can we save love?

keo ✧ she / they ✧ writer ✧ j. b. barnes’ gal u should chat with me 20s

[parkers-gal]

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my blog is a little messy!! all of my works are listed on my masterlist. here is where you can see my bucky fic recs, and here is where u can learn a little about me <3

and psa: all of my writings are made without the use of ai. fuck ai, and fuck ice

[aquasprings]

secretly dating ryomen sukuna is easy until your ultra religious parents decide to surprise you at 8 am

the knocking has been going on for at least three minutes.

you’re still half-asleep, curled beneath the blankets with your face pressed against the pillow, while sukuna lies beside you. morning light slips through the curtains, painting pale stripes across the room. neither of you has any intention of getting out of bed anytime soon.

then comes another knock, three sharp raps against the front door. you groan and bury yourself deeper beneath the blankets.

“probably a delivery.”

sukuna cracks one eye open. “at this hour?”

“maybe.”

the knocking, unfortunately, persists. sharp raps that make you blindly reach for your phone to check the time—barely eight in the morning.

sukuna sighs, pushing himself upright. his hair is a complete mess, and he’s entirely shirtless.

“persistent bastard.”

you peek at him from beneath the covers. “just tell them to leave it.”

“what if they need a signature?”

“then they can come back.”

“you’re incredibly helpful,” he says, and you stick your tongue out at him.

he leans over to press a lazy kiss to your forehead before climbing out of bed. you watch him disappear down the hallway, still too sleepy to care about anything beyond getting back under the blankets.

you hear the lock click, then the door opens.

“morning,” sukuna says, his voice rough with sleep.

dead silence. you frown. then comes a voice you haven’t heard in person for months.

“excuse me?”

your entire body goes rigid. your mother’s voice, followed immediately by your father’s. “who are you?”

your stomach drops and you shoot upright so quickly that the blankets tangle around your legs. “oh my god.”

from the hallway comes sukuna’s unmistakably calm voice. “uh…”

your father sounds furious. “where is our daughter?”

there’s a pause. “inside.”

“ryomen!” you scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over your own feet as you grab the nearest oversized shirt and pull it on. your heart pounds so violently that you can practically hear it.

your parents have never approved of sukuna. matter of fact, they didn’t even know you had a boyfriend. they’ve barely approved of you talking to anyone they don’t know, let alone dating someone they consider completely unsuitable. they called your first boyfriend reckless, immoral and disrespectful (needless to say that relationship didn’t last very long). 

so naturally, this is how they have to find out that you’re seeing someone.

you reach the hallway just in time to see the scene. your mother stands frozen on the doorstep and your father stands beside her, staring at sukuna. sukuna stands there shirtless, hair disheveled, looking like he has absolutely no idea how catastrophic the situation is.

his eyes flick toward you, then back to your parents. “oh,” he says.

your mother slowly between the two of you. “y/n, you have got to be kidding me.”

“mom—”

“you said you were living alone.”

“i am!”

your father points accusingly at sukuna. “then why is he here?”

sukuna raises an eyebrow and scoffs. “because she invited me.”

you stare at him in horror. “not helping,” you whisper.

“what?” he runs a hand through his hair and sighs, and you don’t miss how your father’s eyes flick disapprovingly over the inked lines across sukuna’s chest and arms.

your mother looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm. “how long has this been going on?”

you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. sukuna, who clearly isn’t fully awake yet, answers for you. “almost a year.”

your father’s expression darkens.

“sukuna,” you mumble, looking away from the door.

“what?” he asks, genuinely confused.

you grab his wrist and pull him farther away from the door. “go put a shirt on.”

he glances down at himself, then at your parents. “right.”

“now,” you whisper-shout, and he disappears back toward the bedroom.

your mother stares after him. “a year?”

you swallow. “yeah.”

“a year,” she repeats, almost to herself. “and you didn’t tell us.”

“because i knew you wouldn’t approve.”

your father folds his arms. “we don’t.”

the silence that follows is brutal. sukuna returns, now wearing a shirt, looking considerably less incriminating but still far too comfortable for the situation. he stops beside you and your mother looks between the two of you. her eyes settle on your hand, still loosely wrapped around sukuna's wrist, then they move to sukuna's face. "what’s your name?"

sukuna blinks once. "ryomen sukuna."

your mother repeats it under her breath, like she's committing it to memory. "ryomen sukuna."

