her gaze so warm and friendly that you couldn’t help but smile at her. “Steve, is this your—”

“—friend,” Steve says quickly and with a quick glance over at you. “Just a friend.”

In any other circumstances, you would have corrected Steve if he referred to you as a friend but you let it slide. Baby steps.

“And a friendship is a beautiful foundation for a relationship,” Edith says to a blushing Steve before she looks back at you. “I’m only teasing him, honey. Don’t look so worried.”

You let out a breathy laugh before shaking your head. “No, go ahead. Tease away. I didn’t know he could turn that shade of red.”

Edith laughs and despite Steve rolling his eyes, he lets out a reluctant chuckle. 

“Oh, I like her already.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches before he tells Edith your name and you can’t help but notice the flash of recognition in her eyes when she hears Steve reel off your last name. You can’t blame her. The surname Mayfield and the names of your family had been splashed all over the newspapers after Starcourt, Billy's death.

But Edith doesn’t say anything, which you appreciate.

“You two should probably head inside,” Edith tells you with a nod towards the church. “Or you might be in danger of being run over by the bride.”

You let Steve guide you inside, his hand still on your back as you enter the church.

“Sorry about Edith,” Steve says as you walk towards the church pews. “She’s really—”

“—she was lovely,” you tell Steve. “Really. She wasn’t too much at all.”

Steve nods but you can see the look of quiet gratitude in his eyes.

You sit down in the pews beside Steve, becoming acutely aware of his thigh pressing against yours, of the way he was tapping his finger rhythmically against his thigh as his eyes darted around the church. You knew without asking that he was looking for his parents.

“By the way,” Steve murmurs after a moment, his eyes shifting back to you. “I forgot to say earlier but you look—”

But Steve was cut off by a sudden swell of music that signalled the arrival of the bride and whatever he was about to say dies on his tongue.

As Daisy met her soon to be husband at the altar and the ceremony began, you tried your very best to remain present. But as your eyes flickered around the church, something swirled in your gut. The realisation that the last time you had been in a church—albiet, nowhere near as extravagant as this—had been at Billy’s funeral.  

Despite the fact you hadn’t been very close with Billy nor had you even remotely liked your step-brother, Billy’s death had affected you more than you cared to admit. It wasn’t just because of what had happened to your family in the immediate aftermath of Billy’s death, when your step-dad had left Hawkins and took every bit of stability you had left with him. It was also the immense guilt and complicated things that you found yourself feeling that had made Billy’s death difficult to navigate, guilt that you felt for surviving Starcourt when Billy didn’t, guilt for also feeling so much resentment towards Billy when he had been alive for making your and Max’s life miserable but deep down, desperately things had been different for him.

But most of all, the thing that had been the most difficult about Billy’s death? It was seeing how it had affected Max and the crushing realisation that came the moment you had heard her scream out Billy’s name—was that, try as you might, you couldn’t protect Max from everything.

And so, as you sat beside Steve Harrington in the pews you were barely listening to Daisy and her soon to be husband Dale exchange their vows. And you even miss Steve sniffling quietly beside you.

After the ceremony—of which, you remember very little—you and Steve make the short journey to the reception which would be held at a magnificent farmhouse outside of which there was a beautiful rose garden. You would have thought it a truly breathtaking sight if you still weren’t so in your own head, still thinking about Billy, of the funeral and Max.

Though he wasn’t saying anything, Steve could tell something was wrong. The small rapport you had built before the ceremony had vanished, you didn’t even complain when he had ordered you the wrong drink by accident.

“Okay,” Steve sighs, looking at your expression carefully after pulling you to the side of the bar. “You gonna tell me what’s up? Did I do something or—”

You blink, looking at Steve as though only just seeing him properly for the first time. 

“I haven’t—I haven’t been in a church since—” you stop yourself, averting your eyes in favour of watching a few of Steve’s smaller cousins running around to distract yourself from the slight burn you were feeling behind your eyes.

You miss how Steve’s eyes soften, how his expression shifts and how he half raises his hand as though he had to stop himself from reaching for you.

“Oh,” he says softly, so softly that you barely recognise his voice and you have to look at him just to be sure it was really Steve. “I didn’t—I didn’t even think. I’m sorry. I—”

“—it’s okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile onto your face as you look back at Steve. “I’m okay. It was a really beautiful ceremony.”

Steve looks at you and there was a brief moment where you thought that he was just going to drop it. That he wasn’t going to push you to talk but he said your name in that new, soft voice and you knew you weren’t going to get away that easily.

“—I know I’m not your favourite person in the world but you know you can talk to me about—”

“—Steven! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

You watch as Steve’s face almost completely drains of colour.

“Fuck,” Steve mutters to you as your peer over his shoulder to see a couple—who were undoubtedly his parents—striding towards to two of you. “Okay. It’s just my parent’s. It’s just my—”

“—oh, you must be Steven’s girlfriend!” Steve’s mother exclaims happily as both she and his father approach. You were so taken aback by the hug she pulled you into that you don’t even try to correct her on the fact you were not Steve’s girlfriend and Steve makes no attempt to correct her. Instead, his face reddens and he shoots you an apologetic smile.

That son of a—

“He had told us you were pretty but I don’t think you’d be—”

“—mom,” Steve mutters, his face now burning as he avoids direct eye contact with you, clearly not wanting to give away the fact that you definitely were not his girlfriend. But you didn’t care about it that much anymore, not when you had just learned that Steve Harrington had told his parents that you were pretty.

Steve introduces you to both his parents and, like Edith, you see the flash of recognition across their faces at your surname but unlike Edith, Steve’s parents didn’t let your name pass without acknowledgement.

“Oh dear,” his moms says kindly, placing a gentle hand on your arm that makes your stomach churn uncomfortably. “I thought I recognised your face. Billy Hagrove was your step-brother, right?”

You don’t trust yourself to talk and nor do you look at Steve as you nod.

“We’re terribly sorry for your loss,” his father says to you solemnly, though his expression does not change in the slightest. “Awful accident.”

You smile in acknowledgement but you aren’t quite sure what to say. Thank you? Everything you knew you should say when someone offered their condolences would sound insincere. Unnatural, even. But fortunately—or unfortunately—for you, Steve’s father continues talking.

“And for his father to leave the way he did, leaving your family, a single mother to struggle and live in a trailer park of all places—it must really be awful for your family. Being amongst drug dealers and god knows what else in that park!”

You swallow. It had been awful but you didn’t think much of Danny Harrington’s tone—of the fact he sounded more sorry that your family were living in a trailer park than grieving. You still had Max and your mom—even if she had started drinking to cope—and a roof over your heads. It was all you needed.

But before you could tell Steve’s father any of this, before you could even consider politely standing up for yourself, Steve Harrington got there first.

“Dad, let’s not—let’s not go there, okay?” Steve says, placing a hand on your back as if ready to steer you away from the conversation.

Danny Harrington, for a very brief moment, looks taken aback by his son’s words but had enough sense to understand the topic of Billy Hagrove and the Mayfield family was off limits.

“Very well,” he says with a small nod and a tight lipped smile. “Enjoy the evening, both of you.”

The moment his parents leave you and Steve standing at the side of the bar, you feel immense relief.

You breathe a sigh of relief, not even noticing how tense you had felt for the past two minutes as you turn towards Steve. “That was—”

“—I’m really sorry,” Steve cuts in, his hand leaving your back in order to scrub over his face. Before you could even ask what he was sorry for, he continues. “For making them think that you’re my girlfriend. I panicked a little and didn’t know what to say—”

“—Steve, it’s—”

“—and I’m sorry for butting in like that. I know you can stand up for yourself and you didn’t need me to—you know. I just—my dad he just—I couldn’t—I couldn’t just let him talk to you like that. Like he—”

“—Harrington.”

Steve swallows, looking back at you as though he was bracing himself, ready for you to yell at him for doing something for you that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself. But to his utter surprise, you start to smile at him.

“It’s okay,” you tell him gently. “I—I appreciate it. Really. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

Steve looks at you as if to make sure that you weren’t lying, his eyes on you making your stomach turn in a way that you weren’t used to around him. 

“Okay,” Steve says with a grateful smile. “Okay. That—that’s good. I thought you were going to lose your shit at me for a second.”

“No,” you say, stopping yourself from smiling back at him. “But the girlfriend thing though, still undecided about that.”

Steve can’t help it, his face flushes a warm pink and before he knows it, he was laughing and you find yourself joining in.

Baby steps.

He says your name then and you look at him, the expression on his face as he looks at you makes the world around you feel a little fussy, makes your stomach flip and your cheeks grow hot.

“Yeah?” you reply in a voice that you hope doesn’t give away just how slightly flustered you were feeling.

“I wanted to—I forgot to say this earlier,” he begins, scratching the back of his neck as though he was nervous, despite the fact you didn’t think it at all possible for Steve Harrington to be nervous. “I think—you just—you look beautiful, Mayfield.”

You weren’t entirely sure why those words had such a monumental effect on you, but they did. Your breath hitches, your face feels ten times hotter and you were almost positive that Steve could hear your heart beating out of your chest because of those words.

“You look pretty good yourself, Steve,” you say with a small, barely there smile.

Steve blinks and then—

“You just called me Steve,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting.

You shrug, you pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

Baby steps.

It was hard not to smile watching Steve twirl not one but two of his little cousins around, especially when their laughter was full of unbridled joy as they begged him for just one more spin around the dancefloor.

You sat at the table you and Steve had been convening at for the past few hours. The table where you had sat for the reception dinner with a handful of his cousins, where you had struggled to hold back tears at the speech by the father of the bride and Steve had placed a warm, comforting hand on your arm. Your skin was still tingling from his touch.

“Please Steve!” the youngest of his cousins, maybe five or six, pouted up at him. “Just one more!”

“Later,” Steve promises with a quick glance over at you. “Later, I promise!”

You were fighting back yet another smile at their whines of protest, at Steve ruffling their hair to make them squeal before walking back over to your table.

“What are you smiling at?” He asks, sitting down in the chair beside yours before taking a long swig of his beer.

“Nothing,” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice the warmth of your cheeks. “Just—you’re really good with kids.”

Even the colourful disco lights couldn’t conceal the impressive shade of red that Steve had turned at your words.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” Steve murmurs. “Kids are much easier when there’s no Upside Down involved.”

You laugh, which over a few courses of dinner had become something of a common occurrence with Steve. He had made you laugh a lot, more than you wanted to admit. You were beginning to think that Max was right, that perhaps you had been a little too harsh on Steve over the past few years and you even started to feel bad for not giving him a chance sooner. Not that you would ever admit that.

It’s quiet between the two of you then. You watch Steve’s fingers gently drum against the beer bottle in his hands and as he glances over at the dancefloor. You can’t help but look over too, remembering that you had told him no dancing. You found yourself suddenly regretting that part of the deal.

“You want another drink?” Steve asks you, setting down his now empty bottle of beer. “I can get you another—”

“—do you want to dance?”

The words slip out before you could second guess them and you feel your stomach tighten in apprehension. If Steve said no then you would surely have to move far, far away and—

“Yes,” Steve says quietly and with a nod. “I’d love to.”

You look at him to see he was smiling at you and you hate the fact his smile makes your stomach feel a little fussy inside.

“Just keep your hands to yourself,” you tell him with a faint smile as you stand up from your chair, Steve mirroring your action only a few seconds later.

“I’ll be a gentleman,” Steve tells you with a smile that makes you wonder why you had ever disliked him in the first place. “Promise.”

The moment you and Steve were finally on the dancefloor together, the rest of the wedding faded into nothing. From Cyndi Lauper, to a-ha to Elton John, you and Steve Harrington danced until your feet began to hurt. He spun you around, he laughed when you stumbled over your heels and you laughed when a drunken uncle of his had spilled whiskey all over his blazer. Your laughter quickly died when Steve had thrown his blazer aside, leaving him in his white shirt that he had unbuttoned while loosening his tie, giving you a peak at the hair that adorned his chest. Your throat felt a little try at the sight. 

“Do my eyes deceive me,” Steve begins, smiling at you as Heaven Is A Place On Earth fades into Come On Eileen, “or are you checking me out, Miss Mayfield?”

You laugh like it was funny despite the fact you definitely had been checking him out.

“No,” you deny it with a laugh that causes the corners of Steve’s mouth to twitch. “Course not, Harrington.”

“Oh? Are we back to Harrington, now?” Steve asks in a teasing voice that makes you feel so hot it feels as though your stomach was suddenly made from molten lava. “What did I do? I’ve been nothing but a gentleman to you, Mayfield.”

It took you a moment to realise that he was flirting with you and as soon as you did the heat in your gut began to burn. 

“Just keeping you on your toes,” you tell him, your eyes seeming to sparkle in the light as you look back at him. 

Steve hums, unable to stop the smile from spreading over his face as he looks at you. “Misson accomplished.”

There was something in his eyes that seemed to hold you captive, you couldn’t move, could barely breathe and in that second, his eyes dip down to your lips.

“Mayfield, I—”

“—Steve!”

It was the voice of his younger cousins’, the ones he had promised another dance with. You watch as he has to force himself to look away from you, his eyes flickering back for a brief moment to apologise.

“It’s okay,” you tell him with a smile, ignoring the pang of disappointment that had taken refuge in your gut. “I’ll um, I’ll go get another drink while you—”

You gesture towards his younger cousins’ who were both tugging on his arms impatiently, demanding Steve’s attention. He shoots you one last apologetic look before he bends down to pick both squealing girls up with one only arm. You couldn’t deny the way your heart doubled in size at the sight. 

You make your way over to the bar, passing by his parents who you avoid eye contact with while you order yourself another glass of wine and Steve another beer. You tap your nails against the wooden top of the bar, your eyes finding Steve dancing with his younger cousins’ easily. 

“He’s always been great like that with kids.”

The sound of Steve’s Aunt Edith’s voice makes you jump, very nearly spilling Steve’s beer.

“Sorry honey,” she chortles, steading the bottle as you look away from Steve and over at her. 

“It’s okay,” you say with a genuine smile because unlike Steve’s parents, Aunt Edith didn’t make you feel even remotely nervous. “Just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Becuase you were too busy staring at my nephew?” She offers with a wry smile.

Your face warms but you don’t even try to deny it.

“You know, I’ve seen my nephew with a fair few women over the years but I don’t think I’ve ever seen any who could make him blush like you have over the course of the evening,” she tells you.

You couldn’t stop the look of shock from passing over your face, your body buzzing with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I’m just saying,” she continues when you say nothing, your fingers still tapping nervously against the table, “that I think, as his favourite auntie, that you’d be pretty grear together.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say and perhaps Edith knew that because she smiled at you kindly before walking away.

Edith’s words play on your mind as you continue to watch Steve and his cousins. You couldn’t lie to yourself, couldn’t deny that the evening had made you see Steve in an entirely different light. It had also made you rethink the Steve you had been so rude to over the past few years; the Steve that always dropped Max back home without a second thought, the Steve that never drove off without ensuring she was safely back inside the trailer, the Steve that had some sort of stupid handshake with Dustin Henderson, the Steve that had brought you tea and made Max lumpy tomato soup after Billy’s funeral. Something inside you twisted as you remembered that fact you had never said thank you to him for doing that.

“You’re looking awfully pensive over here, Mayfield.”

The sound of Steve’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts but his presence does nothing to the swirl of emotions you were feeling.

“Just thinking,” you say finally, turning to face him with a small smile. “Here’s another beer, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Steve grins, taking the bottle from you. Your fingers brush against his and your body feels alive with something you had never had thought you would feel around Steve. “Need it after running around with those kids, I’m too old for this shit.”

You laugh and shake your head in amused disbelief. “You’re twenty one, Steve.”

“Twenty one going on seventy.”

You can barely contain your laughter at that and soon both you and Steve were laughing. You miss the way his eyes flicker down to your lips as you laugh, the way his cheeks flush a shade or so darker when you look over at him as the beginning notes of Heaven by Bryan Adams starts to play.

“I know you just got us some drinks,” Steve begins, setting his bottle down onto the bar and gently prying your own glass of wine from your hands. “But I really want to dance with my date.”

The way he said it, the look in his eyes, it was almost too much.

“Plus one,” you correct him, biting back a smile.

“Synmatics,” he says softly, smiling at you before he holds out a hand, palm up, for you to take. “Dance with me, Mayfield.”

There was no other answer but yes.

You let Steve pull you towards the dancefloor, the fluttering in your stomach making you feel almost dizzy as he wraps his arms around your waist while your arms loop around his neck. It was the closest you had ever been to Steve and all you could think about was how incredible he smelled, how you wanted to trace each and every mole that kissed his skin, how truly gorgeous he looked and how alive you suddenly felt in his presence.

“Ever thought that you’d be slow dancing with me?” He asks with a smile that very nearly takes your breath away. 

“Not even in my wildest dreams,” you tell him, trying to cover up the fact your heart was beating so loud you were beginning to suspect it was trying to escape from its home in your chest. “But—I think today may have helped me change my mind about you.”

“Yeah?” He asks with a hopeful smile. “Or maybe you just finally realised how irresistible I am?”

You laugh and Steve smiles so hard that you were surprised that it didn’t hurt. 

“Something like that.”

You and Steve didn’t leave the dancefloor for a long time after that. Even when the song changed to something more upbeat, you didn’t leave Steve’s arms. You slow danced to Madonna, Bruce Springsteen and Prince as guests left the wedding in their droves—the bride and groom sneaking away hours ago.

“You wanna head back?” Steve murmurs against your hair as you sway to Fleetwood Mac, the dancefloor around you significantly less busy as you pull back to look at him.

“Not really,” you admit quietly, trying to ignore how one of his large hands was resting on your lower back, how his touch had set your skin aflame. “But I think we’re about five minutes away from being kicked off the dancefloor.”

Steve chuckles, looking away from you for a moment to glance at the last few stranglers remaining with you two on the dancefloor. They were all incredibly drunk and you can see the amusement in Steve’s eyes as he looks back at you.

“C’mon,” he murmurs before he pulls himself away from you, though his hand remains on your back. “Let’s go for a walk.”

You follow him without hesitation, walking out of the farmhouse with Steve’s hand still on your back and your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

“I really thought you weren’t going to say yes, by the way,” Steve tells you as you walk over the path, between the red and yellow roses that were illuminated by the glittering lights strung up ahead. “To be my plus one, I mean.”

“I owed Max a favour,” you tell him. “Broke her skateboard. By accident.”

“She mentioned that,” Steve smiles fondly. “I think she thought going to a wedding with me was more tortuous for you.”

You shake your head as you stop in front of the soft pink roses to face him. “Twenty four hours ago, I might have agreed with her but, tonight—I have to admit, it’s been pretty good.”

“Just good?” Steve asks, head tilting to the side as he looks back at you with a smile. 

“No, much better than pretty good,” you say. “Maybe something closer to…pretty incredible.”

“What? Me or the wedding?” Steve asks with a hopeful look back at you.

“Undecided,” you tell with a whisper of a smile.

Silence falls as you continue through the rose garden, the colourful flowers catching your eye as you pass by. But Steve’s eyes remain on you, thought you don’t see it—on the dress that he was sure to dream about, of just how fucking beautiful you looked and how glad he was that you had broken Max’s skateboard.

“For the record, I’m really glad you said yes,” Steve tells you, the hand on your back dipping lower for just a moment and making your insides turn to goo.

“Me too,” you admit. “I um—it made me realise how silly I was—for um, not giving you a chance before. And for you know, not being all that friendly with you.”

Steve says your name and you know by the look on his face that he wanted to tell you that it was okay, that it didn’t matter but you continued talking before he could do so.