"yes."

"and what do you do?"

there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of sukuna’s mouth. "i work."

your father's jaw tightens. "doing what?"

"various things."

"sukuna,” you mutter, pinching the back of his arm.

he looks down at you, amused. "what?" he murmurs.

"please," you whisper, lips breaking into a small smile, and he grins right back.

your mother looks between you again, visibly appalled by the familiarity. "this isn't a joke."

sukuna's expression settles."i know."

"then answer the question."

he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “dunno. various things. depends on the day.”

your father looks skeptical. "and you make enough to support yourself?"

"more than enough."

your mother stiffens at the answer. "support yourself," she repeats. "and what exactly are your intentions with our daughter?"

you nearly choke. "mom."

sukuna, however, seems far too entertained by the question. he crosses his arms. “my intentions?”

"yes," your father bites, jutting his chin up.

sukuna looks at you with that infuriating little smirk. "i had a few ideas this morning, actually."

your mother's face drains of color. your father's expression turns thunderous.

"ryomen."

"what?" sukuna asks innocently. "you asked."

"you will not speak about my daughter that way."

the amusement disappears from sukuna's face. "then don't ask questions you don't want answered."

"sukuna," you whisper sharply.

your father steps forward. "you think this is funny?"

"no."

"because you seem awfully comfortable."

"i am."

your mother makes a strangled sound beside him. "comfortable?"

she looks at you as though you've personally betrayed every principle she's ever tried to teach you. “so you're really together?”

you swallow. “yeah.”

your father gives you a look that makes you wish the floor would open up.

sukuna wraps an arm around your waist, pulls you closer to him. “she's an adult.”

your father's attention snaps toward him. “i wasn't speaking to you.”

“seems like you were.”

you close your eyes. “ryomen.”

“what?” his grip tightens slightly around you. “i love her.”

your mother's mouth parts slightly and you feel your face heat. your father however, looks unconvinced. “love isn't enough.”

“never said it was.”

“then what are your intentions?”

sukuna's thumb brushes across your side. “to keep her happy.”

your mother shakes her head. “this isn't a joke. you don’t understand,” she says, voice rising. “we leave early this morning to make a four hour trip to visit our daughter—i knew something was wrong, too, with how long it takes you to answer your phone when i call—and this is what i see. your father and i had the understanding that you’d save yourself for marriage, not—not be seeing some oaf we haven’t approved of.”

“mom, please don’t.”

“we're allowed to be concerned!”

your father points toward sukuna. “look at him!”

sukuna raises an eyebrow. “i'm looking at me.”

you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

your mother looks like she might actually combust. “the tattoos, the attitude, the way you speak—”

“what about the tattoos?” sukuna asks.

“they're inappropriate!”

“they're just tattoos.”

“and you clearly have no respect for boundaries.”

sukuna glances at you. “i respect hers.”

the room goes quiet and your father sighs. “and what exactly are you planning to do with her?”

sukuna leans slightly closer to you. “well, this morning we were—”

you slap a hand over his mouth. “no.”

his eyes crinkle with amusement. your father looks appalled. “what were you two doing this morning?”

“nothing!” you squeak.

sukuna pulls your hand away from his mouth. “she was—”

“ryomen!”

you smack his arm and he laughs, finally losing the battle against his amusement.

your mother stares at you both like she's witnessing the collapse of civilization. “this is exactly what i was afraid of.”

your face burns. “mom, please.”

sukuna looks at you, then at your parents, and that mischievous grin returns. “if it helps, your daughter was very—”

you slap his chest. “shut up!”

“what?” he laughs. “i was going to say affectionate.”

your father looks ready to throw him out and your mother looks up to the ceiling, as if seeking divine intervention..

and then sukuna, apparently determined to make the situation irreparable, adds casually, “although, considering how sore she was this morning, i suppose you could say she really did—”

you smack him again, absolutely mortified and he catches your wrist, laughing.

your mother makes a tiny, strangled noise. “oh, dear lord.”

and then she faints.

your father catches her halfway down. “honey!”

you stare in complete horror. sukuna looks at your mother, then at you. “...should i have stopped at affectionate?”