“I think I’ve realised that Max may have been right when she said you really were a good guy. I just—I’m her big sister, you know? And—I get my back up a little when people talk bad about my family and I just—I struggled to let go of what you said.”

“Because it was cruel what I said,” Steve begins, slowing down until he stops walking completely, his hand on your back making you do that same. “It was cruel and stupid and I’m sorry. Like, really fucking sorry.”

“I know and—”

“—and if after this you want us to go back to normal then I totally understand and—”

“—Steve!”

“Yeah?”

You smile, shake your head and say, “I don’t want to go back to ‘normal’ after this.”

“Then what do you want?” He asks, hazel eyes twinkling beneath the lights.

You tilt your head to the side, considering him before you say, “another dance?”

Despite the fact there was no music, despite the fact you were in the middle of a rose garden and it was fast approaching midnight, Steve does not deny your request. Instead, he pulls you into his arms like he had on the dancefloor, his body so close to yours that there was barely an inch of space between you and you were very aware of his hand resting on your lower back.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” Steve asks in a voice so soft and gentle that you had to lean in to hear him.

“You did,” you whisper back with a barely contained smile.

“Well, I wanna tell you again. You look fucking beautiful, Mayfield. The moment I saw you I thought—fuck, this wedding is gonna be torture.”

Your face warms and you laugh, leaning into Steve so you could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest. 

“Because I’m annoying?” You offer with a teasing smile.

“No,” Steve says quietly, one of his hands reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear carefully. “Because I’ve been wanting to kiss you all day, Mayfield. That’s why.”

Everything seems to slow around you. Time, the roses gently dancing in the wind beside you. You can barely believe the words coming out of Steve’s mouth but the way he was looking at you told you that this wasn’t a dream—that Steve Harrington had really admitted to wanting to kiss you.

And it was crazy because twenty four hours ago, you were tossing and turning in your sleep over the idea of today, of the prospect of spending an entire day with Steve at a wedding. And now, you were desperate to feel his lips against yours.

“Then kiss me, before I change my mind.”

Steve blinks, as if to make sure that he had heard you correctly before he pulls you even closer with one arm around your waist. The proximity to Steve makes you feel almost lightheaded, his woodsy, vanillary scent filling your lungs and the hand now cupping your cheek making your body thrum with need.

“As you wish,” he murmurs before he leans in and presses his lips against yours. That first brush of his lips against yours was so inviting, so intoxicating that you felt almost every nerve in your body come alive from the feeling. His mouth was warm, his lips soft and he was kissing like there was nowhere else he would rather be than right here in the rose garden with you.

You kiss him back with no hesitation, warmth seeping through your veins as he gently tilts your head back, coaxing your lips apart with his tongue and making you forget how to breathe. You could have kissed him all night, until the early hours of the morning if you could. Especially when his tongue brushed against yours, making you whine against his lips and tug him even closer.

“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your lips, your mouths moving together in an almost desperate sort of way as your fingers curl into his shirt. “You’re gonna ruin me, Mayfield.”

You don’t know how long you stayed there, making out with Steve Harrington in the rose garden but all you knew as you finally pulled away from each other was that your lips were bee stung and his were wet and covered in your lip gloss. He had never looked so good.

“So much for keeping my hands to myself,” Steve grins as he reaches up to swipe his thumb across your swollen bottom lip. You roll your eyes and can’t help yourself—you pull him into another kiss that makes him groan against your mouth. The sound makes you feel incredibly glad that you had broken your sister’s skateboard.

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[moonstoneandmoonlight]

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[joekeerysbellybutton]

Breeding kink Stevie in action when drunk………………..

Steve’s the kind of guy that gets drunk on life I swear and I’m imagining him if you’re guests at a wedding together and the whole day he’s getting drunk on love and friendship and you and wine….. so so so much wine

And I think wine drunk Steve would be so freaking clingy

Of course the whole day he’s telling you how gorgeous you look in your dress and how pretty you’d look in white and as the reception drags into the night, the two of you on the dance floor slow dancing while all the other couples are whispering sweet nothings into each others ears.

But Steve… Steve is slurring the most diabolical stuff into your neck

“Wanna make you mine….. marry you…… put a baby in you–fuck–honey I need it so bad, need to feel you.”

He’s subtly rubbing his obvious hard on against your thigh (as subtly as drunk Steve can do anything that is)

“Steve, not here.,” you try to protest but he’s already ushering you off the dance floor to the nearest bathroom.

Once you’re in, he’s on you like rash. Hands grabbing at your dress so much you think he might rip it. He’s tugging your panties down and he doesn’t even notice how pretty the lace fabric is because he’s too focussed on getting inside you.

He yanks you up onto the sink, frantically releases himself from his trousers and pushes his now painfully hard cock into you.

It’s hurried, and messy, and loud. Steve clamps a hand over your mouth and sucks your neck into his mouth to stop his moans escaping. But the slapping sound is deafening……

At that moment, Steve feels his only purpose is to fill your cunt.

“Gonna get you so fucking full of my cum, yeah, you want that baby”

It’s not really a question but you answer anyway, nodding your head against the heat of Steve palm.

“Yeah you do, you take it so good, gonna be such a good mommy for me.”

You clench at the praise and it makes Steve see stars.

“Fuck, just like that, milk me.”

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

me to you after reading this

this was HOT

[stevenose]

How do you feel about maybe free use with high!steve….🤤🤤🤤

contents: high!steve, sober!reader; free use; SEX :0; hung!steve; breast play; mention of oral (steve receiving); mention of cockwarming; steve catches feelings bc ofc; a little bit of angst but it’s ok i prommy…

oh BABY.

steve calls you sometimes at odd hours of the day. the conversation starts out innocently enough, if not a little awkward, until he finally ends up segueing.

“i, uh, was going to smoke a little. if you want to come over.”

which isn’t an invitation to share a joint.

steve’s a good guy, and when you offered to help him relieve his stress even further by letting him use you however he wants, you really did mean it. the only stipulation he asked for was that it only happened if he was stoned, because that somehow made it less weird.

this time, steve’s had a bad week. which seems to be a little bit more like a bad month. keith has him working ridiculous hours, and robin keeps bailing on her shifts to hang out with vicky. his car battery won’t keep a charge despite it being changed three times, and he needs new tires.

and he’s lonely. very terribly lonely.

you hear it in his voice when he calls you a little bit past 8, beating around the bush for a minute before telling you that he’s planning on smoking and would you pretty please come over. and maybe wear something that provides easy access.

you wouldn’t dream of denying yourself — or him — of that.

and use you, he does. all of you.

kisses you until you’re gasping for air, biting at your lips and licking into your mouth like it’s made of candy.

grabs your hips and hauls you onto his lap, hardly getting you stretched open enough before bullying his way inside of you. he knows you love the burn, the way he keeps you steady and helps you take it. he fucks you on his cock like you’re a toy, something for him to play with. something truly his.

steve loves it when you ride him, though he’s typically the one making you bounce. his teeth latch onto his bottom lip while he moves you, up and down at a dizzying pace. when the taste of copper hits his tongue, he leans forward to suck and kiss your nipples. he’s prone to leaving a hickey or two or five on your breasts, just because he can. likes knowing you’re marked up by him and no one else.

and when your legs get too tired, he flips you onto your back, hooking your knees over his shoulders. he’s slow now, grinding in deep, holding your hands to his mattress while he coos down at you.

“you’re real good to me, yeah? lettin’ me use this pretty pussy?”

you leave with shaking legs after, your stomach in knots for the rest of the evening thinking about him and thinking about how he may like to use you again in the future. maybe you could cockwarm him — or perhaps a blowjob, guiding the tip past your gag reflex just to feel your throat tighten around him —

his next call comes not even twelve hours later, just as the sun is starting to rise.

“i’m sober. but i can’t stop thinking about you.”

you sigh happily, sleepily, victoriously. “then get over here.”

[tinfoileddd]

☽ the basement ☾

steve harrington x fem!reader (18+; MDNI; 7.1k words)

It’s always been easy being around Steve, ever since the day that he and Robin showed up at the Squawk and announced that they were there to work at the station. You hadn’t argued — honestly, it was kind of nice to have someone else helping you out — and Steve is the kind of person who can make hours melt by in seconds. Whether he was cracking a joke to try and make you laugh, sliding a sandwich across across your desk when you forget your lunch, or seeking you out by the coffee machine for a chat between sets, time always passed a little too quickly when you were with him. (You search the basement of Hawkins Lab and find a little more than you were expecting.)

cw: sex pollen, dub con (ish, there's still pretty enthusiastic consent), p-in-v sex, creampie, pussy eating, fingering, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, spit, big dick!steve, steve being a munch (go read keer-y's sex pollen fic too btw cause we parallel wrote them lol) masterlist || divider by @/enchanthings || ao3 link

The sight of the old Hawkins Lab looms in front of you, all concrete and barred windows, and your stomach sinks at the sight of it. To your left, Dustin lets out an annoyed huff despite the fact that abandoning your post at the church was his idea, and to your right, Steve shuffles forward as your ragtag group presses forward, Nancy and Jonathan a few paces ahead of you.

Your job, as it has been for a few months, continues to be the physical blockade between the warring friends. To be Switzerland, the Demilitarization Zone of conflict, the human embodiment of a white flag. Your role is to never spill your own personal opinions on the arguments that you’re caught between, because if you did, the scale would absolutely tip in Steve’s favor — you’ve heard quite enough of Dustin’s barbed insults in the past year, thank you very much — but as the it was, you haven’t been around the rest of the monster hunting crew long enough for your thoughts to be valued by the wider circle.

(You do like to give Steve a reassuring shoulder squeeze from time to time though, especially whenever Dustin starts insulting him outright. You’re not sure it helps, but the soft smile you get in return is enough to settle some of the lingering guilt over not being able to do more.)

But still, you fall in step next to Steve just as Dustin surges forward, catching Nancy’s attention as he asks a question you can’t quite hear. You take the moment to cast a sidelong glance towards Steve, quietly asking, “Everything alright? You hit your head pretty hard back there when the car crashed.”

He sighs, passing the flashlight back and forth between his hands. “Yeah, I’m fine. More worried about…”

His face tilts up, and you follow his gaze forward. 

Dustin.

“I think if there were any lasting damage, he would’ve complained by now,” you offer. 

“Fair enough,” he says. A beat passes before he asks, “And you? I know you were in the backseat with Nance and Jonathan, but…”

You blink in surprise. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just got a face full of your headrest. No biggie.”

A hushed laugh escapes him, and for the first time since the crawl that got you all in this mess in the first place, the tension in his shoulders loosens incrementally, and he turns to look at you fully. “Well, if it starts to hurt, let me know, okay? I can try and scrounge around for—”

“Steve!”

Dustin’s voice cuts across your conversation, and you both turn to where he’s waiting impatiently by the entrance to the lab, hands planted on his hips as though he’s a beleaguered mother and not a sixteen year old boy.

Steve lets out another sigh, and with a nod towards the kid, settles a hand on your back as he guides you forward. Dustin disappears inside, clearly not wanting to wait for the two of you to catch up. You get to the door first, but Steve’s quick to dart forward, yanking the door open and gesturing you through with a flourish.

You smile despite yourself.

Nancy and Jonathan are already in deep conversation by the time you catch up, and you bite back a laugh when Steve gestures to the space around you, saying, “Wow, this looks promising.”

Dustin shoots back a comment you don’t quite hear as you take in your surroundings, eyeing the vines wrapping around every surface that you can see. Hesitantly, you reach over, fingers outstretched towards a thick tendril on the wall, but before you can make contact, Steve’s at your side, intercepting your hand.

You blink up at him owlishly.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” he offers in way of explanation.

“Is it dangerous?” you ask.

He shrugs and gestures towards the faded scar around his neck. “Remind me to tell you about ’86 later.”

You nod and follow him back to the rest of the group, confused to find them in an intense discussion about a movie plot of all things (Is this really the right time? you wonder) and Steve calls across the lobby, “Why are you explaining the plot of a movie that we all know, Henderson?”

“Because, Steven, Return of the Jedi is an oddly relevant movie!” Dustin snaps.

“Yeah, and we’ve all seen it,” Steve retorts.

You frown. “I’ve never seen a Star Wars film.”

Steve winces. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say.

“Anyway,” Dustin interjects. “As I was saying…”

You listen attentively as Dustin explains his theory — even if you’re only half following it, because you’re not quite sure what a shield generator even is — and brush your hand against Steve’s wrist after Dustin once again shoots the guy a snarky comment, sticking close by as you follow the group into a staircase.

Which, in turn, causes another debate when Steve points out, “Henderson and I need some space. New groups?”

“Are you serious right now?” Jonathan demands. “Who exactly are you planning on going with, Steve?”

Steve opens his mouth, incensed and ready to retort, but you quickly draw everyone’s attention towards you when you say, “Steve and I’ll go down, and Dustin can go up with you and Nancy, alright?”

Nancy shrugs, Jonathan nods, but Dustin only shoots you a scornful look.“Really? Send the two idiots downstairs? You don’t even know what you’re looking for, much less Steve.”

“Henderson!” comes Steve’s sharp admonishment. “Seriously, man?”

You breathe in and out of your nose slowly, tamping down your annoyance. “Steve and I know enough to not touch anything suspicious and radio if we see something. That’s the point, right? Radio if we see something odd?”

Nancy, thankfully, nods, and draws Dustin’s attention away. “Come on, Dust. There’ll probably be more interesting stuff upstairs anyway.” With one more sweeping look towards Steve, she adds, “Make sure to call the second you see something.”

“We will,” he promises, lifting up his walkie as if to make his point, and without another word, he steps off the landing and onto the staircase leading down.

You offer the rest of the group a silent wave and quickly follow after.

The two of walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s not until everyone else’s footsteps have fully receded into the distance that Steve speaks up.

“Hey, about what I said back there, in the lobby,” he begins, clearly uncomfortable. You pause on the steps, taking in the shape of his shoulders tensing up beneath his suede coat. “About, uh, the movie. I’m sorry. If I’d known you hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have—”

“Steve,” you cut him off gently, closing the gap between you to grab his arm. “I’m not offended by it.”

But he refuses to meet your eye. “It’s not that, it’s just — that was totally rude and I shouldn’t have—”

“How could you have known that I haven’t seen a movie literally everyone else has seen?” you ask. “Trust me, I know I’m the outlier. I didn’t think anything of it.”

And finally, finally, he turns to look at you. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you say. “Maybe being stuck down here will give me the motivation to catch up on pop culture.”

His lips quirk up, and for a moment, he looks like the twenty-one year old man he is and not the more worn version of himself you’ve become acquainted with through months of working alongside him at the station. “Maybe.”

“Anyway, I feel like I should’ve brought a flashlight with me,” you say, ducking around him. “Feels kinda stupid that I didn’t in retrospect.”

He shines the light on the next set of stairs. “Well, in your defense, it’s not like you could’ve known we would’ve gotten stuck down here when you got into my backseat. Hard to prepare for that kind of thing.”

Your laugh rings around the otherwise empty halls, and the two of you settle into an easy conversation as you go round and round, losing count of how many steps you’ve descended. 

It’s always been easy being around Steve, ever since the day that he and Robin showed up at the Squawk and announced that they were there to work at the station. You hadn’t argued — honestly, it was kind of nice to have someone else helping you out — and Steve is the kind of person who can make hours melt by in seconds. Whether he was cracking a joke to try and make you laugh, sliding a sandwich across across your desk when you forget your lunch, or seeking you out by the coffee machine for a chat between sets, time always passed a little too quickly when you were with him.

It’s, like, the one normal part of my day, he’d admitted to you once, his fingers brushing against your own as he passed over a mug. I love Rob, but her head’s in the clouds most of the time.

By the time you touch down on the bottom floor, your sweater is sticking uncomfortably to your chest and Steve, panting, says, “Jesus, that was way too many stairs.”

“What the hell even is this place?” you ask, because despite getting inadvertently roped into the group’s tenuously illegal activities, no one ever really bothered to fill you in on the finer details.

You turn in time to find Steve grimacing, face shining from sweat, and he says, “To be honest, no one’s ever really told memuch, but they were doing a bunch of experiments on kids here. It’s where El was raised, actually.”

“Oh.”

You think back to the quiet girl you’d only met a handful of times — always under the watchful eye of the former police chief, always hand in hand with Mike Wheeler — and take in your environment just a bit more closely.

It’s dreary, honestly. No windows, no way of getting natural light in at any point, and the electronic locks affixed to every door leaves no room for doubt as to how little freedom El and the other kids were given when moving about.

You take a few steps forward, pushing open a set of double doors to your left and immediately freeze at the sight in front of you. 

Steve crashes into your back, his hands immediately finding your waist to steady you, muttering, “What the hell is this place?”

Because surrounding the two of you is the starkest playroom you’ve ever seen: All white, with a rather unnerving rainbow painted across the wall. Toys are organized and put away neatly, and you can imagine that the real life version of this place smelled of harsh antiseptics.

In short, no place a kid should be raised in.

“This is creepy,” you whisper. “Like…”

“I get what you mean,” Steve says. “It’s like the set of a horror movie in here.”

You nod in agreement, reaching back until your hand makes contact with the hem of his coat. For all of your bravado and confidence walking into this situation, it’s definitely reassuring to have someone else with you as you explore this place.

Carefully, he leads the two of you around the room, shining his flashlight in every which direction as you search for… 

Something.

(A shield generator? Whatever the hell that is?)

Steve’s starting to glance towards the entrance, clearly ready to search other rooms in the basement, when your eyes catch on the open window along the back wall. More specifically, an odd bump in the wall, one that has you moving to climb through the window before you can think twice about it, ignoring Steve’s protests.

“There’s something back here,” you call out, feeling your way along the wall as he grunts behind you, the sound of his feet slipping along the floor as he catches up echoing through the room. “It’s like—”

A hidden latch pops, and the wall beneath your hands opening up enough to reveal an office tucked neatly behind it. You frown at the grime left on your hand and quickly wipe it against your jeans.

“That’s creepy as hell,” Steve comments, turning the light inside and gently stepping around you to go inside first.

“I bet that hole in the wall was, like, one-way glass or something,” you say, creeping inside. “So whoever could observe the kids.”

“Like I said,” he replies. “Creepy.”

He sets the flashlight down on the desk, dropping the walkie down next to it, and letting the glow illuminate the room as you separate. Steve goes to inspect the wall as you leaf through the sprawl of papers and notebooks on the desk, carefully setting aside anything that looks vaguely important to carry back upstairs. 

“This map looks exactly like Henderson’s,” Steve announces. “That’s weird, right? And this — this diagram thing. It’s, like…”

But before he can finish his thought, you lean down to open a drawer, seeing if you can find anything else of import, when it happens.

Something explodes in your face — some sort of dust, maybe? — and you stagger away, wheezing and coughing and choking as it settles across your skin, infiltrates your lungs, and within seconds Steve makes his way through the cloud, his hands hovering over your body as he asks, “Holy shit, are you okay?”

You hunch over, bracing your hands against your knees as you force out, “Fuck — just — breathed all that in—”

He thumps your back, which does little to help the aching in your chest, but the heat emanating from his hand feels nice even through the thick sweater draped across your torso. 

“Just get it out,” he murmurs gently. “There you go, get it all out.”

“Fuck,” you say again, tears welling in the corners of your eyes. “Fuck, that was awful. What was that stuff anyway?”

“Not sure,” he says, helping you stand back up. His fingers linger on your arms just a little longer than they ever have, and he looks almost… pained when he finally pulls away, turning back to inspect the open drawer. “I’ve seen a lot of floating dust and shit down here, but never anything like that. Whatever, it’s gone now and there’s nothing inside here.”

“Great,” you say, leaning against the wall, rubbing your chest as an odd warmth settles in your lungs. “I probably just got lung cancer or something.”

“It didn’t look like asbestos,” he says. “Though it did kind of just… disappear. So who knows.”

You draw in a shaky lungful of air. “How do you know what asbestos looks like?”

“My dad’s work — he owns some construction company,” Steve explains. “So when all those studies about asbestos came out in the seventies, I saw a bunch of pamphlets at home about what it looks like and what to avoid. Dad had to distribute them to the guys building houses.”

You blink in surprise. Steve’s never talked much about his parents, not in the year you’ve known him. You don’t think there’s really any tragic backstory hiding around the corner or anything; You’ve heard him on the phone with his mother, soft and affectionate in a way that an only child can be with the person who raised him, but he’s always seemed like the kind of person who grew out of the need for his parents’ involvement in his life far younger than other people. Independent in a way you’re not quite sure you’ve ever managed. 

And clearly not, because your lungs are still burning from whatever it was you inhaled (and you’re not quite sure that you believe it wasn’t asbestos, even with Steve’s expert opinion) and the burning is quickly morphing into something else. Something more, something you can’t quite put your finger on as you watch Steve hop up on the desk, legs swinging.

“So—” you begin, grasping at anything to fill the silence, to distract you from the heaviness tugging at your bones. “Your dad owns a company?”

“Oh, yeah.” There’s an odd note to Steve’s tone, one you can’t quite parse out. “My grandpa owned this, like, pet grooming business after the war. Successful as hell, and Dad went to Kelley down in Bloomington, got an MBA, started a construction business. I think originally he owned some realty thing, but there was more money in building or whatever.”

“That’s nice,” you say. “And your mom?”

“She stayed at home. Did a bunch of volunteer work around Hawkins, and, uh…”

He trails off, and you jump onto the next question. “Where are they now?”

“North Carolina,” he says. “They own a beach house there. Told them to evacuate Hawkins before lockdown, and they’ve been there ever since.”

Sweat beads at your temples, slipping down your face, and you can feel moisture gathering on the back of your neck as well. “Oh, wow, uh… and—”

“No offense, but,” he interrupts, strained. “Not sure I want to talk about my parents right now.”

You nod and continue to rub the space just above your breasts, feeling rather lightheaded over the lack of oxygen from your coughing fit. You press your eyelids shut, willing the dizziness to pass, but it only molds, intensifying.

It crawls down your spine, a heaviness you’ve never felt before, a heat creeping slowly through your body, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. Honestly, you must’ve spent longer coughing than you’d thought, because you’ve never felt like this before, never felt anything like this grip all your senses to firmly, swirling around your tummy as the warmth turns up, up, up—

An uncomfortable noise echoes through the room, and it takes a moment for you to parse out that it came from Steve.

You force your eyes open, noting in an almost detached manner just how sweaty he looks. Which is odd, because it was really, really cold when the two of you descended into the basement, but now that you think about it, you’re also feeling rather flushed, aren’t you? 

His gaze meets yours, and the heat inside of you feels like it explodes, and you realize, startled, that it’s not warmth, per se, but—

“Steve.” Your voice is hoarser than you intended. “Do you feel weird?”

“Weird how?”

You swallow once, heavily, suddenly woozy from just how overpowering the feeling burning through your veins is. A feeling that you’re now able to identify with an uncomfortable clarity. “Did that dust make you unrelentingly horny too?”

There’s a sound that escapes his chest — something between a whimper and a groan, the noise of a man who prides himself on self-restraint beginning to fracture — and you blink blearily at him to find him still sitting on the desk, fingers digging into his thighs, looking just as wrecked as you feel. You glance down, unbidden, to see a rather obvious bulge in his jeans.

“Don’t ask me that,” he croaks pathetically.

“Steve,” you say. “I think we might’ve — I think we might have to—”

“No.” It comes out firm despite everything, despite the fact that the cotton bra against your breasts feels so restricting that you think you might suffocate. “I don’t care that what that shit did, I’m not — I won’t—”

“But you feel it too, right?” you ask, suddenly desperate to know. “It’s not just me, right?”

“I — yes, but—”

“Then shouldn’t we do something—?”

“No!” Sweat glistens across his forehead, and you watch with fascination as a droplet slides down his cheek, dripping onto his sweater. “I’m not going to — to take advantage of you, not like this, not when—”

“Steve.” It comes out pathetic, a whimper you can’t help as the feeling swells inside you, becoming too much for you to not do something. “Please.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, though it comes out less certain than you’re sure he intends it to. 

“Fine then,” you say, fumbling with the button of your jeans. “You won’t mind if I take care of myself, will you?”

He chokes. “What?”

You don’t bother responding though, and there’s no time for embarrassment as you shove your jeans down just far enough that you can slip a hand into your panties, finding yourself already drenched. Your heart is pounding erratically against your ribcage at the first swipe against your clit, and your knees buckle from how overwhelmingly good it feels, and you know for a fact that if you were in a more solid state of mind — if every conscious thought in your brain wasn’t slowly being eroded by the heady pressure of arousal — you’d be more concerned by how quickly the pleasure is building up in your core with only the lightest touch.

But you’re not in that state of mind. You’re here, burning up from the inside out, the fire of desperation and debauchery consuming you until it’s almost painful, as you circle your fingers faster, faster, faster until—

And as abruptly as your orgasm built, it stops dead in its tracks.

“No, no, no, no, no.” Your breath catches as your fingers slip against your clit to no avail. The pleasure refuses to grow, refuses to tip over into what you want most, refuses to let you into the sweet embrace of your orgasm. It dances teasingly just far enough out of reach to keep you on the precipice, to drive you mad with want. To drive you mad with need.

You tilt your head up, finding Steve’s gaze searing into your body, his hands still gripping his thighs tightly, and another heaving cry billows from your lips as you utter, “Please.”

He goes very, very still.

“Please, Steve,” you beg, uncaring of how you sound — not when he looks just as wrecked as you feel, not when he still hasn’t moved a single muscle. “Please, please, please help me, please — it hurts so much, I can’t — I can’t—”

Slowly, he slips from the desk and makes his way to you with controlled, even steps, and you watch as he sinks to his knees before you, his voice completely torn with need as he murmurs, “Let’s get your shoes off, yeah?”

“Steve,” you plead again. “I need you to touch me.”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, hands shaking as they find their way to the laces of your tennis shoes. “I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

The sentiment rings hollow in your ears.

“You’re not taking advantage of me,” you insist, tears spilling from your eyes. “I want this, I want you—”

“Whatever we breathed in, that’s making you feel this way,” he insists, and you don’t understand. You don’t understand how he’s still so in control when you’re ready to burst at the seams, ready to fall apart into a million pieces at the feeling of his breath on your thighs. “But I can — I’ll help.”

He slips one of your shoes off, then the next, stacking them neatly somewhere you don’t bother to look, and with a firm grasp, he slides the denim down your legs, helping you step out. Your panties are tugged down next, and you watch somewhat deliriously as he tucks them into his back pocket. Your brain struggles to catch up as he draws your leg up and over his shoulder, tilting his head up to meet your gaze, his fingers tracing through the thatch of hair on your mound. 

His eyes burn into yours when he says, "I need to hear it."

You whimper. “Please, Steve. I need you.”

Seconds later, you're roughly pulled down on to his face.

And as it turns out, truly all you needed was him. His nose brushing against your clit is all it takes before you clench around nothing, waves of pleasure crashing into you as you come harder than you ever have in your life. Your chest heaves as you grip onto Steve, shaking and trembling and crying until your knees buckle.

He’s quick to catch you before you fall to the ground, grabbing your hips as he slowly lowers you down onto his lap. “Did that help?” he asks, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweater.

“Yes — no,” you whimper, your head so full of everything that you can’t think straight. “It hurts so bad, Steve, I need — need more — not enough, it’s not enough—”

“Okay, okay,” he soothes, even if he sounds a little broken as he says it. “Let me put my jacket down for you, yeah?”

You shake your head because you need it now, but Steve ignores it — ignores you — and groans loudly when you grind down into his erection, desperate and chasing any form of relief you can get as he slides his jacket off. You don’t care though, burying your face into his shoulder and breathing in the intoxicating scent of some woodsy cologne and human musk underneath, the smell of a man who has worked hard to be where he’s at right in this moment, and you roll your clit against the zipper on his jeans even harder, not paying attention when Steve lowers you to the ground, your back hitting his coat that he laid out without your notice.

It feels like it takes ages for him to settle between your legs, spreading your pussy open carefully, as if it were made of something precious, and you twitch up pathetically as his breath ghosting against where you ache the most.

“Steve,” you whine, your own hands sliding up under your sweater and beneath your bra, rolling your nipples between your fingers.

“Don’t worry, honey,” he murmurs. You meet his eyes and your arousal grows at just how big his pupils are, wide with desire as a flush spreads across his cheeks. “I’ll take care of you.”

That’s all the warning you get before he dives in once more, lapping up your wetness like a starving man. You squirm, and his grip against your thighs is bruising as he holds you in place. It’s an exhilarating dichotomy: Commanding yet so at odds with how soft he speaks to you, gentle in every word. 

And when he presses his fingers into your skin just a bit deeper, you know for a fact that his composure is cracking the tiniest bit more.

Just like with your first orgasm, it doesn’t take long for the second one to build, cresting until it washes over you with an urgency. But instead of relief, the only thing you feel is a hungry need for more — more of his tongue against your clit, more of his fingers plunging into your pussy, curling up until they hit the spongy spot that makes you feel stars, more of him — and you cry out, not bothering to wipe the tears spilling down your face as you twist your nipples, trying to extend your orgasm a little longer. 

And yet, somehow, the need that has taken over every one of your sense, the fire of arousal caused by whatever it was you stumbled into, it only grows hotter, burns brighter, and within seconds after your orgasm abates you’re reaching down, winding your fingers into his hair and begging, “More.”

Steve glances up at you, his nose still firmly pressed into the seam of your pussy, and the only response you get is one long, languid lick from your entrance up to your clit. 

A shiver runs down your spine at just how ravished he looks with his hair askew and eyes blown wide. Fucked out of his mind, even, despite the fact he's been so entirely focused on your own pleasure that you're pretty sure he's ignoring just how much the pollen's affected him.

(How does he manage to do that?)

You moan raggedly, louder than any sound you’re sure you’ve ever made before, and within seconds his head lifts from your core. A pathetic sound escapes you at the loss of touch, but he doesn’t leave you wanting long. One big hand comes up to grip the hem of your sweater, tugging it up and shoving the fabric into your mouth, hoarsely saying, “They’re going to hear you upstairs if you don’t quiet down.”

Privately, you think that you don’t actually care who hears you, but clearly Steve is still managing a level of sense that completely abandoned, because he only tucks the sweater more firmly against your tongue. Your teeth scrape against his fingers and he groans, wanton but quiet.

“Bite down,” he tells you as his hand retreats, commanding but in a way that doesn’t feel like a demand. Your pussy clenches at the tone, and you're pretty sure you'd do anything as long as he keeps looking at you like that.

So you do as told, and his throat bobs as your mouth closes around the woven yarn, his gaze lingering on your lips. He's trembling with barely restrained desire, and just as you get the bright idea to try and convince him to do something about it, your bra gets roughly yanked down, your breasts spilling into the cold air. Your nipples peak, and Steve’s mouth is on them before you can even blink, sucking one into his mouth while his hand dips back down to your pussy, gathering wetness on his fingers before dipping inside where you ache the most.

The effect is instantaneous. Fireworks explode under your skin, growing bigger and brighter when he slips a third finger inside. He moves at a slow and methodical rhythm, and entirely at odds with how he ravishes your chest, and you can’t help the pathetic mewl that escapes your throat, tears slipping down the side of your face.

He releases your nipple with a wet pop, and immediately delves into the valley of your breasts, sucking spots into your skin that should be painful, but the only thing you can think is that you want the marks to be tattooed into your skin forever, a permanent mark of the pleasure he’s giving you.

Spit trails from his mouth as he makes his way to your other breast, giving it the same ministrations. Sucking, teasing, biting until you yelp through the cloth in your mouth, and you can feel rather than hear the vibration of his laughter, even as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.

The third orgasm doesn’t sneak up on you as much as it consumes you, forcing more tears from your eyes as you shake and shake and shake, clenching down on Steve’s fingers as he works you through it, low, soothing noises murmured into your skin as he makes his way down.

If you were in a more coherent state, you’d recognize his actions for what they were: The further fraying of carefully kept control, because he doesn’t skip a beat as his mouth makes contact with your pussy once more, not bothering to stop and check in, to make sure you still want this.

At this point, you’re both completely aware of what you want, even if he’s still refusing to fully give into the lewdness of the situation.

You, on the other hand, let the fever consume you entirely as he sucks your clit into his mouth, cheeks hollowing, fingers pumping in and out at a steady pace, driving you completely and utterly insane.

You wonder, in a vague, abstract way, if he’s this good even without the added effects of whatever it was that infected the two of you, and you know instinctively that you’d give anything to find out. Especially when his teeth graze across your clit in a way that should be painful but just has your hips jerking against the arm wrapped around your leg. 

“So good for me, honey,” he murmurs into your pussy, twisting his hand to find that sweet spot inside you once more. “Come on, come for me, honey — come for—”

Your fourth orgasm leaves you thrashing against his hold.

Stars burst behind your eyelids as waves of pleasure crash over you, ebbing and flowing but never quite stopping, and somehow — somehow — the heat only builds, consuming the very essence of your being until you’re sobbing in earnest. You scrabble to pull Steve up, up, up until he’s hovering over you. His chin glistens with your arousal, and your chest cracks open as you weep, “Don’t you want me?”

His face cracks at your words, and all at once, you’re able to see everything that he’s been holding back: Fear, confusion, and without a doubt, complete and unadulterated desire.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, honey, I don’t—”

He cuts himself off by burying his face into your neck, the scratchy feeling of his wool sweater against your pebbled nipples doing nothing to tame the arousal burning inside you. And you realize, suddenly, that you asking for it isn’t enough, because it’s Steve — sweet, understanding Steve — who never fails to make you laugh, who always makes sure you’re safely inside after a crawl before going in himself, who has shown up time and time again in such small ways for the duration of your friendship that you know, without a doubt, that asking for it will never convince him of what you want, of your feelings.

“Steve,” you whisper, capturing his face beneath your palms and forcing him to look you in the eye. “I’m glad this was you.”

His brows furrow and his eyes tighten — once, small, pain seeping through his expression — and he throatily says, “What?”

“I’m glad it’s you here and not anyone else,” you say. “If I had to be in this situation with anyone, I’d want it to be you.”

He licks his lips, and his expression blooms into something more hopeful. “Do you really mean that?”

“Steve,” you say softly, full of affection. “I would’ve done this without the crazy dust. Just, you know, maybe not in a random office.”

He searches your face for a moment before finally breathing out, “Okay.”

You freeze, not sure you're hearing him correctly. “Okay?”

He nods, and you watch the feeling swell in him, his composure finally disintegrating in the sureness of your fingers skimming down your side, sliding under your knee to press you open just a bit more. “If you’re — are you sure that you want this? You’re completely—?”

“I want this,” you say again, firm in your conviction. “I want this with you, and I’ll want this with you even once we’re out of here, Steve.”

You watch as your confession hits him: First quietly, then all at once. He looks at you with so much affection that for the first time since you opened that drawer, your chest aches with something other than arousal. Through the haze of pleasure, he looks down at you tenderly, brushing your hair plastered to your face away and, with more regret than you expected, “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

But he doesn’t give you any time to question what he means before he’s surging forward, self-restraint in tatters around the two of you as his mouth crashes into yours. You taste yourself on his tongue, and as his forearms bracket your head, you reach down, scrambling to unbutton his jeans and shove them as far down as you can reach. They barely make it to the top of his thighs before you’re taking him in hand, gasping with pleasure at how big and heavy and warm he feels in your fingers and give a few, lazy pumps. He shudders against your hold but doesn’t fight when you line him up against your entrance and look up at him through hooded eyes, asking one more time, “Please, Steve? I need you.”

This is all he needs to finally snap.

You can feel the last remnants of sense leave his body as his hips thrust forward, his cock pressing entirely inside you in one swift, fluid motion, punching the air from your lungs. He doesn’t give you any time to recover before he’s dragging himself out slowly before pushing back in, and he sets a brutal pace that has any last coherent thought driven from your head as he tends to the fire that’s been coursing throughout your veins. 

And that fire — it changes. Whereas every orgasm he’d drawn out of you with his mouth and fingers had only left you aching, left you wanting for more, with his cock bullying its way in and out of your cunt, you can only feel the fuzzy pleasure of contentment, like there’s been a piece of you missing your entire life that’s finally found its way home.

You think he feels the same when he gazes at you with such adoration, such fondness as he presses your leg even higher, hitting a new, deeper spot within you that has you gasping for more, more, more.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Steve throughout this whole thing, is that he is nothing if not a giving lover.

He snakes a hand back down to your core, fingers slipping over your sensitive core as he breathes, “One more for me, honey?”

(Could you ever deny a request made so lovingly?)

Despite how he pounds into your pussy with reckless abandon, he’s effervescently gentle in how he circles your clit, like he’s aware of just how sore you’re absolutely going to be when all of this is said and done. 

His teeth scrape down your neck as he continues his ministrations, fingers flexing over your most sensitive spot, and it’s as he sucks a hickey into your skin that he coaxes one final orgasm from your worn body.

Your cries come out quieter this time, more exhausted as you clench down on his cock, and within seconds his hips stutter as he spills warmth inside you, and finally, finally, the fever inside you dissipates.

Steve practically collapses on top of you, only just cognizant enough to keep the worst of his weight off of your body as the remnants of whatever infected you both tapers off until the flame is extinguished entirely, leaving you sweaty and spent yet somehow feeling better than you’ve ever felt in your entire life.

The two of you stay like that for a few minutes, chests heaving as you catch your breath. You stroke a hand down his back, watching his face carefully as his eyes flutter open, exhausted but happy as he meets your gaze.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay? That was…”

Intense.

It doesn’t need to be said though. You nod, dragging your hand up to his face to push his bangs from his eyes. “I’m fine. How about you? You held out super long.”

He huffs out a laugh and presses his cheek a little firmer unto your palm. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Promise. Better than I’ve felt in a long while.”

You open your mouth to say something — to confess something — though what, you aren’t quite sure, then the walkie across the room crackles to life, and Dustin Henderson’s panicked voice comes through. “Steve? Steve, are you there? We found something and it’s—”

Steve pushes off of your prone body in seconds, and you’re left achingly empty as he stumbles over to the walkie, snatching it off the table it’s rested on next to the flashlight, calling into it, “Henderson, what’s going on?”

Sticky come slips from your core, wetting your thighs.

“Don’t touch anything!” Dustin demands through the walkie. “It isn’t a shield generator, and Nancy wanted to shoot it—”

“Hey!”

“Have you found anything?” Dustin asks, ignoring Nancy’s protest.

Steve sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and spares you a sidelong glance as you sit up, righting your bra and sweater. “Yeah, I think we found Brenner’s office. Don’t come down here, though. We’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Dustin calls his confirmation, and Steve’s quick to drop the walkie back on top of the table. He makes his way back to you in two, long strides, and kneels down.

“Let me do it,” he says, batting you away and replacing them with your own as he tucks your breasts back into the cups of your bra, gently pulling your sweater down. 

You don’t quite manage to choke down a laugh when he helps you stand up and frowns at the cum dripping down your thighs, looking around to find something to clean it up and coming up short.

“It’s okay,” you say, and Steve nods as he’s forced to accept the situation.