“you think?”

[amaranthinespirit]

packing blue collar!simon riley's lunch when you're mad at him

simon always knew when you were still mad at him. it wasn't a cold shoulder, or talking back to him, but the way you packed his lunch.

due to the early hours he had to get up, you woke up earlier to prepare a lunch for him—something he never took for granted. however, the previous night, you got in a small argument you were still salty about come the time to pack his lunch the next morning.

and simon could tell.

it wasn't a lack of food or effort. it wasn't a passive aggressive note—although there has been times. it was the presentation of the food and how you prepared it.

these particular mornings, he would hear the clanging of containers and pots from the bedroom, whereas on normal days, you'd encourage him to get as much rest as he could. you slammed around cabinet doors that didn't deserve your abuse, shoved containers together, and tossed whatever pot or pan you used into the sink without a care in the world.

next was the food itself. you never depraved him of nourishment. you weren't a monster, but you didn't go the extra steps you normally would. it was subtle, yet he noticed.

like the whole strawberries—normally cut into heart shapes—you had thrown in the yogurt container, still having the leaves attached.

the sandwich he requested that you made perfectly, if you ignored the fact it looked like you laid on it.

or the can of his least favorite flavor drink instead of the good ones that he knows is still sitting in the fridge, waiting to be packed for a day you don't want him to suffer.

simon opens his lunch with a chuckle and returns home to eat you out over the kitchen counter to make up for it, with dinner being ready right after.

happy wife, happy life.

[sleepiestkentokisser]

SIMON "GHOST" RILEY X FEM!READER | roommates to lovers, smut, SOMNO, fingering, piv, DUBCON, size kink. 2k words. for my sweet @kentwos

He hears your little whimpers through the thin walls of your shared apartment, and they keep him awake at night.

You're a good roommate. You keep the place clean, and you don't ask him why he leaves for weeks and months at a time. You often "accidentally" make too much food when he's home, tentatively knocking on his door and asking him if he's hungry.

You rarely have guests over during the few weeks he's home a year, and you don't seem to mind that he spends most days at home, smoking like a chimney on the balcony and lounging on the couch watching mindless TV.

But the walls are thin.

You must not have realised he's just returned from a deployment tonight, because he hears you stumble through the living room, giggling. He hears a male voice, and he hears the way your giggles turn into moans when the mystery man kisses you.

Now he's listening to the bed creaking and your muffled whimpers.

The bloke barely lasts 10 minutes.

Simon can't sleep for the rest of the night. His back is acting up, and a migraine is definitely on its way, and his tinnitus seems worse than usual.

He listens to your quiet voices in the morning, listens to the front door open and close again.

Your feet padding across the floor.

Three knocks.

"Si?"

You peek your head in, and he looks at you.

"Hi," you say, a smile growing on your lips. "I didn't realise you were home."

"I figured," he replies, and you instantly become flustered, your eyes widening.

"Oh my god," you say, your mind catching up. He can tell the way embarrassment washes over you as you groan, putting your hand over your eyes. "Please tell me you didn't hear anything."

When he doesn't reply, you sigh loudly before stepping into his room and plopping onto his bed. Years of living together has made you overly familiar with him. He doesn't have the heart to correct it.

He doesn't want to.

"Please pretend it didn't happen," you ask, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

Simon looks back at you. There's a hickey on your neck, one that makes his molars hurt. He doesn't like that someone got to have you like that, in the way he so desperately wants. Got to sink their teeth in what's rightfully his.

"You're a grown woman," he states. "You can do whatever you want."

"Yeah, but I didn't mean for you to hear it!"

You push off the bed, but Simon is quick to grab your arm, pulling you back down. You land nearly on top of him with an "oomf", blinking at him, eyes filled with confusion.

"Was it good?"

"What?"

Your mind seems to struggle to catch up with what's happening, and you open your mouth before closing it again. Simon motions to the hickey on your neck. He wraps his hands around your throat, his thumb digging into the purple mark. Your mouth falls open.

"Was he at least a good shag?"

You flush, but you don't pull away this time.

"Did you even come?" he asks, and the way you pout tells him everything he needs to know.

"No," you say hesitantly.

"Why not?"