He doesn’t bother giving you your panties back as he draws your jeans back up your legs, holding you steady as you step into each of your shoes that he insists on tying.

He’s quiet, and it takes you a few minutes too long to realize that he’s embarrassed, like you caught him doing something that he wasn’t meant to do. It doesn’t sit well with you.

But he pushes forward with methodical ease, gathering his coat and all of the notebooks that you picked out before the two of you got into this mess, and leads you from the office with the stride of a man used to performing confidence.

Except—

You know it’s an act. You’ve seen him soft, you’ve seen him pushed to the edge, and you now know the way it feels to be the center of his universe, even if only for a singular moment, and you know that you want more.

You jog forward to catch up to him just as he hits the staircase, grasping his arm and force him to look at you.

“Steve,” you gently say. “When all of this is done — when we’re back in Hawkins and — whatever — would you go on a date with me?”

He freezes, but hope still blooms on his face. “I — what?”

“Would you go on a date with me?” you ask again, firmer this time. “Maybe you can show me Star Wars and I can finally see what I’ve been missing this whole time.”

“Really?” You can tell that the question slips out without him meaning to by how quickly his face flushes, but he barrels forward. “You’d really want to go on a date with me?”

“Of course I would,” you say with a smile. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I wanted this when we were out of here. And I didn’t just mean sex, I — I want everything, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, honey.” It comes out breathless, and in the next second he’s leaning down, pressing the softest kiss against your swollen lips. “Of course I’ll have you. I just didn’t want to assume…”

“You can assume,” you reassure. “With me, you can assume.”

And the smile he gives you will leave you burning brightly for many, many more days to come.

[oh-sweet-thing]

Sleepy second orgasm with Stevie <3

Contains: fluffy smut, post-sex intimacy, gentle touching (fem receiving), sappiness

Little blurb I've been working on. I just think it's sweet :)

WC: 1.5k

--------------------------------

“Steve.”

“What?” he smiled, innocently dragging his nose up the column of your neck. He was grinning like he wasn’t aware that his hand was sliding over your inner thigh, lazily teasing at the edge of your cotton nightgown.

Your skin was still dewy. You’d hardly caught your breath. His legs were still tangled with yours. That’s what. 

“You want one more?” he asked, lowering his tone into something warm and gravelly in your ear, “I’ll give you another one, baby.”

His voice was slightly slurred with the effort he’d already expended, almost like he was well and truly drunk on you tonight. His weight pressed against your side, lying exactly where he’d collapsed just minutes ago.

“You just gave me one,” you reminded him, lithly tracing your fingers over his freckled arm. You felt him shiver against you at the delicate swirls of your fingernails. 

It would be hard to forget the climax he’d just given you, actually. In case he needed his memory refreshed, you touched your fingertips to the aggravated, red marks you’d raked down the expanse of his back with your nails.

Steve paused, pressing his lips to the junction of your neck and your shoulder, letting his mouth linger there. You felt him inhale you deeply before humming, the sound rumbling low in his throat. 

“I mean, yeah… but that’s not what I asked you.”

You sighed, shaking your head softly before pressing a kiss to his hair, burying your nose into the tousled strands that were perfumed with product. Your bodies felt weighed down to the mattress, both of you too lazy to pull up the sheets that had been shoved to the foot of his bed in a heap.

“What? You tired?” he grinned, picking his head up to look at you with his hazy, shining eyes, “Don’t tell me I wore you out.”

Steve shifted his weight, pressing the tip of his nose to yours. You watched his eyes flicker over your face, struggling to fully focus when you were this close, but desperate to admire the flush of your cheeks. 

“A little,” you admitted, unable to help the smile that broke out on your face in return.

“Yeah?” he cooed, tilting his head at you playfully, “I can go nice and slow, just give me the word.”

“I dunno,” you murmured, now carding your hand through his tufts of chest hair.

“What’s the matter?” he asked gently, bringing his fingers to the side of your face to caress your cheek. 

He stared at you for the few moments you took to respond, his gaze unwavering as he watched you avoid his lidded eyes. You could feel his curiosity simmering, his urge to draw the unspoken words out of you bit by bit.

“You know it takes longer the second time,” you whispered, “And I don’t wanna make you work too hard for it.”

“Oh,” he breathed, letting out a soft laugh of adoration.

Steve gathered your hand in his, bringing it to his lips as his eyes danced between yours.

“That’s what you’re worried about? C’mon,” he teased fondly, kissing your knuckles, “Honestly, I’m a little offended that you don’t trust in my stamina.”

You rolled your eyes at him, relishing his pout when you gently flicked his shoulder.

“It’s late! You have work in the morning!” you defended, your tone much less convincing when a giggle burst through your attempt to be stern. 

“Is it?” he answered sarcastically, widening his bleary eyes at you. Without breaking eye contact, Steve reached over to his nightstand, turning his alarm clock face down. “‘Cause… I don’t even know what time it is. I can go allll night long, baby.”

Steve’s hand slipped down the side of your neck, sliding his fingers under the thin, cotton strap of your nightgown. Soothingly, he lowered it, letting the fabric cascade down your arm. You exhaled slowly as he leaned in, his breath warm against your bare shoulder.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, “And I don’t wanna hear anything about my poor fingers getting tired or some bullshit like that.”

You imagine that being resurrected feels something similar to this. A tingling sensation that suddenly spreads under the thin fabric of your pajamas, an instant spike in body temperature. You let your eyes flutter shut, focusing on the slow kisses he generously peppered across your skin, leaving no inch unbranded. Your head lolled to the side against the pillow, never more pleased to be left defenseless.

“Want you,” you whispered, unable to deny yourself for another second longer.

Steve groaned softly, giving your hip a slow squeeze that could only be understood as “thank god”.  With practiced ease, he lazily lifted your nightgown up and out of the way.

“I know,” he murmured, “I know. Gonna take care of it.”

He took his time, languidly reaching his hand down your stomach, then between your legs. His large hand urged you to inch your thighs apart, allowing him to spread his fingers out over your mound. You bit your lip, eyes cracking open to watch as he totally engulfed you with his palm. You could feel his boyish smile against your neck as your hips twitched lightly into his hand, undeniably just as enthralled as you.

Steve sighed heavily with satisfaction. You felt his nose nudge your temple as he settled in, shifting his body closer to yours. He moved slowly, rubbing his whole hand back and forth, the heel of his palm grinding over your clit. He knew better than to show off his usual dexterity when you’re still so sensitive to touch. You could tell he was paying close attention to your body, ready to adjust at the sign of a single flinch. It wasn't about making you see stars or waking up the neighbors this time around. It was a precious, stolen moment, moonlit and only for you.

“Feels good? Not too much?” he checked quietly.

You could feel his chest rise and fall deeply at your side, warm breaths fanning across your cheek. It was one of your favorite feelings, being completely surrounded by him, and only him.

“Mm. Not too much,” you murmured, your back arching lightly into his touch.

Steve nodded, gently pressing a delicate kiss to the column of your neck. 

“You can move, baby. Make yourself feel good, hon.”

Unhurriedly, you rocked yourself against his hand. You sighed softly at the soothing friction, the large surface of his palm causing a subtle current of pleasure deep inside of you. Despite the heaviness of your eyelids, you chased the warm sensation, listening to the low creaking of the bedframe in time with your hips. You were still slick from earlier, your silky arousal gathering at his upper palm and aiding the leisurely slide of Steve’s hand. 

“Steve,” you breathed, smiling hazily as you reached out for him.

“Right here, baby,” he murmured, catching your wandering hand. He threaded your fingers together, bringing your linked hands to rest on your stomach, anchoring you to him.

The minutes dragged on, gauzy and honey-like in sweetness and pace. It was mostly quiet besides your breathing, and Steve’s sugary whispers meant only for his girl. “Love taking my time with you,” he’d murmured, his voice husky with slight drowsiness as his hand worked between your legs.

Eventually, you felt the heat begin to bloom, simmering and tightening at your abdomen in a slow crescendo. You squeezed his hand as a silent signal, a little secret message in the quiet of your bedroom.

“More,” you whispered, turning your head until the bridge of your nose grazed his. Steve responded with a soft, husky hum, always ready to please.

“Little more?” 

“Mhm.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to your lips, massaging his hand against your pussy with a little more pressure this time, the muscles in his bicep flexing subtly with his ministrations. He echoed your pleasure, groaning quietly into your mouth as you began to pant. Your fingers knotted into his hair, keeping him so, so close, like you couldn’t bear him being even an inch further.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he muttered between dreamy kisses.

It felt like a gentle undoing. Subtle sparks of pleasure that washed over you as opposed to the usual commotion of firework-like bursts. You could almost feel Steve’s heart swell as you unraveled for him, letting you ride out the waves against his palm without overwhelming you. 

Breaking the kiss, you buried your face against his neck, breathing him in deeply while his arms encircled you. Lazy contentment practically radiated from you both as you nestled in the quiet, fuzzy afterglow.

“Good?” he muttered, his voice slightly muffled by your unruly hair.

“Mmm…” you mumbled back, your fingers curling around his shoulder. Steve chuckled, willing to accept that as an answer. No words were needed when he could feel your satisfaction right down to your bones. 

With a grunt, Steve hoisted the blankets up, the striped cotton settling around you in a cocoon. You knew it wouldn’t be long until you drifted off, so you took your final minutes to press your ear over his chest, the coily hairs tickling your cheek as you listened to the steady thump of his heartbeat. It was hard to be sure of much of anything. But, this? This sound? It was the surest thing you’d ever come to know. 

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

Roommate Steve walking around shirtless bc it’s summer & it’s hot! So you retaliate by walking around in a bikini top that makes your boobs look fantastic and denim shorts that have your bum peaking out the bottoms <333 Steve trying to hide his boner etc etc

hot in here | steve harrington

18+ smut!! steve fantasying about reader, roommate au, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

wc: 942

𑣲 the roommate collection

Steve Harrington was beginning to piss you off. Not because he was a bad roommate because of course, he was the best roommate that you could have possibly asked for. He always cleaned up after himself, he did his fair share of cooking, cleaning and he never left an empty milk cartoon in the fridge like your last roommate had.

But what was beginning to piss you off about Steve? It was the fact he hadn’t worn a shirt all fucking week.

You can’t exactly blame him, not really. Your AC had stopped working just before the heatwave had hit and there was no escape from the sweltering heat. You had bought a fan but all that it seemed to do was blow hot air around the living room. And the heat itself? It was unforgiving. The only thing worse than the heat itself was the torture of seeing your stupidly hot roommate without a shirt everyday.

You told yourself that it was fine. That you could deal with it. That seeing Steve shirtless all the time was just a nice treat. But then he came back to the apartment after washing his car one Saturday afternoon—soaking wet, water dripping down from the hair that covered his chest and looking like a fucking god and you had finally decided that enough was enough.

“Hey Steve,” you greet him that evening, your tone causal as you slip by him lounging on the couch on your way to the kitchen.

“Hey, you. Wanna order some—wow.”

You try not to smile as open one of the cupboards and you lean up to grab a glass. Your body stretches as you stand on the tips of your toes, which exposes a peak of your ass cheeks for him to view. You hum to yourself, turning around just in time to catch the look on his face when he notices that you weren’t just wearing some too short denim shorts but you were also wearing a cherry red gingham bikini top. One that made your tits looked fantastic, hugging your breasts just right.

Steve’s mouth suddenly felt awfully dry, eyes on your tits as you turn on the tap and fill up your glass with cold water.

“Order, what?” You ask him, head tilting to the side as you wait for his response, your stomach coiling at the sight of his wet, parted lips, at his eyes on you.

“Um,” Steve looks as though he’s forgotten how to string a sentence together, as though he’s forgotten how to even speak English as he looks you. “I was thinking um, Chinese or—”

But once again words fail him as you spill a tiny amount of water down your chest.

“Oops,” you say with a small smile as you smear the cold liquid over your cleavage in a poor attempt to wipe it away. “Sorry, what were you saying, Steve?”

Steve feels his cock thicken beneath his shorts as he shamelessly watches your tits jiggle when you attempt to wipe away the water. The moment he realises that his shorts were suddenly a little too tight, Steve grabbed a nearby pillow and tried his very best to act natural.

Not now, not now—

“I um,” Steve begins, his throat feeling tight as he notices how the spilled water had made your cleavage all wet, mixing with the sweat already collected there. The sight made him feel even more horny than he already was. Fuck, what was wrong with him? He was getting hard over a bit of water and your sweat now?

All he wanted to do was lick between your breasts, pull that stupid fucking bikini top down and let his tongue play with one of your taunt nipples that he could see quite clearly through the material. Maybe then he’d slip his hand beneath your shorts too, see how fucking wet you were for him. The thought of plunging his fingers deep inside of you, of how fucking warm you’d be makes Steve press his hips upwards, seeking some friction from the sofa cushion like some fucking desperate teenager. “Ju—just um—just that I—think we should—get some Chinese food for—for dinner.”

The amount of effort it had taken him to string that sentence together had been great, especially as you leaned over the counter and Steve got another incredible view of your ass cheeks. His cock twitches as he can’t help but imagine the sounds his balls wound make slapping against your ass as he fucked you over the kitchen counter, imagined the noises you would make when he reached down and circled your clit with his—

“Steve?”

“Huh?”

Steve was dazed, genuinely. He had been so lost in his thoughts about you that he hadn’t even noticed you had been talking to him.

“Sorry, I just—I think this heat is really getting to me. What did you say?”

You smile kindly and Steve swears he gets even harder because you were so fucking sweet and yet so fucking hot that your kindness just made him lose his fucking mind.

“I said I’d love a Chinese,” you tell him, setting down your glass of water and grabbing the takeout menu from one of your kitchen drawers. “Same as usual?”

Steve swallows and nods, adjusting the pillow over his lap so that you didn’t see just how hard those little shorts and the fucking bikini top you were wearing had made him.

“Yeah, same as usual.”

You smile again and walk towards the phone, patting his arm as you pass by and making Steve nearly moan at the contact.

Fuck. You were going to be the death of him.

dividers by me 🌺

18+ taglist | masterlist | requests page

.✦ ݁˖ rec account: @moonstone-recommends .✦ ݁˖

[ashen-crest]

I can do it. I can write a chapter. I am capable of putting sentences together. I know what a comma is. I am Aware of the Character.

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

THE STEVE HARRINGTON SUMMER SLEEPOVER

𑣲 a summer writing event hosted by @graywrenhart and @moonstoneandmoonlight

It's no secret that Steve Harrington would be a rom-com darling and so, me and Gray have teamed up to give you: The Steve Harrington Summer Sleepover! Where we've picked 25 rom-coms (2 of which the hosts have claimed!) for writers to choose and write a Steve Harrington inspired fic based on that film.

☼ so... how does it work?

Start by picking a film from our masterlist!

Once you have picked a film, please message either myself or Gray to claim your spot and your movie.

Once that film has been taken, it'll gone so be quick as this will work from a first come first serve basis. Please wait for us to message you back to confirm your spot.

Spots will be available for one week and will close on Friday 17th July.

The event will then run up until August 31st for writers to get their fics posted. These fics will then be added to the masterlist.

☼ the rules

This is a Steve Harrington x Reader only event. No OC's (side characters are okay however).

One movie per author.

Please message either myself or @graywrenhart to claim your fic as this will be the quickest way to reach us. Please do not send us an ask as we may miss these in our inboxes. Messages is the only way to claim so comments will not count either.

The fic has to be inspired by your chosen film but you have complete creative freedom over what happens within the story. You can even pick the title! We want people to get creative as possible and have fun with this event.

There is no word limit so the stories can be as big or small as you want for them to be.

Smut is very much welcome (so minors, please dni!).

AU’s are also welcome!

Please ensure that you tag both @moonstoneandmoonlight and @graywrenhart so the fic can be added to the masterlist. In addition, please use the tag #the steve harrington summer sleepover.

The most important rule? Have fun & happy summer! ☀️

☼ happy writing everyone!

[graywrenhart]

KNIGHT NEXT DOOR

pairing: single dad!steve harrington x female!neighbor!reader

summary: The single dad next door is running late and in desperate need of a knight in shining armor. Preferably one who knows about ballet buns.

tags: [fluff] [neighbors] [single dad steve] [you're a girl, right?] [a helping hand] [ballerina bun knowledge] [flirty] [language] [kissing] [desperate] [touch-deprived steve] [of course there's a little makeout scene, do you even know me] 3k words.

You’re putting the finishing touches on your makeup in the hallway mirror when a knock sounds at your door. 

Your reflection blinks back at you. Your date isn’t supposed to pick you up. He’s supposed to meet you at Carmine’s at seven…

There’s another knock. And it’s louder, more urgent this time.

You fumble for your heels and slide them on, making sure your dress is in place, and you have both earrings in before you wrench open the door.

There, standing on your porch steps, is your next-door neighbor, Steve Harrington. 

He moved in a couple of months ago with his five-year-old daughter. And according to the rumors passed around during your neighborhood’s poolside chats—filled with one too many moms holding tumblers of hidden booze for an HOA—he’s unmarried, and currently unattached. 

You’ve seen him around town, of course. A couple of times at the supermarket, holding his daughter' s hand. You know he coaches baseball at the local middle school. You wave whenever you pull into your driveway and he’s outside mowing the lawn. 

Shirtless. 

He’s always had an easy smile for you, or a friendly word. 

But right now, his smile is gone, replaced with a helpless sort of expression. The top buttons of his coaching polo are undone, and his hair looks mussed, like he’s been raking his hands through it. 

“Hi,” he says, a little sheepish. “Sorry to just show up like this, I—”

Something in his gaze shifts, and his lips part as he takes in your outfit. His eyes rake over you. From your stylish updo, to your sultry eye makeup, to your tight dress, and finally settling on your high heels. 

“Oh—wow. You look…really good. I mean—” He huffs an unbelieving breath. Like he’s just remembering where he is. “I’m interrupting. I can go. I’m going. Sorry!”

You rush to stop him. 

“Hi, Mr. Harrington! No, it’s okay. Do you want to come in?” You step aside, motioning inside. 

“God. Steve. Please. Uh, no, I—” He glances back towards his house. “It’s just…well, you’re a girl, right?”

You chuckle. “Last I checked. Is everything okay?”

He groans, running a hand over his face. Your eyes catch on his long, tapered fingers, tanned by the summer sun.

“God, this is embarrassing. That came out bad. Yeah everything’s fine, it’s just my daughter, Lily,  has a ballet recital tonight. And she’s supposed to wear her hair up in this…scrunchy donut thing? And I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and anyway, I’m sorry. You clearly have a date.” He sighs, then his eyes widen. “Or—plans. I didn’t mean to assume—shit, I used to be better at this.”

“What? Asking for help.”

“Talking to pretty girls.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, that too.”

You know you should feel bad for him. Stressed, overworked single dad, trying to make it to his daughter’s recital on time. But really, with every rake of his hands through his hair, and every shift of his feet, you can’t help but be amused. 

It’s actually, really cute. 

“Relax, Steve,” you say with a smirk, closing your door and stepping down onto the steps with him. “I’m happy to help.”

Relief floods his face. “Oh my God, really? Are you sure? I mean—”

“Really, I don’t mind,” you assure him with a gentle hand on his arm, already pulling up your phone to message the guy on Tinder. “My date seemed boring over text anyway.”

Steve turns away, but as your hand falls from his warm skin, you catch a small, crooked smile starting on the corner of his mouth. “Hmm. Shit texter? Huge red flag."

You smile. “Right. So, where is this ballerina?”

“Oh, she’s inside. Finishing up her dinner. But I have all the supplies…if you wanna come over and save me from completely ruining her life.”

You smile. “I’d love to.” 