"I don't know," you say, hiding your face in his duvet. He lets go of your throat, patting your head instead. "His dick was big, but he didn't really know what to do with it."

Your voice is slightly muffled from the duvet, and your grip is tight around the fabric. You're clearly embarrassed. If anyone should be embarrassed, it's the bloke who failed to make you finish.

Simon feels lightheaded with the way his blood rushes south. He feels himself chub, and he imagines how you'd work to take his cock, how you'd struggle to adjust. How he'd target your sweet spot till you're crying.

"I bet," he says, grabbing you again so he can pull you on top of him. He knows you're feeling his erection, but he can't bring himself to care. "Most guys barely know what to do with pretty things like you."

"What, as if you know better?"

You're teasing him, but to Simon it's all the invitation he needs. He slips his hand underneath the waistband of your shorts, grinning when he finds you wet already. He doesn't waste time, gathering your slick before bullying two fingers into your soft pussy.

He groans at the way your walls give for him, adjusting with ease. Your pretty doe eyes go wide when he curls his fingers and finds your gspot, reaching deeper than you could ever hope to with your own fingers.

"Si," you whimper, clinging to him. He hums as he thrusts his fingers into you, revelling in the sound of your wet cunt filling the room.

You come embarrassingly quick, warmth curling in your stomach as you finish with a drawn-out moan. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you grind your hips erratically into his hands, drawing out your high. Pleasure curls through you from your core all the way to your toes.

"Good girl," Simon drawls, watching the way you twitch. He pulls his fingers out of your warm pussy, licking his fingers clean before patting your arse.

You blink sleepily at him. Post orgasm glow makes your brain foggy, especially with the way your roommate is looking at you, licking his lips hungrily.

"That was a way better shag than him," you say, giggling, but your eyes are droopy. You don't hear his response as you rest your head on his chest, drifting away.

You start to avoid him.

Something Simon finds incredibly annoying.

You're fussing. Definitely ruminating. Possibly spiralling.

He should've kept his cool, and not immediately finger fucked you into oblivion the second he got home. But the fact that you were with another man, just behind that thin wall between your rooms, made him lose his cool.

And now he's paying for it.

It's fair for you to hook up with others. He's barely home. He's not your boyfriend, he's your roommate. He's a soldier.

He's starting to realise he can't keep a clear head when he's with you. He doesn't want to wait. The long game isn't worth much when it comes to pretty girls like you. He'd rather just get it over with and make you realise you're stuck with him. That you're done with quick disappointing fucks once he gets to sink his teeth into you.

He goes to the pub with Soap and Gaz. It's rare for all three of them to be home at the same time, and Soap and Gaz are taking advantage, downing pints and talking away. Simon mostly listens, until his mind wanders to you.

His pretty bird, all alone at home.

He gets up without saying anything, adjusting his crotch that's already chubbing. Soap hollers after him, but he dismisses him with a wave.

He doesn't quite want to share you. Not even with Soap.

Wearing his T-shirt to bed is a particularly cruel move on your end. Simon has to bite back a groan as he climbs over your sleeping body, straddling you from behind. He grinds his dick against your panty-clad arse while he leans over you.

You're sleeping, blissfully unaware. It makes him harder, as he takes out his dick, rubbing it between your arse cheeks. You quietly moan, subconsciously pushing back against him.

He slips his cock into your panties, using your thighs to stroke him. His cockhead pokes at your clit, and he feels you start to grow wetter with each push and pull of his hips.

You let out a tiny moan in your sleep, and Simon grunts as he leans over you, trapping you underneath his weight. He licks and bites at your throat, right where the hickey is starting to fade. He wants to erase it, make you forget there's ever been anyone other than him.

You wake with a jolt when he bites down particularly hard, and he feels you tense up beneath him as your mind catches up to what's happening. You scramble, but he's pressed up so close behind you that you're immobile.

"Jus' me, love," he murmurs, and you whine, attempting to look over your shoulder. He feels you relax, but then he starts to fuck your thighs again, and you tense again, gasping at the feeling of his cock nudging your clit.

"Si?" you ask, confusion and fogginess from your sleep making you struggle to realise what's happening.

"You were wearin' my shirt, doe," he says, kissing behind your ear. He slips one of his big hands underneath your shirt, cupping your tit and squeezing till you moan. "Couldn't help myself."

"Why didn't you, ah, wake me?" you whine, arching up into him so desperately it makes him dizzy.

In a quick motion, he flips you so he can see your face. Your pretty face is puffy, your lips all pouty as you sleepily blink up at him. He slips his cock into your knickers again, watching the light fabric darken with his precum.

"Didn't wanna interrupt your beauty sleep."

That makes you scoff, and he slaps your tit in response, making you gasp in surprise. Before you can tell him off, his cock catches your entrance, head popping inside your tight cunt, and you let out a strangled moan as you squeeze down on him.

"It's too big, Si," you whine, starting to back up, but he grabs your hip tightly, pulling you back onto his cock. He presses another inch inside you, brows furrowing at just how damn snug you are. He presses soothing circles into your clit with his thumb.

"You can take it," he says, nodding at you while you shake your head. "You're a big girl."

A pitiful whimper leaves you when he presses in yet another inch, and his eyes roll back at how warm you are inside.

You're rendered speechless as he slowly pulls in and out, making you take inch after inch. It stings, but pain mixes deliciously with pleasure as he thumbs your clit and licks and kisses your throat.

"How much more?" you ask, staring at your ceiling with knitted brows. The man on top of you rumbles as he kisses your lips, licking into your mouth.

"Halfway," he replies, and your eyes widen, because he's already splitting you in two. You look down to where you're connected, and a rush of arousal hits youwhen you see how his fat cock is practically bullying your poor pussy.

Simon must feel you clench, because he laughs.

"You're doing good, baby," he says, and your concerned eyes find his, looking for reassurance.

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh," he replies. Taking pity on you, he starts to fuck you like that, with only half of his cock. "My pretty baby,"

It's almost an art form. That he can fuck with half his inches and still have you writhing underneath him, whimpering each time his cock hits your sweet spot. Your cunt drools around his length, allowing him to slowly push further and further in, till you're taking him to the hilt without even realising. Too busy with your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Your orgasm creeps in on you, sweeping you underneath the waves of pleasure as you choke on air. Your cunt nearly squeezes the life out of him, and he leans over you, reminding you to breathe through it as you choke on a sob. You cling to him, digging your nails into his biceps, as he slowly fucks you through it till you're boneless beneath him.

Your eyes slip closed as sleep overtakes you again. It makes him groan, getting impossibly harder as he thrusts into you the last few times before spilling into your welcoming cunt.

He flips you around so you're on top of him, your poor pussy still stuffed with his cock and cum. Content, he gets the best sleep he has in years, despite the flare-up in his hip.

He doesn't know how long he's out for, but he wakes to the sweet sound of your moans. You're straddling him, bouncing on his cock with all your might. It must be hard on you, sweet thing. You're doing so well, though, despite your pinched brows. He traces his hand over your stomach, trying to feel himself in there.

You jolt when you realise he's awake, and a giggle escapes you.

"Good mornin', love," he rasps, and you lean down to kiss him. He grabs your hips, helping you ride him.

"Hi, Si," you say, pressing your lips to his. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, licking into your mouth. "Don't mind being woken like this, though," he adds.

Your cunt clenches around his length, and he grunts.

"You're gonna make me come like that," he says, and you moan into his mouth.

"Want it," you gasp, raking your nails over his scalp. "Inside,"

You don't have to tell him twice. He rubs your clit in messy circles, pulling you over the edge with him as he spills into you for the second time, pumping you full. You whine, swallowing his moans with your sweet kisses, as both of you grow sensitive.

When you pull off him, it's with a wet pop, cum spilling out of you. Simon watches the sight, satisfied with his claim.