Ten grassy steps later, Steve opens his front door for you.

When you step into his home, heels clicking on his polished wood floor entryway, your heart does a little flip. 

There are girl toys everywhere. 

Pinks, and purples, and glitter, and…is that a play castle?

“Daddy?” a little voice calls from somewhere deeper in. 

“Yeah sweetheart, I’m back,” Steve replies, motioning for you to follow him. "Sorry for the mess, we just got back from practice."

The first thing you see when you round the corner into the kitchen, is a tutu—pink frills stuffed up on a barstool, little legs swinging. But where you expect to find ballet slippers dangling, instead, you find dirty baseball cleats.

Steve’s daughter, Lily, looks over her shoulder as you both enter the open doorway. She looks sweet. 

Very sweet—given the jam smeared around her lips, a messy PB&J in her hand. 

She smiles at you, her brown curls a little mussed, just like her dad’s. And on top of her head, rests a princess hat. It’s one of those long cone ones with a ribbon train hanging down her back. 

Upon seeing her state, Steve surges forward and swipes a paper towel. “Honey, you’ve got jelly all over your face—hey, c’mon.” His voice softens as he leans over to wipe her cheek. “Okay, listen, this is our neighbor—” He pauses and looks up at you. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, actually.”

You tell it to Lily, because for some reason, when you meet Steve’s eyes, you can hardly get a word out. 

“She’s going to help you with your hair for the recital, okay?” Steve adds, a little more upbeat, cleaning the last of the sticky sweetness from his daughter’s face and standing up straight again. 

Lily’s eyes light up. “Can I knight her, Dad? Please?”

He looks over at you and rubs the back of his neck. “We’re in a bit of a medieval phase, lately. Lots of fairytale books from the library, and now it’s…a whole thing.” 

“I love fairytales,” you say. Then you turn to Lily and curtsy as well as you can in your little black dress. “I’d be honored, Your Majesty.”

Lily lets out a delighted squeal and slips off the stool, vanishing into the next room. She’s back seconds later, clutching a glittery wand topped with a star. 

You don't miss the way Steve glances at his watch and grimaces.

You slip off your heels and kneel on the cool kitchen tile just as Lily marches up to you, bowing your head solemnly. 

“My lady,” you say, voice hushed for the ceremony, “as my first act as knight, it would be my greatest honor to do your hair.”

Lily lifts her chin, wand raised. 

“Granted,” she declares.

From across the room, Steve sends you an appreciative look. It turns your stomach all warm and melty. 

You stay perfectly still as she taps the plastic star first to your left shoulder, then your right. “I dub thee…Knight Neighbor.”

You lift your head slowly, like you’ve been entrusted with something of great importance. Lily giggles. Then, you stand and gesture to the kitchen table. 

“Amazing work, Your Majesty,” Steve plays along, nudging Lily towards the chair. “Alright, sit tight, and here, look, I have a mirror you can hold." He turns to you, holding up a handful of supplies.“Here, I’ve got a hair tie and the—uh—donut thing. Do you need anything else?”

You nod. “I’ll need a hairbrush. A fine-tooth comb would be best. And some hair gel if you have any.”

Steve disappears down the hallway, and you turn your attention to the little girl sitting in front of you. 

“Lily, I’ll have to take this off to do your hair. Is that okay?” you ask, tapping her cardboard hat. 

“Oh. Yes.” She spins around in her chair to face you. “But I forgot to tell you, you have to call me Princess Lily.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

She turns back around and picks up the mirror. You gently remove her hat and set it aside, careful to place it somewhere it won’t accidentally get stepped on.

“So, Princess Lily, how old are you?” you ask. 

“Five.”

“Wow. So, you run a kingdom, do ballet, and you play baseball?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. Dad says girls can do both.”

You smile behind her, catching her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “He's right. Girls can do everything.”

Steve’s footsteps thump against the wood as he returns to the kitchen.

 “Okay, I found the comb, but I don’t have gel. Will hairspray work?” he asks, handing you the supplies.

You shrug. “Probably.”

You take a second a second to lay out your supplies, but once everything’s arranged on the kitchen table and you’re expected to start on her hair, you find yourself hesitating. 

The only sounds are the distant hum of a lawnmower somewhere in your neighborhood, and the whisper of tulle from Lily’s tutu as she shifts in her seat. There's nothing wrong, it's just...

Here you are, in your tight date-night dress, barefoot in a kitchen that smells like peanut butter and jelly. 

But it’s not that you feel like you don’t belong here. 

It’s that you feel like you do. 

It’s ridiculous, and completely unreasonable, but you feel it all the same. 

Suddenly, you seem to remember they’re on a time crunch, so you take a steadying breath and quickly smooth back Lily’s hair. 

It’s soft and warm between your fingers as you brush it through. When you spray the hairspray, you guard Lily’s eyes with your hand. She giggles and pretends she’s gone blind. The spray creates a little haze that gathers in the sun beam streaming through the window. 

“This is nice hairspray,” you say dumbly. Partly because it is, but mostly because you don’t know what else to say to fill the silence. You hope Steve can’t hear the rapid staccato of your heartbeat. 

“It’s Daddy’s,” Lily says, 

You look up. Steve’s sending her an incredulous look in the mirror. “I don’t use it that much.”

“You did today,” Lily points out, tilting her face up to look at him. “And you buy girls’ hairspray for yourself!"

She laughs and covers her mouth, like she's just spilled a giant secret.

“Stay still, kid.” Steve scolds, but his hands are gentle as he places a palm on each cheek, turning her to face the mirror again. 

You chuckle softly and look over at him. “You do have nice hair.”

But as the words leave your lips, a blush steals across your cheeks, and you return your gaze to your work. It’s silent for a long moment, and you can feel Steve’s eyes on you like a physical, tangible touch. 

“Thanks,” he says softly. 

The hair tie snaps into place, breaking the tension as you secure Lily’s slicked back ponytail. 

“There,” you breathe. “That’s the hard part. Now, let me show you how to use the scrunchy donut.” 

Steve watches intently as you instruct him in the wild ways of a ballet bun. He nods along, hands on his hips, his breath ghosting your bare shoulder. You show him how to pull the ponytail through and gather her silky strands around the edge, explaining how it makes her hair look fuller. You even show him how to smooth back fly-aways around the edges. But when you finish wrapping her hair, the stubborn ends don’t tuck underneath quite right.

You struggle with it for a minute, then ask, “Do you have any bobby pins?”

Steve exhales, thinking. “Somewhere. I could look around for some—”

“That’s okay. Here—” 

Without thinking, you reach up into your updo and pull the pins free. Your hair tumbles down around your shoulders, and Steve makes a sound behind you, but you’re too busy perfecting Lily’s hair to pay close attention to him. 

You sigh, content, as you step back and review your work. 

“It looks perfect,” Steve says, awe in his voice. “Seriously. Thank you. What do you think, Lil?”

But she’s already slipping off the chair, mirror forgotten. 

“Hey, easy—careful,” he says as she jumps down, half-laughing. 

“Your Majesty, if I may…” you say, stopping her in her tracks. You glance down at her footwear and her eyes follow yours. “Listen, I’m not knocking the shoe choice. But as your knight, its my duty to inform you, that it might be difficult to pirouette in cleats.”

Lily seems to consider this for a long moment. Her little brows furrow together and when her lips twist to the side to think, she looks exactly like her Dad. Something in your chest tightens. 

Steve hurries over and hands her some mini pink ballet flats. “These might work a little better, huh?” He crouches slightly. “You good, or you need backup?”

She shakes her head with a determined tilt of her chin. “No. I can do it.”

“Okay, but hustle, alright? I’m going to walk our knight out. Can you tell her thank you?”

Lily wobbles on one foot as she yanks her cleats off, but it doesn’t stop her from beaming up at you. “Thanks. Bye. And next time you come over, you’ll have a place in the castle!”

You chuckle. “Promoted already, huh? Wow. Knighthood is amazing.”

“Yeah, my dad’s the king, and I’m the princess, so all we’re missing is a queen!” 

You freeze. Your eyes find Steve’s for one charged second before you look away at the same time. 

 Lily nods along to her plan, completely oblivious to the tension in the room as she plops right down on the kitchen floor to slide her flats on. “Sides, your dress is too fancy to be a knight anyhow.”

Steve’s throat bobs on a swallow, and his gaze holds yours for just a second too long. 

“I agree,” he says, finally. “Queen it is.”

“So, King Steve, huh?” you tease him as you slip your heels back on.

Steve tips his head and chuckles, like there’s more to the story and you don’t know the half of it. You wish you could ask him, talk more with him—but he’s already late as it is. 

So, you let him walk you to the door. Outside, the sun is starting to set, casting that perfect golden glow over everything. 

Steve leans on his doorframe and crosses his arms.  You can’t help but notice the way his brown eyes turn to molten honey in this light. 

A heat gathers low in your stomach. Like butterflies, but heavier, and softer. Something you haven’t felt for a long time. 

He sighs, then looks at the ground. “Listen, I’m really sorry I made you miss your date.”

You shake your head. “Trust me, it’s really okay. Dry texter. Remember?”

“Right. Well, I still feel bad. I know how…difficult the whole dating thing is.”

“Me? I’m sure it’s difficult for you.” Your eyes widen. “Not that Lily makes difficult or anything, just that—”

He holds up a hand to stop you, smiling gently. “No, it’s okay. I know what you meant.” He tilts his head and looks out at the sunset. “It’s…different, I guess. But honestly, I think it just makes you a little more careful. Wait for the right person instead of just…going through the motions. You know?”

As he turns back to you and your eyes connect, you know exactly what he means. 

Ignoring the fluttering in your stomach, you turn towards the steps. “Well, have fun tonight. She looks perfect, and I’m sure—”

“Please,” Steve interrupts, reaching for you but stopping himself just in time. “There’s got to be some way for me to repay you for this. You know, according to medieval rules, you’re not supposed to let a knight leave without a token—”

You wave him off. “No token needed.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, leaning a little closer, playful but intent. “Pretty sure it’s bad luck. Like, for a really long time.”

He holds your gaze. A mourning dove coos, hidden in the branches of a tree in his yard, and suddenly, you realize arguing with him about this is fruitless. You aren't leaving his front porch without something.

And if you somehow manage to, it’s not like he doesn’t know where you live. If he’s as insistent as you think he is, he’ll leave flowers at your door, or you’ll pull up and find him mowing your lawn…better just to get it over with now. 

“Alright, fine,” you concede with a laugh and a gentle roll of your eyes. “What’s the traditional token for knights, huh? A handkerchief? A free beer—” 

“A kiss.”

Your eyes snap to his. Your stomach flips as he tilts his head in an unspoken challenge.

“What do you say?” he murmurs. “Will you accept?”

You can’t stop the way your eyes drop to his lips. Even if you tried. 

 “I will.”

He casts one hurried glance over his shoulder into the house, but the coast must be clear because when he turns back to you, his eyes simmer with heat. 

Your breath hitches as his arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist and pulling you in like he’s been waiting all night to do it. You’re close enough to smell the grass on him from the baseball field, the hairspray in his hair.

His breath caresses your lips, and you feel your eyes slip shut as he leans in. Your noses bump, and you both laugh softly. You’re still smiling when his lips brush yours. 

It’s a hesitant, soft thing. A thank you but in kiss form—genuine and warm. 

But when your fingers find his shirt, and you tilt your chin, inviting a firmer touch, he sighs into your mouth. 

It’s a relieved, desperate sound, as if he hasn’t been touched in ages. Something twinges deep in your chest, and your hand reaches up, threading into his hair and pulling him closer. 

That earns you a deep groan, and when his tongue brushes yours, your ankle buckles in your high heel. 

God, the man can kiss. 

Slow and steady, but hot and needy all at once. It’s so good it makes your head spin. 

“Daddy?” Lilly calls from inside. “I’m ready!”

This kiss breaks, both of you pulling back at the same second. 

But he doesn’t let you go immediately. His hand finds the back of your neck, slipping under your hair, and you swallow hard. You linger there, nose brushing again. Like you’re both barely holding yourselves back from falling into each other again.

“Thank you,” Steve whispers, his voice raspy now. And somehow, you know he means for more than just Lily’s hair. 

“You’re welcome,” you murmur breathlessly.

The soft pitter-patter of ballet slippers coming closer finally has you taking a step back. 

His hands slip from you reluctantly as you step down the stairs.

“And if you ever need anything else…” you wink over your shoulder, just to make sure he catches your drift. “Your knight is right next door.”

a/n: listen, my friend was telling me her husband didn't know how to do a ballet bun for their daughter's dance recital, and she hadn't even finished speaking before my fingers were FLYING typing this up in my notes app.

divider by @cursed-carmine | steve masterlist | come yell at me

taglist: @sassycupcake12, @xoxocelestial, @britt-mf

[harringtonsugar]

I’ll Always Be There

summary: your home situation is rougher than you’ve initially told steve. on a particularly hard night, steve comforts you when you show up in his bed in the middle of the night

warnings: angst, arguing, mentions of alcohol/alcoholism, reader doesn’t have a good relationship with her dad, crying, reader honestly gaslights herself, allusions to abuse, steve is a sweetheart

word count: 2.8k

from jen: before you read, make sure you read the warnings and that it’s not something triggering to you. if you are going through a similar situation, you’re not alone and you’re not crazy. i know how you’re feeling and there’s nothing wrong with you. i love you all and hope this can bring someone else comfort like it did as i wrote it. <3

In the grand scheme of things, you can consider yourself lucky. Luckier than most, at least.

Your parents are still married, you have a roof over your head and clothes on your back. You weren’t the richest family in the town, but you were comfortable. On the outside, you and your family truly were the picture perfect family of Hawkins.

You really shouldn’t complain.

But on nights like tonight, it’s hard to hold that sentiment.

The lock sitting on your desk ticks as the minutes pass closer to 2AM. You locked yourself in your room hours ago – more specifically after you heard the second pop! From the beer can opening downstairs. You knew it was only a matter of time and you were right.

It starts small. A drink at dinner. Another one to watch the game. A third one when his team starts to lose. A fourth after the game. A fifth because, well why not? Then it becomes a sort of game – how many more can he drink tonight than he did the night before?

It never stays small. Once the drinks settle, the arguing begins. Your parents – well mostly your father – scream all night. It’s not her fault, she’s just as stuck as you are. The house never looks good enough, the food is never good enough, her attitude is never good enough. You know it’s just as exhausting for her than it is for you, more actually.

Tonight’s worse for some reason. Earlier that week, your family had attended a small party in the neighborhood. According to him, your mother was flirting with one of the other husbands around and for a reason you didn’t even know, you’d spend the whole night embarrassing him.

When the argument really heightened, you made the mistake of stepping out. You dished out some of your own words you’ve kept bottled up, and then slurred words shot from his mouth and landed harsh against your skin.

You’re ungrateful.

You’re spoiled.

You’re an embarrassment.

You’re nothing without him.

You’re just like your mother.

Still, as hurt and scared as you were, you kept your head held high. You learned a long time ago showing fear meant he won and you weren’t going to give him that power. Your mother stood between you, earning back his anger to reflect on her as she silently begged you to go back upstairs.

Part of you wanted to stay and scream until your throat was raw. The other part knew whatever you did would come back worse on her. So you relented and left.

Now it’s two hours later and it doesn’t even seem close to being over.

It wasn’t always bad. Granted, you didn’t spent much time during the week actually talking to him and you never spent alone time together but I mean, he was there. He provided for your family.

Truly, it ended there.

But that should be enough, right?

You’re sitting in the middle of your bed, knees hugged to your chest and your back leans against the wall. The four walls around you do very little to suppress the sound of the argument downstairs. The walkman Steve got you for Christmas last year sits on the floor, broken last weekend by your dad.

Steve.

Your mind wanders to him at the memory of the gift.

You peek out your window across from you and see his. His blue curtains are pulled shut tight and there hasn’t been any movement from inside his bedroom since 11PM.

You and Steve have been best friends since elementary school. Through every awkward and stressful phase you can think of, you two were like glue. Growing up neighbors will make sure it stays that way. He’s your closest friend – and the boy you’re so helplessly in love with.

He knows about the hardships between you and your dad. Sort of. He knows you’re not the closest knit family he tries to pretend you are. He knows your parents bicker. But he doesn’t know just how bad it really is.

On the rare occasions you’ve confided in Steve about it, he would talk about his dad so you didn’t feel alone. In a lot of ways, they were similar. Good financial providers, working men, emotionally absent from their kids. But Steve’s dad stopped at borderline neglect. Yours didn’t stop even at physicality.

As you sit curled in your blanket, you want nothing more than to climb through his window like you’ve done your whole life and curl into him instead. Away from the arguments, away from the house, away from him.

But it’s late and showing up now means waking him up. Which means telling him the truth. Which means making yourself emotionally naked and you’re not even sure you’re ready to do that.

It’s unfair to him – burdening him with your issues when he’s sound asleep.

And maybe you were being dramatic. It’s not like your dad ever hit you. Some people have it worse; some people die because of their shitty parents. You can handle a few harsh words thrown your way every weekend.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you were ungrateful.

Every doubt in your mind is thrown out the window when you begin to hear glass shattering downstairs. A string of slurred curse words and brutal comments echo through your house and you know then, you can’t take it anymore.

You slip on your ridiculous bunny slippers (also gifted to you by Steve) and your legs guide you to your window on their own accord. Thankfully, there’s a large oak tree between your houses. The two of your have used those branches to climb onto your own roofs to get to the others.

As you climb onto the tree, to the roof, and to his window, all that’s on your mind is Steve.

How you know he’ll comfort you even if he has a million questions. How good it’ll feel to be in his presence again. How his house is always quiet and on days when he hates it, you love it.

You thank the past version of Steve for leaving his window unlocked and slightly cracked open. Like he knew you’d need him later. One hand holds onto the molding of the window and the other carefully slides the glass up just enough to fit through.

You’re still thankful Steve decided to put a lounge chair next to the window and that softens your fall through the sill. Sure enough, it’s deathly silent in his home. The only sound comes from the spinning ceiling fan above him. His room is dark and a little messy – some clothes thrown over his desk chair and a few random things undoubtedly left by Dustin strewn across the floor.

But you can make out his figure on the bed. He’s shirtless and the blankets are kicked to only cover his legs. He lays on his back, one arm tucked under his head and the other lazily resting along his stomach.

He looks so peaceful you almost turn back around so you don’t disrupt him. But with the window still open, you can hear the distant and faint sound of arguing still coming from your still open window and there’s no more fight left in you.

So instead, you tiptoe over to his bed and gently slide into the other side.

Sharing a bed isn’t weird for you two. Nothing between you two is weird anymore – it’s almost everyday someone new assumes you two are already together and you really wish that were true. Him offering comfort as a best friend is great but you’ve always wondered what the boyfriend version would feel like.

Honestly, probably not that different. The way he is with you is drastically different from anyone else. Even when he was with Nancy. It’s why your feelings for him are so intense.

You shuffle closer to him without the purpose of waking him up but when your foot accidentally nudges his shin, Steve’s eyes flutter open. You freeze as he blinks around his dark room, landing in the ceiling first and then the clock, then his widow and then finally to you.

His tired eyes widen just a bit when he recognizes you. You suddenly feel really small and you regret even coming. He says your name quietly, thick with sleep and confusion.

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” It’s not unkind, simply confused.

You’re unsure what to say at first. It’s not exactly a good time to unload every family secret you’ve kept from him.

“I couldn’t sleep,” You finally land on.

It’s silent for a moment. You lay on your side facing him, hands clasped and under your cheek. Steve still lays on his back but he faces you.

He takes in your answer. When he looks at you, it’s clear he doesn’t exactly believe you – or at least that it’s the whole truth but whatever else he sees in your eyes is enough for him to drop it.