What a perfect roommate he has.

hi i started writing this last night but i fell asleep halfway through (ironic) so here you have it. i only edited it like two times so if you find any mistakes ignore itttt …. 🫪

masterlist | dividers by diviniyae

[its-djover]

"It's okay to need someone. I also need you" 🫣🫣 with Steve pls 🫣🫣 if you want 🫣🫣

oh my god dude i feel like ive been writing this for years, but its finally done! this was originally supposed to be smutty but it turned angst/comforty instead so i hope that’s okay. also this was supposed to be a blurb😭

tags/warnings: friends to lovers, former friends with benefits, idiots in love, anxiety attack about steve possibly being hurt or worse, a lot of tears, a bit of arguing, a lot of comfort

you and steve had been best friends for years, yes you had a crush on him, you could even say you were in love with him. you knew nothing was going to happen between the two of, there was no way he felt the same way about you. you were simply his best friend.

that is until the quarantine started, people got lonely, and bored. one thing lead to another and you and steve started sleeping together. both of you swore up and down it meant nothing, just sex. but it got to a point where you knew if it kept going you’d say something and fuck it all up.

so you broke things off telling him you didn’t want anyone to get hurt, you didn’t want it to hurt your friendship. steve wasn’t mad, he was kind, understanding and somehow that made it worse. you wished he was mad, wished he fought for you, or at least said something that would break your heart and free you from this curse.

you knew deep down you didn’t want that, because to lose steve would be like losing your very soul.

still you began to withdraw from pretty much everyone, yes you still showed up to meetings, involved in crawls, but you weren’t talking to steve as much. you were too scared of telling him the truth.

that all lead to tonight, it started off as a normal crawl except you weren’t in the van this time. you couldn’t stand to be alone with him, knowing he would want to talk about why you were withdrawing from everyone but especially him.

then it happened, connection was lost to the van, nobody had any idea what happened or how to fix it.

you were terrified, your heart fell to your stomach, all the blood rush down to your feet as soon as nancy lost the connection with steve. there was plenty of bustling around, trying to see if it was a connection issue that could be fixed on your end. you tried to help but you were glued to the floor, silent.

thank god everyone was too busy to notice your reaction. the connection to hopper died out soon after, everyone was concerned but selfishly your biggest worry was steve.

after about an hour, the longest of your life, lucas comes running into the room. "they're driving down, they're coming back!"

you were the first to go to the window, watching everyone come out of the van...but where the hell was steve? finally, you saw him get out dead fucking last. a sob welled up in your throat, everyone else was running outside to check on them. you couldn't, you couldn't face steve right now, you'd just cry, big ugly awful tears. so instead you hid, not thinking anyone would notice.

what you couldn't see was steve’s panicked look as he saw everyone else leave the squawk but you. he thought for sure, even after everything, you'd come out to see him. he didn't think you hated him that much. but now that you weren't here he assumed the worst.

“where the hell is she?" he urgently asked robin.

she looked around like she was genuinely stumped. "she was inside, i assumed she'd follow us-"

she was cut off by steve's yelling. he made sure everyone heard him so he could track you down. nobody knew where you were. "fucking useless…” he mumbled under his breath, pushing past the group to get into the building.

he yelled your name and didn't get a response, until he heard your shaky breaths and sniffles from inside the main booth.

the sounds from outside the booth were heavily muffled, you could hear someone yelling but couldn't make out what they were saying. between your sobs and the sound proofing, you had no idea anyone was looking for you until the door swung open.

steve swung it open so fast it made you jump, head snapping up as you gasped. his face was unreadable, he looked angry? he was tense, panicked, breathing heavy.

"what happened?? are you okay?"

you stood up and laughed bitterly in his face. "i'm fine steve, you can go check in with everyone else. i can handle myself."

you couldn’t even look at his face which you knew was hurt. you will yourself to look down at the floor. "thanks though, i’m sure you have bigger things to worry about." you say, biting the inside of your cheek.

you begin to walk out the door but you’re stopped by steve gently grabbing your wrist. "you don't know the first thing about what i have to worry about." he says sternly. you look up at him with wide eyes.

you scoff, rolling your eyes, “please...don't even bother."

you're still trying to leave but he won't let go of your wrist, his hold is firm, he doesn't want you to leave. "what the hell do you want?" you ask.

he looks at you with complete disbelief, "what?? i was looking for you, we came back and you weren't there. no one knew where the hell you were!"

"so you had to be the hero and look for me? you volunteered when everyone was scared?" shaking your head in disbelief.

steve laughs, but there's no humor in it. "i came to find you because i was worried about you!" he says, rolling his eyes at you. "god forbid i worry about the girl that's been my best friend for almost a decade!" he almost laughs again.

your blood is absolutely boiling. "you don't get to pull that card. you're the one who stopped talkina to vou when i needed you steve!" you yell, tears falling from your eyes.