Steve doesn’t respond before he shifts to lay on his side and gently pulls your hands from where they are under you. He holds both of them in one hand and tugs you into him. One hand slides beneath your neck, curling and gently rubbing your back. The other rests over your hip.

The warmth of him consumes you immediately. It’s exactly what you needed. You hadn’t even realized you’d been shaking until your skin meets his and every nerve in your body finally relaxes.

Steve is all too aware of the rigidness of your body and the way you melt into his hold. Your arm wraps around his middle, your nails almost digging into the skin of his back but he doesn’t mention it. You face gets buried into the skin of his neck.

Your throat burns at the feeling of just .. relief. It feels like you’ve been denied air for a thousand years and he’s finally that first breath of fresh air. He offers you the comfort you’ve been wanting to seek for years now but have been too ashamed to ask for.

Your body can’t even hold back when the tears begin to flow. Steve feels them soak his skin first, and then he feels the shaking of your back and shoulders, and he knows. He knows without you even saying it.

Steve’s known for a while that the story you’ve given him about your dad isn’t exactly true. Not that it’s a lie but it’s a more than filtered version. He also knows what it’s like to feel judged, or labeled ungrateful for mentioning it, so he never pressured you.

As he holds your crying frame in his arms, he begins to regret that decision.

Steve gently shushes you, his lips pressing soft kisses across your temple and into your hair. You’re not sobbing and that’s somehow worse. It’s small, helpless whimpers and cries muffled into his neck.

He lets you cry as long as you need, holding you just as tight as you hold onto him. When you finally catch your breath, he cups your cheek in his large palm and gently pulls your face from where it almost sticks to his skin.

It’s a little hard to see in the dark but his eyes adjust to take you in. Your eyes are still closed when he looks down at you. Your thick lashes are wet and stick to your cheeks, tear stains trailing beneath them. Your lips are parted, sucking in short and sporadic breaths. His heart breaks at the sight of you.

He places another kiss to your forehead and it’s so achingly tender, your hand reaches up to grip his wrist that holds your face. He lets you without hesitation.

“What happened?” He murmurs gently.

Your bottom lip wobbles and you inhale a shaky breath.

“I hate being there, Steve,” You confess and once that happens, it all begins to spill out. “I hate hearing them argue. I hate hearing him say those kinds of things about me and my mom,”

Steve’s heart pinches. His thumb strokes across the apple of your cheek. “What kind of stuff?“

That’s when you hesitate.

Because what if you say it and Steve agrees? What if you tell him everything and he confirms every bad thing your dad has ever said about you? What if –

Steve pulls you from your thoughts. “You can tell me anything, okay?” He whispers. “Anything, honey,”

He speaks to you with such gentleness and grace. He’s soft and tender with you that it makes your heart bleed. It cracks every hard foundation you’ve built around yourself.

You pause for a second, trying to find your words and to talk without crying again. “He..He says that I’m ungrateful, and that I’m a dis-disappointment, and sel-selfish. That I’m the reason he is the way he is and that – that I’ll never be any-anything without him.” Your voice breaks all throughout the confession of tonight. More tears fall from your eyes and down your cheeks, sliding over his thumb. You pull your face away from his hold and duck under him, nuzzling into the pillow under you.

“That’s not true.” His response is quick and final. “None of that is true. You’re none of those things, honey. You’re kind and so smart and so damn caring of everyone around you.”

His words bring more tears to your eyes but for a completely different reason. This time it’s relief and tenderness filling your chest.

He keeps talking. “You can be anything you want to be and that’s because of you. Not him.” He shifts to pull you back to him, and encourages you to look at him. He coaxes you to open your eyes and look at him. Your name sounds like a melody when it comes out of his mouth. “You’ve spent years listening to him say all these bad things about you and now I want you to listen to every good thing I’m about to say to you.”

You blink up at him, speechless now.

“You are kinder than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re so patient – with me and with every one of the kids we’re stuck with,” Another tear slips down your skin. “You’re so smart, smarter than you give yourself credit for. You’re the bravest person I know. Brave enough to fight of alien monsters and Russian soldiers,” Steve gives you a sad smile and a gentle laugh slips past your lips. “And you are not selfish. You have always put everyone’s needs above your own, even when you shouldn’t.”

He leans his forehead to rest against your own. One of his hands moves to grab yours that rests on his chest and intertwines his fingers with yours. He raises it to his mouth, planting a kiss to the center of your palm.

“Everything he said to you was because he can’t deal with himself. You’re not to blame for any of his actions. I don’t care how many times he’s said to you, he doesn’t know you like I do. And if he can’t see the most beautiful and loving girl right in front of him, then that just proves what I already knew – and that’s that he doesn’t deserve you, he never did.” Steve keeps your gaze fixed on him and by the time he’s finished, you feel like a puddle at his feet.

His words had the exact effect on you that he intended. For every terrible comment your dads instilled in you, is replaced by the sweet words Steve gave you.

Your brows pinch again and before you know it, your burying yourself against Steve again. He accepts you immediately. His arms circle your waist and he holds you close to his chest.

“I love you so much, honey. If you ever think of the things he’s said, think about that instead. How much I love you,”

His confession is more than just the friendship ‘I love you’s the two of you have shared over the years and you both know it. Even if now isn’t the right time to delve into what it means and how your relationship should change, it’s everything to you.

He is everything to you.

You nod against his skin and for the rest of the night, he holds you tight. Until you fall asleep and even after, all the way until morning and even after then.

The insecurities your father spent years planting in your head disappear as you lay in his arms, his words echoing in your head. Steve is nothing like your father and everything you’ll ever need.

[the-quasar-hero]

Assign an aspect of nature to prev

Waves at the beach

Rushing breeze through leaves

A crack of thunder

Flow of a river

The shine of a gem

Dancing embers of a flame

Torrential rain

Slow falling snow

An emerald sea of grass

Austere cliffside

A maze of roots

The endless oceans

Voting ended onJul 11

[snoopyharrington]

would looove to talk about secret-freak keys… so adoring yet very softly mean in bed….

18+, minors dni

ok.......hear me out...........because i think keys gives the softest of dom vibes......outside of bed, in your normal day-to-day life, he's doing small, slightly dom-adjacent tasks: he sets your vitamins out with a full glass of water on the table, and tells you to take a picture and text you when you've done it. he stocks his apartment with specific things that you like, knowing that he doesn't care for those snacks or bath products. if you fall asleep before doing it, he'll pack your work bag for the next day.

so it's kind of... unsurprising that keys is a bit dominating in bed, considering the way your nonsexual dynamic goes. conversations are had before, of course, and you slowly work your way up to what he considers to be the most intense tasks (or at least, the ones he's most comfortable doing with you in bed).

for one, he loves praising you, but he's always sandwiching his compliments with something just as mocking. with his lips brushing against the shell of your ear or the open gape of your mouth, he'll murmur degrading comments to get you off: "is it too much for you, baby? c'mon, i know it's not. open those pretty eyes for me— atta girl, there she is. show me how well you can take it, yeah? you wanna be good for me, right? i know you do, sweetheart."

orgasm control is kind of his Thing. he makes you ask permission every time you're ready to come, and his favorite way to answer your question is a simple no. he likes edging you with a small bullet vibrator as foreplay (nothing too crazy, though he's willing to try out any toys you're interested in), then finally sliding his cock in and allowing you to finally finish when you're wrapped around him. occasionally, he'll go for overstim, too, but he gets nervous when he overworks you. he gets more turned on by the idea of owning all your orgasms instead.

finally, he loves seeing you cry. it's pretty easy to do when he's edging you, or when you're accidentally gagging on his fingers when he's fucking you in missionary. (because, at the end of the day, keys is still a loverboy, and missionary is indeed his favorite position. he thinks it's deeply underrated.) "my pretty crybaby," he'll coo, wiping your tears down the side of your cheeks with his thumbs, "i know, baby. you just lay there and let me take care of you."

[levanswrites]

yess i think we have the exact same vision of keys' appetite in bed!!

keys' love language has always, always been acts of service to me. and even the kinks he keeps tucked away—things he only lets himself think about when he's alone, lying under those generic navy blue boy sheets, hand slipped beneath a pair of well-worn Calvin Klein briefs, eyes closed and pink-cheeked while he imagines you—it all feels like an extension of how he loves.

and that gentle, caring dom dynamic works so well for him!! i think for keys it's never about control for the sake of control. it's about wanting to take care of you in a hundred tiny ways. paying attention so closely that you never have to ask for anything twice.

and the orgasm control..... 😵‍💫 i love the idea of him being a soft dom but only because he likes being the one person who gets to give you what you need. after a long week, he wants to be somewhere you can stop thinking, somewhere you can finally let go because he's got you.

just something so incredibly intimate about someone saying, "you don't have to worry about anything right now. let me take care of this, too." and i think that's the heart of it for him more than anything else.

[cbk1000]

As a society, we need to go back to understanding that strangers on the internet are, you know, strangers. I feel lately that I'm seeing a rise in 'An author I love blocked me because they took my comment the wrong way' posts on the ao3 subreddit, and then the comment is them calling the author a fucking bitch or something like that.

Don't do this. Tone doesn't translate well in text, and if you don't have a rapport with that author, they are not going to interpret, 'You're a fucking bitch' as, 'Author I hate you for being so talented and making me feel so keenly.' They're going to interpret it as you being an asshole. You can shit talk with your friends because you have an established relationship with them and can distinguish between playful banter and genuine anger. You do not have this with a stranger, no matter how much you like their fics. You will have a much more pleasant time in fandom and not get cockblocked from interacting with your favorite writers if you remember this.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

#I don't often see comments like these when I'm reading a fic but there have been a few that made me raise an eyebrow#I don't know if I would block over someone calling me a bitch on a fic I wrote but I'd probs try to gently tell them it's not right#coz honestly I feel like this is an issue with younger age groups who are new to reading fics and might not understand fandom culture#or at least I hope it's younger people who simply don't know better 😬#otherwise... yikes

This isn't some esoteric niche aspect of fandom culture, strangers at the potluck also do not like being called a fucking bitch.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

People in the comments like "you just need to add a /pos tone indicator to your comment!": strangers at the potluck do not like being told "You're a bitch!" with a smile and a thumbs up.

[spider-stark]

dizzy on the comedown

pairing | jonathan byers x reader

summary | late nights listening to music lead to late-stage realizations (aka, jonathan finally realizes you have a thing for him)

warnings | childhood best friends, reader likes pop music, minor steve harrington slander if you squint, don't fact check my 80s pop culture references, got this idea while listening to dizzy on the comedown by turnover, fluff

word count | 2.6k

Your gasp rivaled the too-loud volume of The Clash's latest album spinning in Jonathan's record player, sat up on the old vinyl shelf that always looked to be one ill-timed breath in its direction from collapsing.

Jonathan was on the floor beside you. He sat with his back against the side of his messily made bed, your socked feet resting in his lap as he read some comic Will had asked him to check out.

At your gasp, he immediately looked up.

You shot him a toothy grin from over the top of this month's Teen Beat. "You'll never guess what happened."

The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "Try me," he dared.

Flipping the magazine around, you tapped excitedly at a blurry photo of Cher and Val Kilmer, caught locking lips in the back of a limo after some glitzy Hollywood party.

"They're dating!"

Jonathan dropped the comic, putting on his best I Love Gossip voice. “You're kidding."

You cut your eyes and flipped the magazine back around. "Don't mock me, J."

"Does that sound like something I would do?"

"Indubitably," you announced, dramatically turning a page.

"No," said Jonathan. "It's just, it's exactly like you said." It was obvious he was trying hard to stay serious, to keep that shy smile of his from taking over. "I can't believe it."

Laughing, you tossed the magazine at his face.

He dodged, but only barely, too busy laughing right along with you.

If Joyce was home, now would've been when she'd knock on Jonathan's door. Exhausted, yet kind as ever, she would've reminded you both that it was quarter past nine and she had work in the morning. Just...try to keep it down, okay?

If Will was home, then approximately five minutes ago would've been when he'd invited himself inside, settling on Jonathan's bed to hover sweetly over the top of you and Who's dating? while craning his neck for a better view of the magazine.

But they were both out right now. Joyce working a closing shift at Melvald's, and your favorite drama queen playing D&D at a friend's house.

It was only you. Only Jonathan.

And The Clash, of course.

"You're insufferable," you eventually told him, still glaring playfully.

Jonathan squeezed your foot. "Says the one obsessed with crappy magazines."

"Oh I'm sorry, J — am I too lame for you? Is my love for pop culture ruining your street cred?"

Another laugh framed his pretty brown eyes with the most precious crinkles. "Who says street cred?" he asked incredulously.

"Lame-os, apparently."

It was his turn to cut his eyes. "If either of us lame," he contended, "it's definitely me."

The urge to frown was unbearable, but you tried resisting it.

Jonathan talking down on himself was a frequent occurrence. He'd always been insecure, even back in elementary school when you were both too young to know why older kids picked on him for his too-big coat and out-of-style sneakers.

High school had made it worse, though. A lot worse.

Sometimes you wished all of Hawkins High could see Jonathan the way you saw him. Understatedly funny with impeccable music taste; a photographer NYU would be lucky to teach; smarter than half this damned town and caring to a fault.

Other times — selfish, greedy times — you were glad they didn't.

Hawkins didn't deserve Jonathan, anyway.

Gently, you nudged him in the stomach with your foot. "If you're lame, then I'm lame by association," you told him. "Which actually means you're not lame at all, because I—" you laid a hand on your chest "—am the coolest person to ever exist."

"Didn't you just call yourself a lame-o?"

"Have you never heard of a joke, J? A bit of witticism? An old chestnut, even!"

With a groan that was both embarrassed on your behalf and thoroughly amused, Jonathan tossed his head back against the bed. "Great," he said to the ceiling. "So we're both lame."

You had full intent to argue for argument's sake, to make some exuberant claim as to why you were the furthest thing from lame (as if you weren't spending a Saturday night on your best friend's bedroom floor raving over celebrity romance while wearing fuzzy socks with cat in rainboots on them) when the room went totally silent.

The album had ended.

Jonathan lifted his head.

The two of you shared a look.

And then—

You shrieked when Jonathan shoved your feet of his lap, both of you scrambling to get off the floor. His room became a flurry of limbs and shouts and shoves, each fighting the other to cross the mere feet that separated you from the decrepit vinyl shelf.

Jonathan beat you.

"No fair," you whined. He was already lifting The Clash record off the platter and sliding it back into its sleeve. "You picked the last two albums. It's my turn, Byers!"

"You know the rules," he teased. "You snooze you lose."

"We should play rock-paper-scissors for it."

He dragged a finger over the records on his shelf, deciding which to play next. "You wouldn't say that if I was the one who lost."

"It's not losing if the competition's rigged!"

This whole Race to the Record Player thing was an unfair challenge. Not only were his legs longer than yours, but he had home-field advantage! His room was in such disarray that if you ran too fast, you were likely to twist your ankle on a lone Converse living under a denim jacket.

Jonathan turned his head to smile at you. It was so boyish and sweet, so unknowingly adorable, that you almost forgot to stay mad at him.

"You know," he said, "no one likes a sore loser."

An Oh, phooey! was already halfway up your throat when he slid a record out and showed it to you for approval.

One look at the cover and your Oh, phooey fizzled into a gasp.

"You're kidding!"

Jonathan's taste was eclectic but leaned into post-punk rock territory. Talking Heads, Joy Division, The Psychedelic Furs. Spending so much time with him meant you had come to love all those bands too — but unlike him, you weren't immune to the bubblegum bite of the pop-music bug.

Cyndi Lauper was your new favorite artist.

And now — in Jonathan's beautiful, beautiful hand — was her first ever studio album, She's So Unusual.

Released less than a week ago, there was no way he'd gotten it without spending a pretty penny. A valuable penny. One that could've been given to Joyce for extra groceries or put aside to replace the starter in his car. He could've even bought himself a new record, instead of spending hard-earned money on an album he wouldn't even listen to outside of your presence.

"Remember when I called you insufferable?" you asked.

He tipped his head to one side, pretty brown eyes crinkling as he pretended to think. "Vaguely."

"Well consider this my apology."

Before he could react, you lifted onto your toes and grabbed his face in your hands, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek. His skin was soft, a little prickly where he'd missed a few spots shaving. He turned red so fast you felt warmth bloom under your lips. When you pulled back, admiring his new cherry complexion, you decided you liked making Jonathan blush.

Trying to seem unfazed, Jonathan busied himself with putting the record on. "I'll take it under consideration," he said, but the awkward way he cleared his throat before speaking made it obvious: you were definitely forgiven.

He lowered the needle. Money Changes Everything floated through his room, a lively beat that made your bones tingle.

You flopped backwards onto his bed, sighing comfortably. It smelled like him, bar soap and laundry detergent. If he hadn't turned to face you, you probably would've buried your nose in the sheets.

"So." You needed to talk. Otherwise you'd spend too much time admiring how cute he looked, unsure what to do with his hands, unable to hold your gaze but incapable of looking away. "Will," you said.

Concern took him immediately. "What about Will?"

You laughed. "Calm your engine, sports car. I was just gonna ask if he was going to the Snow Ball."

The infamous middle school dance was next weekend. An old teacher of yours had reached out to ask if you'd help with snacks for it, and you maybe promised to bake and ice two hundred cupcakes by next Friday — a venture you fully planned on wrangling Jonathan into.

Jonathan shrugged. "I don't know...I think so."

"Good," you chirped. Because if he'd said no, you would've had to conjure a last-minute plan to convince Will that school dances were So Cool and not Life Ruining Awful. "What about you?"

He gave you a look. "I'm pretty sure I aged out of middle school dances."

You chucked a pillow at him. "Not the Snow Ball, dummy. Our dance."

Winter's Dream, they were calling it. They being Hawkins High's budget friendly planning committee consisting of cheerleaders and theater kids. According to the fliers, the whole gym would be transformed into an ethereal frozen paradise — cotton ball clouds strung from the ceiling along with papier-mâché snowflakes; plenty of twinkle lights; fake snow covering the linoleum.

They had made crowns, too, for whichever lucky students were voted to be the Winter King & Queen. Everyone was gossiping over who would be crowned queen.

There was no doubt who would be king.

Jonathan edged towards the bed. Sat, and immediately started fiddling with a stray thread on his black jeans. "I don't know. Probably not."

"Trick question." You shot up straight, knocking your shoulder into his. "You're definitely going. So, onto our next question: who are you gonna ask to be your date?"

You expected him to say 'I don't know' again.

Instead, he reluctantly replied: "Who's your date?"

You bit your lip against a smile. "No one."

"No one's asked you?"

"No one worth saying yes to." Truth was, there was only one person you'd say yes to. "Connie heard that Steve Harrington's gonna ask me on Monday, but you know Connie. You'd be better trusting a call-in psychic."

"You love call-in psychics."

"But I don't trust them," you said, bumping his shoulder again.

Jonathan kept picking at the thread on his jeans.

On accident, he snapped it right off.

"Well...if Steve asks," he started, still focused on his lap, "will you...I don't know, say yes, or..."

Do you want me to say yes?

"I'm offended," you said solemnly. "Honestly, you're supposed to be my best friend, J! If you don't know that I'm gonna tell Steve Harrington where to shove it, then who will?"

He forced a chuckle. "I don't know...I mean, it wouldn't so...strange, I guess, to think maybe you'd actually want to go with him."

"Why? Because he's got nice hair and a BMW?"

Brown eyes flicked to yours in a sidelong look that said Uh, yeah?

Your jaw fell. "Don't tell me you really think that a BMW is all it takes to win me over."