"i never stopped talking to you, i kept trying to check on you. you pushed me away! and i don't even know why! then god forbid im fucking worried because you seemed to disappear off the face of the earth but instead you're hiding in here?? what, from me?? you have to hide from me now?" steve's voice cracks, he's hurt, he's been trying to get you talk to him for weeks.

once you said you should stop your little arrangement before someone got hurt, you built a wall around yourself, and he couldn't get in and he didn't even know why.

you're shaking, you're so upset, tears streaming down your face, "b-because i t-thought you were d-dead!!" you yelled, "when we lost you a-and i thought it was over...and i s-saw you and i thought you were gone!!" struggling to scream at him as you choke on your sobs, legs trembling as you move to fall down on your knees in a heap of tears

steve catches you because of course he does, he's steve, your steve. no matter what, he'll always catch you. he tangles his hand in your hair and you choke out sobs. "i don't w-wanna lose you..." you can feel his shaky breath as you grip onto his shirt.

finally he says softly, "it's okay to need someone... i know how it feels to need someone..." he almost whispers. you freeze because you know he couldn't possibly mean you, could he?

lifting your face from his shoulder, you actually look at him. his eyes are filled with tears, his lip is quivering, he can't possibly be this upset over you?

"you do?" you whisper, just looking at the state you're in makes his heart hurt.

he nods, cupping your cheek gently. "i need you.."

you crumble even further into tears, "n-no you don't..." you cry, shaking your head, burying your face back in his shirt.

he pulls you even closer to him, his nose nudging into your hair.

"yes.. yes i do... these weeks without you have been torture... god all i've wanted is you.. all i've needed is you..." he chokes out, holding your body against his.

you sob and grab onto the back of his shirt. "i c-can't lose you steve." you whisper, burying your head further into his chest.

he combs his fingers through your hair, kissing your temple, you feel his tears on your skin. "you won't lose me angel, ever, i promise." sniffling as he squeezes you in his arms. your fingers twist into his shirt, you're trying to calm down but everything is hitting you all at once. "i-i thought you were gone a-and i couldn't forgive myself if something happened and i wasn't there." you voice is wrecked, scratchy and squeaky.

steve gently coos in your ear, "shhh baby, it's okay, i'm okay. the fucking whatever the hell that thing is henderson set up fucked up, i promise that's it."

you bring your shaking hands up to his face, thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks. "but if something happened...i was avoiding you steve....i-i was being awful just because i was s-scared.”

steve shakes his head, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "you can't wonder about the what ifs.. you'll drive yourself crazy.. all that matters is that i'm here now... im here.. with you... and i promise i’ll be more careful.." he says softly.

you stare up at him for a while, making sure that he's real. that you're not dreaming or hallucinating. "c-can you kiss me... i think it'd m-make it feel real..." you choke out. steve smiles and leans down, kissing you gently. he smells like he's been sweating all day, but he still smells like steve. the way his stubble pokes you makes you feel grounded.

when he starts to break the kiss you chase after him, pulling him back towards you. he smiles against your lips as you gently tug on his hair. this time he waits for you to break the kiss and when you do he leans his forehead against yours. "i've always needed you baby, and i always will...i promise."

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

gas drabble with lazy, slow, sensual morning sex pretty please 🙏

good fucking morning! | s.h

𑣲 guilty as sin drabbles

Steve Harrington’s face being buried between your legs had become part of your morning routine and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Steve,” you moan out softly, your back bowing off the soft sheets beneath you as the feeling of your boyfriend’s tongue licking languidly between your soaked folds causes heat to spread throughout your body.

“Yeah, honey?” Steve murmurs before dipping his tongue back into your needy hole and making it difficult for you to concentrate on anything other him.

Steve had been practically making out with your pussy for what felt like hours but what in reality had only ten minutes. He had pulled two orgasms from you already but he just couldn’t seem to pull away from you, completely ignoring his achingly hard and leaky cock pressing painfully against the mattress to focus entirely on you—alternating between using his mouth and his fingers to have you writhing beneath him.