"Of course not," defended Jonathan. Then, with a too-shy smile: "I think nice hair is all it takes to win you over."

You reached back for his other pillow and whacked him in the face with it. He burst out laughing, stole the pillow, and tossed it clear across the room.

That didn't stop you.

You swatted his arms, his chest, shouting I can't believe you! and Take it back, dummy! Jonathan just kept laughing, dodging hits and trying to catch your wrists, failing and resorting to tickling your sides.

You didn't know how you ended up on top of him. Only that you were, both of you smiling and breathless, your hands pinning his wrists to the bed on either side of his head.

In the background, Time After Time hummed so softly you worried he could hear the sound of your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.

"I take it back," you mumbled, making his brow furrow. "Turns out you really are insufferable."

"Because I don't think you're immune to King Steve's charm?"

"Because you're an idiot." You let go of one of his wrists. His chest froze mid-breath, your fingertips grazing just above his eyebrows, brushing a strand of hair to the side. "Steve Harrington's not the only boy with nice hair, y'know."

Pretty brown eyes were blown wide, his throat working around a swallow. "My hair is...bad."

"To you, maybe." He never complained, but you knew he'd never liked that they didn't have enough money for his hair to be anything but a product of love and kitchen scissors. "I think it's perfect," you whispered, when what you meant was I think you're perfect.

Because he was, wasn't he? Always playing along with your silly Hollywood gossip, buying records he wouldn't like because he knew it'd make you happy.

How could I ever want Steve Harrington, you wondered, when Jonathan exists?

Stupidly, you murmured, "Hey."

He said it back, just as stupid.

"I've got an idea," you said. "What if we go to the dance?"

You weren't sure his eyes could get any wider. "As...friends?" he asked.

"Or a date," you suggested too quickly. "Unless you think it'll hurt your street cred, being spotted with some pop culture lame-o."

"What happened to being the coolest person to ever exist?"

"Depends on the moment." And right now, you certainly felt like a lame-o.

Jonathan considered a long moment, gazing at you all the while.

Finally, he said, "I don't have anything to wear."

"I'm sure we could find something."

"I don't have a BMW, either."

You cut your eyes and leaned in so close that the tips of your noses nearly touched. "If you allude to Steve Harrington even one more time," you threatened, "I promise to smear blue icing all over your face."

His brow furrowed. "And you just...keep icing on you, or...?"

"Did I not tell you?" you asked, knowing full well you hadn't. "I signed us up to bake two hundred cupcakes for Will's dance."

"Two hundred?!"

"Oh, c'mon! It's for your brother," you told him. "I'll even let you lick the whisk!"

"Is that supposed to convince me?"

"Convincing implies choice, which last I checked, I didn't give you."

An easy laugh tumbled from his lips. Without thinking, he brought the hand you'd freed up to your waist, squeezing light enough to make you squirm at the tickling sensation. "Have you ever considered that maybe you're the insufferable one?" he asked.

You shook your head. "Not even once."

His gaze flitted to your lips. You thought of all the times you'd wanted kiss Jonathan over the years, imagining what it'd be like to feel the warmth of his mouth and taste his toothpaste on your tongue, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he'd been wanting to do the same.

He brought his hand to your face. Grazed his knuckles along the curve of your cheek, so soft you could barely feel it.

He swallowed. Asked, "Can I—"

The door swung open.

Will stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, a cheerful "I'm home!" cut short when he caught sight of you straddling his older brother.

None of you spoke.

Then Will darted back into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him as he shouted, "ABOUT TIME!"

You immediately started laughing.

"This isn't funny," Jonathan protested, cheeks flushed. "You know he can't keep a secret. He's gonna tell Mike, who's gonna tell his sister, who's probably gonna tell the whole school and then—"

You shut him up by running your fingers through his hair.

"So. About that dance," you said. "Are we going?"

He looked at you like you were crazy. Like he was so sure this was all some mistake, a prank gone too far. You couldn't actually want him to be your date, and any minute now he was counting on you to remember that, to say so and send all the surreal beauty of this moment crashing down around him.

But that never happened.

So he gave you a faint teasing smile and said, "Pick me up at eight."

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

a/n | don't mind me, just thinking of all the ways the Winter's Dream dance could go (+ making cupcakes with Jonathan). ugh.

thanks for reading!

[dathomireternal]

supervixen

dealer!eddie munson x reader

summary: for some reason, ever since you started buying from eddie, you keep finding yourself woefully strapped for cash. luckily for you, he's kind enough to accept a different form of payment. 7k words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, AGE IN BIO OR I WILL BLOCK YOU <\3. basically pwp that's a little too invested in the dynamic. one lovely commenter on ao3 called this the most thorough description of a beej they've ever read. worshipful. fwb type beat, implied inexperienced and kind of sub!eddie, orgasm edging/denial, one use of mommy. very light sadism on the reader's part. not actually a transactional relationship, it might as well be roleplay tbh. fem!reader, but reader's body/parts are not involved beyond references to cleavage. more tags on ao3!

here's a link to part 2, flesh is the law!

──── ⋆⋅💋⋅⋆ ─────

Eddie answers your knock with a lethargy he only ever displays when he isn’t expecting you. The door pulls in, and you get a split second of a handsome, atypically blank expression before his eyebrows jump at the sight of you. 

“Hi,” you say, cocking your head aside, pretending to chew at your fingernail.

His eyes flicker between yours and your mouth, and a wide, dimpled grin follows close behind.

“...Hey,” he responds. A glimmer of something almost smug settles in his eyes, well deserved in your opinion. 

“Open for business tonight?”

“For you, my liege? Always.” 

Eddie steps back and bows, one arm outstretched in humble welcome. As you pass by, you scrunch your face, overwhelmed with something akin to cuteness aggression. Fucking dork. 

“Can I get you something to drink?”

You're no stranger to the Munson trailer, and especially not to Eddie's process of hospitality. You're already at the fridge before he's finished asking, and you pick a soda for yourself at random, popping the door closed with your hip and leaning back against it. Eddie follows and leans against the counter opposite you with his arms crossed, watching you pop the tab on your Sprite with amusement. He takes his bottom lip into his mouth, rehydrating it with his tongue, back and forth.

“What's new, Eddie?” 

He keeps at it until he notices you staring, and a smile makes it spring back out. His shoulders raise in indifference. 

“Nothing that’s any fun,” he sighs. “Tinkering with the ornery washer again. Mrs. Thompson a couple doors down accused me of stealing her cat, which is always awesome.”

“Ouch.” You wince on his behalf. “She call the cops?”

Eddie forces a sharp grin. “Not this time, no. Small mercy in an otherwise crappy day.” He scratches at one side of his jaw, and his stare flickers gradually down to your feet, then all the way back up. “...A surprise visit from you is definitely the highlight.”

You rest the edge of the soda can on your bottom lip, dragging it down while you raise an eyebrow at him. “Already?”

He breaks—ducks his head with a grin, stares at you from that angle as if he knows how sweet it makes him look. “Pretty much, yeah.”

You take another sip. “...School?”

He whips his head up to tilt it backwards, eyes careening back into his head as he mimes strangling himself, and you giggle. It's pretty close to a look you've seen on him before.

Though you wouldn't admit it to him outright, that is, in part, why you find yourself visiting so often. Eddie was supposed to graduate with you. Getting held back not once but twice sounds like a form of torture you can hardly comprehend, and his super-duper senior status definitely can't be helping the…concern you've taken it upon yourself to address.

The thing is, you don't know if Eddie was a virgin before you started visiting him with more than just weed in mind, and you really don't plan to ever ask him. But when you laid out the facts before you, the possibility was a little too high for you to ignore. You remember his pariahship firsthand, and more distinctly, you don't remember any rumors about him swirling around that weren't of a violent, occult, or broadly criminal nature, which, in a town as small as Hawkins, seems pretty damning. No one you know has ever admitted to having gone out or hooked up with him, and even when you’d occasionally see him at hormone-driven house parties, he always kept pretty firmly to himself—all business, no pleasure. For all you knew, he’d never even been kissed before you decided to push your luck.

But it’s not like you’re just trying to be charitable for its own sake. Eddie is discreetly handsome and as sweet as sweet gets, and how nobody seems willing to disregard the rebellious costuming long enough to notice is beyond you. You've had a soft spot for him ever since junior year, when you managed to jointly obliterate a flour baby in record time—Mrs. Donahue, in all her twenty years of teaching home economics, had never seen anything like it. You still laugh yourself to tears about it every now and then. 

So, when you saw him at a party late last year and caught up with him enough to learn that he's still dealing, while simultaneously keeping track of how many times he accidentally stole a glance down the front of your shirt, you got an idea. 

That was about five months ago.

“...I’m thinking a quarter ounce tonight,” you tell him. 

“Sure thing,” he says with a sideways grin. “Wait right here.”

He never expects it from you. No matter how many times you show up and inevitably give him today’s variation of the same cheesy line, he never dares to eschew the formalities, and that puts him about a mile ahead of every other guy you've been casual with. Without fail, Eddie plays out the deal as he would with any other client, and you’re confident that if you simply decided to pay for your weed and go, his disappointment wouldn’t rear its head until you had long abandoned the premises. He never asks for more than you decide to give him, never even makes the first move. 

Luckily for him, the weed is only half as fun to fool around with as he is. 

Eddie returns with his trusty metal lunchbox, setting it beside him on the counter as he retrieves a little baggy, prepackaged in the requested size. He holds the seam of it between two fingers, swinging it back and forth. 

“I can do ya ten bucks,” he says. “...No, y’know what? Let’s do nine. Favorite customer discount.”

“Really?” You go back to pretending to chew on your nail, as coy as can be. 

“Mhm.” He gives you a deep nod, fluffy hair drifting to and fro. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You take one last sip of your soda, feeling it sizzle down your throat as you set it aside. With three dragging steps, you’re right in front of him. Eddie watches closely, dark eyes flickering all over your face—not expectant, just attentive. A little amused.

“...You’re so sweet, Eddie,” you tell him, trailing the backs of two fingers down his pale arm, making his hand twitch. 

He flashes you a corny grin. “Sure am.”  

When you reach his wrist, you let your hand fall back to yourself and clutch both of them behind your back—only slightly poking your chest out. Your gaze crawls up the dark, plaid pattern of his pajama pants, dances along the lines in his faded Black Sabbath shirt (sleeves and collar sheared off, of course,) before you snap it back up to his pretty face. You’re being a bit too obvious for him to play clueless this time, his outwardly innocent eyes pinched into a knowing stare that makes your spine tingle. 

“...Don’t be mad,” you plead.

He only looks down your shirt for a split second. “Why would I be mad at you, sweetheart?” 

You push your lips out in your best pout. “...I’m short.”

His face cracks open with a smile, eyebrows shooting up in practiced incredulity. “Again?”

“Shitbag landlord upped my rent,” you lie.

“Aw, you poor thing.” Eddie shakes his head in sympathy and crosses his arms, the baggie still peeking out from under them. They aren’t especially muscular, but they’re still defined enough to indulge yourself in a stare, eyes catching on scattered moles and brushing through the light coat of dark hair on his forearms. “...How much you got for me, then?”

You stuff your fingers into your cleavage, retrieving a wad of small bills from the cup of your bra. It blows a hole in Eddie’s expression, startled eyes watching you hand it to him. He looks lightly frazzled as he takes the warm cash from you, blinking at it a couple times before it occurs to him to investigate. He has to count it twice.

“...Four dollars?” he asks, making sure.

“It’s all I could spare,” you insist.

Eddie sighs. “Honey, that’s barely enough for an eighth.” 

“I know,” you whine, taking his hand and pressing his palm to your cheek, “but please, Eddie? I really want it.” 

He tilts his head at you, grazing his thumb over your cheekbone with a sympathetic smile. “I know you do, honey, and you know I wanna give it to you, but Eddie’s got bills to pay, too.” 

“I’ll still pay for it,” you insist. “Can’t we just…work something out?”

“Work something out, huh?” he echoes, skeptical. He’s a good actor. You’d almost think he didn’t know what you were getting at.

Eddie lets his arms fall open as yours reach towards him, trailing lightly up his abdomen, past his chest and collarbones, and draping over his shoulders as you arch your back into him. His breath hitches, you hear some plasticy rustling—urgently throwing the shit he’s holding onto the counter—and one of his hands comes to rest against your lower back, burning through your shirt. 

“...I can make you feel good,” you offer, a gentle, sultry ghost wafting over his ear. You push his hair back and crane your neck up to close your teeth around his earlobe, working your tongue over it, twirling the bitter stud in his ear. You retreat just enough to blow on the wet skin, and delight in the way he shudders against you.

“...Yeah?” he says, more air than voice. 

“Mhm.” 

He swallows heavily. “What did you, uh…have in mind?”

Instead of responding, you take a step back and give him the most innocent eyes you’re capable of. Then, without so much as blinking, you drop to your knees on the kitchen tile, hands clutching his thighs, and it seems to punch the breath out of him. He always gives you that look when you get started, awed and lusty, like he still can’t believe the last time wasn’t actually the last time. 

“You, um—” He has to swallow again. “You look pretty on your— Fffucking hell.”

You cut him off on purpose, pressing your face into the front of his pants and feeling out his growing chub with your lips, relishing the little swell of your ego. You lick and suck at him through the fabric like you’ve never wanted to taste anything so bad in your life, like even the moment it would take to get him out of his pants is too long to wait, and Eddie braces himself against the counter, abdomen tensing and releasing as he gasps, watching you with wide eyes. 

“Shit, you—fuck, you’re eager, huh?”

“Need it so bad, Eddie,” you purr at him, rubbing your cheek along his bulge, gazing up at him with droopy eyes. “...My mouth just doesn’t feel right without your cock stuffed in it.”

Eddie might be having an aneurysm. “Jesus—fucking Christ,” he hisses, voice cracking in disbelief, and he twitches hard against your face.

It’s part of what you love about doing this with him, what makes you wanna leave every ounce of shame that you possess at the door. You drive him out of his mind, and he isn’t afraid to show it. Rather, he couldn’t hide it from you if he wanted to.

You reach up, slipping your fingertips under the band of his pants and underwear and tugging slowly down, down, down until they rest beneath his balls, only held up around his hips by his weight pressing into the counter, and Eddie lets out a long, shaky exhale. His cock bobs in front of your face, swollen and heavy and pretty as ever. Silky, pinkish foreskin stretched full and tight over softly bulging veins, swathing him up to his violet-flushed head. It really doesn’t take much with Eddie. Just for fun, you press a wet, sloppy kiss to the skin of his inner thigh, right on the perimeter of where he wants you, digging your teeth in and sucking until the length of him jumps with impatience. So fucking cute. 

Then, you keep up the feline behavior, nuzzling your nose and cheeks against the underside of his bouncing cock and into his fuzzy balls as Eddie chokes and hisses above you. He wasn’t expecting you tonight, so he didn’t have time to prepare. This means that the smell of his natural musk and dried sweat is a little intense as you practically suffocate yourself in his crotch, (enough to make you wonder if this won’t be the first time he’s gotten off today,) but if it really bothered you, you wouldn't have shown up unannounced in the first place. You lave your tongue all over his tight sack and moan like the salt on your tongue is ecstasy, doing your best to keep staring up at him with lustful eyes, even as the girth of his cock blocks one of them from sight. Eddie’s chest puffs out as he sucks in a sharp breath, freeing one hand from his death grip on the counter to hold himself at the base and squeeze, eyes screwing closed in tandem. 

“Please, fuck, have mercy,” he begs, wrung tightly from his throat. “Don’t wanna cum in five seconds.”

That gets a giggle out of you, and when he finally dares open his eyes again, a wide, toothy smile. He gapes down at you with his brows pinched together like the sight is somehow just as mesmerizing as your face all over his genitalia.

You take advantage of his fist holding his cock steady to run your tongue over its underside, gliding wet over his fingers and tinny metal rings to suckle at the slit of his cockhead. Sweetly obedient, a couple drops of precum bubble out of him to slide down your throat, and Eddie’s thighs twitch beneath your tight grip.  

“Shit, fuck, okay,” he breathes, weakly pumping his shaft as your lips wrap fully around his tip, sucking tight and bullying the squishy flesh with your tongue. You sink just slightly deeper, wrapping your lips over his foreskin and dragging it with you, bobbing back and forth over the ridge of his cockhead, and he gives you a long, throaty whine. Picking up the rhythm, you take him as far as his fist will let you, whining pitifully around a mouthful of him at the injustice of being denied his entire length to suck on, and Eddie hisses again, squeezing himself in desperation.  

“Fuck, uh, the couch?” He offers suddenly, his head whipping over his shoulder to glance at it like he only just remembered it existed. “Wanna move to the couch?”

Sucking even harder, you slowly pull back until he leaves your wet lips with a resounding pop, and only then do Eddie’s tense shoulders sag in almost comical relief. 

“Sure,” you agree easily. 

He usually does that when he’s worried about your knees on the hard flooring, but they’ve barely even started to ache. Given how deeply flushed and sweat-tacky his face already is, you suspect he threw it out to cry uncle.

Eddie holds out both of his clammy hands and tugs you back to your feet. Then, oddly, he just stares at you until you gesture out towards the living room, letting yourself look as smug as you feel.

“After you,” you offer.

He clears his throat, jolting suddenly back to Earth as he scurries out of the kitchen in a half-waddle, holding his pants to keep them from falling around his ankles. You follow after him languidly, feeling much like the cat closing in on the canary. 

He starts to sit down with his waistbands still near the top of his thighs, but you ease them out of his hands, letting them fall to his ankles. There’s an awkward, almost skittish look on his face as he settles down into the cushions, looking up at you as he scrambles to drop a throw pillow on the carpet between his legs, and he looks even prettier in the soft, orangey lamplight of the living room. You want to eat him whole.

“Comfy?” you ask. 

It makes him smile, a twitchy, bashful little thing, and he bobs his head in a quick nod. “Yeah.”

As you return to your knees, he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, brow furrowing lightly in focus as he watches you drag your lips along his thigh. You venture oh so close, enough to have his shoulders inching up in anticipation, and then, with suppressed pleasure, watch him deflate as you trace the same path all the way back to his knee. On the next trip, you stop halfway, giving him another long, aching, toothy kiss on his inner thigh. Taking care to leave a mark in the shape of your mouth to remember you by, to send his blood rushing down and filling him up all over again as his hand runs over it in the shower.

Eddie grunts at you, but doesn’t really complain. Not until you tease him again, approaching but not relieving the hot flesh that needs you so badly, sucking another mean signature just beside it as the addictive idea of his future re-arousal takes root in your mind. He breathes your name, almost pleading, and you release his skin with a gentle pop.

“Yeah, Eddie?”

His chest stutters with a difficult breath. “Can you… I mean, it’s just…” 

The smothered frustration in his voice fills you with delicious pity. It’s hard for him to ask for anything, dedicated as he is to the role of a humble receiver, but it seems like he isn’t really sure whether you know that you’re torturing him heinously right now, and all that does is make you want to torture him even worse. 

“Thought you wanted me to slow down,” you tease with a smile. 

“Yeah, I… I did, but—” Taking pity on him, you wrap your fist around him, giving him a couple lazy pumps as you suck an entire testicle into your mouth, massaging carefully with your tongue. “Oh fuck, fuck, thank you.” 

The manners on this boy. Whoever raised him did a very good job. 

His body tenses up again with the stimulation, one thigh lightly shaking beside you. Face screwing up in pleasure, his head falls back, jaw hanging open as his breathing turns back into panting, but when you release his cock again and let him fall from your mouth, he lifts it back up to look at you in confusion. 

“Want you to look at me,” you explain, and his agreement comes as a vigorous nod, shifting slightly where he sits.

“Shit, yeah, s—” 

You get the sense that the next word would’ve been an apology, but the sight of you rolling a glob of spit off of your tongue into your own hand seems to short circuit his brain. Grasping him again, you spread the saliva over his length, a slick, creamy glide, and Eddie’s hips jerk up at the feeling, but he’s sure to keep his wild eyes on you as you get back to work.

“Fuck, that's…”

Closing your fist tight at the base of him, you drag it almost leisurely up his length, and Eddie jerks beneath you again with a groan, twitching all over, struggling to deal with it. He throbs hard in your grasp, his heartbeat pounding against your palm, and when you reach the ridge of his cockhead and strangle him even tighter, a pitiful whimper squeezes out of his throat. As if you milked it right out of him, another dribble of precum gushes from his slit and leaks out over your hand.

“You’re always so good for me, Eddie,” you can’t help but tell him. Every part of him is so reactive, it's addicting. You could play with him for hours.

His cheeks flush darker with another sweet whine, watching in a trance as you stoop down to press a kiss to his tip, smearing his precum on your lips like gloss.

“You’re good,” he counterargues weakly, struggling to swallow. “...I feel like I’m dreaming.”

His own mumbled words seem to startle him, eyes flaring wider like that was meant to stay an inside thought, but it pulls a gleaming smile out of you. 

“You’re a fucking sweetheart,” you croon. You give his thigh a mean pinch (only because his blushing cheek is too far away) and his leg jumps, cute face twitching into a pout. “I’m gonna make you cum your brains out.”

“...I, uh, think it’s already—” He just can’t get a word in with you. Whatever unsteady joke he was attempting to get out turns into a strangled moan as you abruptly take about half of him into your mouth and start bobbing, painting his slick cock with even more saliva. “Jesus fucking—fuck me.”

You decide to take a break from teasing him, holding him by the base and sucking him in earnest. It gets messy pretty fast, your spit and his pre-release mixing and foaming up as it overflows, dripping sticky down your chin. The sounds it makes are obscene, slick and gooey, loud, sloppy smacking, and deep, throaty glugs when you let him hit the back of your throat. Eddie stares you in the eye through all of it, too greedy to risk even blinking, his sweet lips parting into a gasp and brow furrowing tighter as he gets closer. He's getting loud too, wanton, helpless moans and groans falling out of him freely, gasping your name like he can hardly believe what you're doing to him. And when he gets really close, struggling to sit still in his desperation, thighs shuddering on either side of you and rising moans on his lips, you give him one last long stroke and let him fall out of your mouth entirely, wiping the excess spit on your forearm.

“No, no, fuck!” he cries, head snapping back in frustration. His wet cock jumps in lament, hips bucking uselessly. “God—fucking damnit!”

“Oh, shit, were you about to come?” you ask, innocent as can be.

Eyes closed tight and jaw clenched as he pants in recovery, he nods stiffly. “...Yeah, I… I kinda was. Fuck.”

“I'm sorry, Eddie,” you tell him with a sad little pout. “I didn't realize.”

He shakes his head automatically, peeling his eyes open again. “No, it's fine,” he assures you. “...S'okay.”

A flush of sadistic glee ripples through you, seeing him so wrecked and tortured at your hands, but even still trying to spare you from it. Such a sweet fucking boy. One of these days he'll catch on to your evil deeds, but probably not tonight.

“...Next time, you can just keep me there,” you suggest.

He's completely lost. “What?”

“Y'know, like…” You take one of his hands, guide it to the back of your head and press your own into it, making him shove your head closer to his crotch. “...Keep me there. By force, I mean.”

“What?” His eyes bug out of his head in horror, which is what you expected. “No, I can't— I mean, fuck, I would never—” 

You giggle at him, letting him take his hand back. “You don't have to, Eds, I'm just saying…I wouldn't mind. I mean, I think it's kinda hot.”

His expression is a little odd, but not in a way you can place. You give him a shrug and take his sticky cock in your free hand, giving him some quick strokes just to make sure he doesn't go soft on you, and a tight, warbling little noise comes out of him. 

“Okay,” you say. “Gonna make you cum for real this time, pretty boy. You want to?” 

He sucks at his bottom lip again, bright pink and swollen, and gives you a shy nod. So devastatingly fucking pretty. Your grin stretches wide and fond.

“Tell me.” 

He flounders, mouth opening uselessly—only a choked moan coming out as you speed up, flicking your wrist over his sensitive tip. You’ve never teased him like this before, worried about putting him off or making him uncomfortable, but he just looks so goddamn sweet right now, you can’t help it. 

“You can say it, can't you?” you goad.

“I— I wanna cum,” he mumbles with adorable uncertainty. 

“Good,” you praise, and Eddie perks up like a puppy. Fucking unbelievable. “...Do me a little favor?”

He nods almost frantically, his tummy rising and falling as his breath picks up again.

You let your smile turn just slightly evil. “Beg for it.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes going wide again. “I, uh… Please?”

You slow down enough to hurt, and he groans in disappointment. “C’mon, Eddie, you can do better than that.”

His jaw clenches tight as he works himself up to it, big brown eyes flickering all over your face. “...Please make me cum.”

Much better. You speed up your wrist again, and Eddie melts in relief. 

“That's so fucking hot,” you tell him, giddy as you stoop down to hover your mouth over his cock. “...Keep going, okay? I like it when you talk.”

Another cute nod, and you take in the hot, pulsing weight of him until he hits the back of your throat.

“Shit!” he hisses. “...Oh, fuck, please.”

You take your time, sucking him in deep, letting the sloppiness gradually build up again and coaxing moans and whimpers out of him with tight, ravenous suction. 

“Please, fuck, please don't stop,” he rambles above you. “...Feels so fucking good, you're so good.”

After all the times you've sucked him off, you know exactly how far you can take him without fear of gagging, but right now, you're feeling greedy. You push yourself until the reflex triggers—Eddie jolting and gasping at the feeling—and then push even further, unsatisfied until you've taken him to the hilt. Nose pressed into his bush, the smell of him, of musk and sex and boyish stink surges directly into your brain and makes your head spin, and you moan your pleasure into him as he throbs on your tongue.

“Jesus Christ!” Eddie cries out, high and strained. “God— So fucking hot and wet, please, please, I wanna—!”

His hips buck of their own accord, trying to delve impossibly deeper into your perfect throat, and you gag around him hard, reeling back on instinct. Thick saliva connects your lips to the tip of his cock as you pull back just enough to cough a couple times, and Eddie freezes, eyes popping wide open.

“Shit, I'm so sorry,” he says, panicked enough that he probably thinks he hurt you somehow. “I—”

“Please, who?” you cut him off, stroking him fiercely as you wait.

“...What?”

“Please who, Eddie?”

He blinks at you, eyes shaking as he thinks, and he tries your name.

You shake your head. 

His brow furrows tight, mouth hanging open cluelessly. “What— What do you want me to—?”

“Whatever you wanna call me, Eddie,” you offer with a hungry grin. “Whatever you want.”

With that, you take him between your lips again, and he shudders. You're trying earnestly to make him come now, suctioned tight around him, taking him as deep and fast as you can without gagging again. Eddie clearly won't last much longer, his limbs twitching erratically, abdomen clenching tight, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead. One of his hands moves from clutching the cushion to grasping his own thigh, nails digging in hard enough to look painful. 

“Please…” You can see him fighting to figure out what he's supposed to say, overthinking it when he can hardly think at all in the first place. “Please…”

He gets distracted then, his big, watery eyes starting to unfocus as he watches you, eyebrows pulling up in the middle, painfully close to where he wants to be. You give him one sharp smack on the outside of his thigh—not enough to hurt but enough to startle—yanking him back from the precipice with a gasp. 

“Fuck, sorry, I just—” He sucks a breath through his teeth, trying to hold it back. “Please, I wanna…”

Just for a second, you pause. Eddie all but seizes beneath you. 

“No, please, don't stop!” he whimpers, sounding close to tears. “Fuck, please, please, mommy, I wanna cum, please!”

Now, was that so hard? You continue with fervor, delighted to reward him, and Eddie cries out in relief, so thoroughly absorbed in his impending climax that you aren't even sure if he knows what just came out of his mouth. 

His sweet moans pitch higher and higher, back arching off the couch, clearly seconds away from snapping, and, largely as an experiment, you rip his hand from his thigh and yank it to the back of your head.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

A heartbreaking whimper tears out of him as he starts cumming down your throat. He pulls mindlessly at your head, trying again to fuck into you deeper, but he catches himself somehow, ripping his hand back to the couch cushion in a death grip. You start to pull back, replacing your mouth with your fist and stroking furiously as he shoots ropes over your tongue, but even as it ceases, you don’t let up. Holding his cock in front of your face, you keep pumping relentlessly, faithfully, and finally, with one last broken moan, you milk a couple more sticky strings out of him, hitting you right in the cheek. 

“Good fucking boy,” you mutter with pride as he finally goes limp, but you doubt he hears you. He’s gasping for breath like you just put him through a triathlon.

You give him a moment, waiting until his breathing calms down to attempt communication again. While you wait, you grab the fabric of his pajama pants around his ankles, lifting it up to wipe the cum off of your cheek. You’ve seen his goddamn bedroom, so you doubt he’ll fucking mind.

When you’re pretty sure he’s back on Earth, you rub one hand up and down his thigh. “...Feel good, rockstar?”

“How do you fucking do that?” he groans, throwing his hands up into his face, rubbing at his eyes. There’s a shade of outrage to his tone, as though the magnitude of your knack for squeezing pleasure out of him is enough to piss him off. “...That was…fucking nuts. You’re insane.”

“Magic lips, Munson,” you tell him. “Pure and simple.”

Using his thighs as leverage to stand up, you take advantage of his molten state to sit yourself on his lap, and Eddie's hands fall blindly from his face to rest on your thighs. With a hum, you reach up to pluck something out of your teeth. Taking his wrist, you drop it in one of his limp hands and then curl his fingers around it for him, and Eddie lifts his head and squints his eyes open to figure out what you’re doing.

“There you go,” you say, patting his closed fist. “Stray pube.”

“Fuck, thanks,” he says, rumbling with a laugh as his eyes fall shut again. “I was looking for that.”

“Exactly why I kept it safe for ya.”

“...Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he sighs, letting his head fall limp against the back of the couch. A few serene breaths, and he peeks one eye open at you. “...Y’wanna move in?”

You burst out in a laugh, clutching his stretched out neck with one hand, and he grunts a little at the feeling. “Do you have any idea how much weed it’d cost you for a live-in cocksleeve, Munson?”

The vulgarity is enough to make him blush, eyes blowing open wide. “Fucking hell,” he sputters. “Uh, no, I was thinking more like…”

“...Like what?”

His expressions ebbs and flows in a couple different directions, and finally, he shakes his head. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

“You sure?” you check with a light frown.

“Yeah,” he says. “...Stupid joke. Don’t worry about it.”

“...If you’re sure,” you say. His face remains firmly in place, so you step back off of his lap, and Eddie tenses up as you do.

“W— Where’re you going?”

“Just getting my soda,” you assure him, trying not to smile too hard as you give his thigh a squeeze. “...Keep my seat warm, will you?”

A little embarrassed, he ducks his head and smiles as you pad off to the kitchen. When you return, Sprite in hand, he leans back to let you climb onto his lap again, but he isn’t really paying attention, staring straight through your stomach as he spaces out. You hook a finger under his chin to lift his head up as you take a sip.

“...Whatcha thinkin’ about?” you ask. He blinks at you, but averts his eyes again in a way that sort of worries you.

“...Can I ask you something?”

Your heart stutters at the question, but you don’t let it show. “‘Course you can.”

Eddie hesitates for a while. He looks like he doesn’t know how to put it. “...Do you…like doing all that?”

“What?” It’s only the sincerity of the question that stops you from laughing outright. “Why would I keep putting your dick in my mouth every time I see you if I don’t enjoy it?”

“I don’t know,” he decides to say, but he very clearly does. 

You give him a sad little smile. “...You think I really am just fucking you for free weed?” 

It’s not an accusation; no matter how playful you are about it, how long you’ve known each other, if you were in his shoes, you’d definitely wonder the same. 

“No,” he insists automatically, “no, I— I mean, I don’t… I don’t know.”

It tugs your heartstrings just about to their limits. The two of you have never really bothered to talk about this arrangement you fell into in much detail, and Eddie’s so great at going with the flow that you kind of figured you were on the same page about it. The last thing you wanted to do is fuck with his head. 

“I like it, Eddie,” you assure him, pushing his sweaty bangs out of his face. “I like it a lot.” 

He just stares, pursing his lips as he scrutinizes you, and it makes you laugh. 

“You don’t believe me?” you ask, playfully insulted. “Eddie, you know damn well how fast I could make you cum if I was just trying to get it over and done with.”

His face flushes a little, but he just grunts at you ambiguously, and you give him a playful eyeroll. 

“Alright, fine,” you relent. “...I wasn’t gonna tell you this, but I…don’t even really like weed that much. I end up giving most of it to my roommate.”

His face plummets into annoyance, but you can tell he’s playing, too. “So you’re sucking my dick for free weed you don’t even want. You’re playing with my finances for fun.”

You start cackling, and Eddie strains to keep his face straight. “You’re such a drama queen. No, actually, I use the free weed to save face and obscure how much I love sucking the soul out of you.”

His expression softens, big eyes shining up at you in a way that makes you want to pinch his cheek. “...If that’s true, you don’t have to do that,” he mumbles.

“I know,” you say, and, surrendering to the impulse, you squeeze his jaw, making him pucker his lips at you. “You don’t have to give me free weed, either.”

“...If anything, I should probably be giving you more free weed.”

You scrunch your face at him in endearment, letting his jaw go, but now you’re a little troubled, too. You give him a long, appraising look, cautiously warm.

“...Is this okay?” you ask.

“Is…what okay?”

You shrug. “What we’ve been doing.”

He scoffs a little. “You mean, you coming over and sucking me off so hard that I blackout purely out of enjoyment?”

“Well, just because I like it doesn’t mean we have to do it.”

Eddie looks alarmed by that. “...I mean, I like it, too.”

“Yeah, I should hope so," you say with a little laugh. "…But are you okay with it?”

He’s stunned. Either that, or he doesn’t understand the question.

“I’m just saying,” you explain. “If you ever want to…set some boundaries, or change anything, we can talk about it. Or, shit, if you ever want to call it off entirely, that’s fine too. I won't be mad, or anything.”

“I don’t want to call it off,” he says with an urgency that sort of shocks you.

“Okay,” you agree. “...Me neither. I really do enjoy doing this with you, Eddie.”

He nods to himself, staring down at his hands on your thighs before he speaks again. “But, um… We don’t always have to…” He swallows, looks up at you. “...I mean, we can just…hang out sometimes, too. Without the sex.”

“...Sure, yeah,” you say, smile growing fond. You feel silly (and slightly terrible) for ever doubting that he’d even want to. “I’d like that. I don’t only like you for your pretty dick, y’know.”

He rolls his eyes at you, but seems otherwise pleased. You open your mouth, but Eddie does, too, so you hesitate. He sort of flounders, looking like he’s trying to change his mind about it.

“What is it?” you urge. “...Don’t hold out on me.”

Brow furrowing up again, he almost looks uneasy as he makes himself spit it out.

“...Can we kiss?” he asks. “Is that…okay?”

It catches you off guard, and also breaks your heart. You kissed him a couple times at the beginning, mostly just to get it through his head that you were seriously, genuinely coming onto him, but once you sort of fell into a routine, you stopped. Not because you didn’t enjoy it, just because you…weren’t sure if it was a good idea. You were still getting a read on him, and vice versa, most likely. 

“...Yeah, we can kiss,” you tell him gently. “Y’wanna kiss right now?”

He starts nodding before you’re finished speaking, and it takes your breath away. Carefully, you reach down behind you to set your drink down on the carpet before curling back into him. Big, wanting eyes lock blatantly onto your lips, and you have to stifle a smile as you take him by either side of his head and lean down to kiss him. The first one is soft and tentative, and you pull back after only a few seconds with a wet click, unsure of how much of a kiss he’s looking for, but Eddie answers your question as his hand rises to cup the back of your neck, guiding you back down and humming into your mouth. His other arm wraps around your waist, arching your back and pulling you closer, and you decide to go all in, parting your lips against his and half-shoving your tongue between his lips in a way you suspect he’ll enjoy. The groan that vibrates against your mouth confirms it.

If he can taste himself in your mouth at all, he doesn’t remotely give a shit. Eddie gleefully rubs his tongue into yours, searching the inside of your mouth, sucking you deeper like he just can’t get enough of you between his lips, and it’s hot enough to have you sweating all over again. The sound profile is pretty similar as well, noisy smacking and wet sucking, moaning around each others’ intrusions as excess drool collects on your chins, but there’s something you just can’t ignore any longer. You pull back slowly, sucking hard on his tongue as you retreat with one last smack, and you look him in his dazed, lecherous eyes. A beat passes.

“...You realize that you called me mommy, right?”

You don’t even get to see the way his face changes, because he instantly drops his head to your shoulder with a thud.

“I hate you.”

You try to rein in your giggles at least somewhat. “No, you don’t,” you say, teasing him with a mushy, doting voice as you drop your face into his hair, genuinely ecstatic. “You wanna be mommy’s good boy, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” he groans in agony, trying to drown you out. “It just slipped out, alright? It’s your fucking fault.”

“It is,” you agree happily.

He shifts a little, pulling back one hand to tug at the bottom of his shirt, or something, and when you try to lean back to give him more space for whatever he’s doing, you foil his plans and reveal that he’s rock fucking hard again. Your eyebrows shoot to the ceiling.

“You greedy fucking bastard,” you joke, beaming at him as you run a gentle thumb up the underside of his length. 

“Fuck.” He squirms beneath you, lightly aggrieved, and his face burns red hot again. “Goddamnit. That’s your fault, too.”

“It is, isn’t it?” you sigh. You rest your thumb just below his slit, watching the way he pulses, and Eddie looks up at you with big, watchful, shimmering eyes—wondering, clearly, if you’re just teasing, or you really are gonna play with him some more.

…Fuck it, you decide, and you give him a squint.

“...You got a condom?”

Eddie’s eyes bug out of his head. “Yes. Fuck, yes, I do, in my room.”

Responding to his frantic energy with a giggle, you climb off of his lap to give him room to stand up, and he pulls up his pants like a man possessed, letting his violet tip poke adorably out of his waistband. Just as he urgently grabs hold of your hand, you notice your soda can, pushed to its side and making a dark stain on the carpet.

“Shit, Eddie, the Sprite,” you say, trying to move back towards it. “I knocked it over.”

“Don’t fuckin' care at all, come on,” he hisses, and you nearly cackle as he drags you down the hallway.

Standing in his hurricane of a bedroom, you let your eyes dance around his many interesting belongings as he practically throws himself to his knees, yanking his bedside table open to rifle through the drawer.

“...Hey, can I ask you a question?” 

He only hesitates in his search for a half second. “Uh, sure.”

You try and fail to suppress a mischievous grin. “...Am I really your favorite customer?”

Eddie’s head whips over his shoulder, and he narrows his eyes at you like you’re the most ridiculous person on the planet. “What do you think?”

-

thanks for reading! feedback is always welcome 💞 likes, comments, + reblogs would be much appreciated!

[madeofmunson]

Ngl, the blowjob was hot, but these parts had me squealing like an idiot 🤭

Oh I am MELTING, the hottest thing Eddie can do is be so fucking into us he can’t breathe 🫠

He’s just so cute I can’t stand himmmmm

Eeeeeeeeeeeeep!!!!!!