“Please, Stevie,” you whimper, your fingers curling into his hair and pulling at the strands, causing him to groan against you. “Please, need you.”

Steve hums, pulling his mouth away from you—a mix of your slick and his saliva now dripping down his chin—only to replace it with two thick fingers that slide into you easily due to how fucking wet you were. “Need me?” He asks, dragging his fingers through your gummy walls and watching pleasure bloom across your features. “Or do you need my cock, baby? C’mon, be a good girl and tell me.”

He curls his fingers, sending waves of pleasure through your body that have you gripping tighter to the sheets.

“Your cock,” you manage to gasp out as the sound of Steve’s fingers slowly pumping in and out of your wet cunt begin to fill the room. “Stevie, please. Need your cock. Need you—need to feel you.”

Steve couldn’t handle it when you got needy like this, he really couldn’t. He could feel his stomach tighten at the sound of your whiny voice, at the feeling of your gummy walls squeezing his fingers and the sight of your back arching off the bed—your nipples taunt and practically begging for his attention.

And so, Steve gave you exactly what you wanted.

He withdraws his fingers, leaving you feeling empty until you feel him begin to drag the ruddy tip of his cock through your wet folds.

“Stevie, please don’t tease—”

You’re cut off by your own loud moan as Steve sinks in home into you with one thrust of his hips.

“Tease you?” Steve finishes for you with a wry smile, his hand reaching for one of yours that was still tangled in his hair and tugging it down to rest on the pillow beside your head. There, he intertwines your fingers while his other hand gently brushes your hair away from your face. “I would never do that to you, baby.”

You roll your eyes but you don’t even have time to think of a smart reply as Steve pulls his hips back until just his tip remains inside of you before pressing his cock back into you slowly.

God, you hoped that you would never get used to the feeling of Steve’s thick cock inside of you—how much of as stretch he was, how full you felt when he was inside of you, how sometimes it felt as though he was splitting you in half with his cock.

“You feel s’fucking good,” Steve groans out, his lips finding the skin of your neck as he bottoms out inside you, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix and making you see stars. “You always feel s’good, sweet girl.”

You squeeze his hand, feeling him deep in your gut and being unable to stop a needy moan of his name from slipping past your lips.

Steve smiles against your skin, taking it as an invitation to keep going, keeping the pace slow and sensual but making sure that your hand was still in his and that his cock was pushing deep inside of you.

“Does that feel good, huh, baby?” He asks, already knowing the answer as he rolls his hips forward, the coarse hair at the base of his cock brushing against your clit and making your body jolt.

“Y-yeah,” you gasp, your body thrumming with pleasure as your third orgasm of the morning begins to creep up on you. “It—it feels s’good, Steve. I’m—oh!—I’m s-so close.”

“I know,” Steve breathes against you, trailing his lips up your neck until he was breathing in your ear—the feeling of his hot breath against you causes goosebumps to erupt over your skin and heat to pool in your gut. “Can feel you squeezing me. Like you don’t want me to leave. Ain’t that right, honey? You just want to be stuffed full of my cock, forever?”

The sound you let out at his words was obscene and you felt your body tingle with pleasure as he slams back into you with a wet squelch.

“You gonna give me what I want?” He husks against your ear, his free hand running over the skin of your stomach and thighs until he finds your swollen, puffy clit. “You gonna cum for me, sweet girl?”

You nod, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you let the pleasure building and building in your gut consume you. The feeling of one of Steve’s deft finger circling your clit alongside him bullying your dripping cunt with his cock was too much.

And before you knew it, your orgasm was crashing over you. You didn’t go quietly, a wanton moan falling past your lips as you felt electricity in every nerve in your body and it was no wonder that Steve came only a few seconds after you—finishing inside of you with a loud moan of your name, hot spurts of his cum painting your gummy walls white.

“Good fucking morning to you, baby,” Steve murmurs against your skin, pulling out of you just to watch his cum ooze out your ruined cunt. “Coffee? Or should I make sure it sticks first?”

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[laterkiss]

ever since i was a little girl i knew fiction would save me

[honey-and-halos]

Call It Clingy

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: You've spent your whole life being an afterthought. for a while, he made you forget that.

A/N: Based on THIS REQUEST!!! I dont know how many witnessed my minor crashout over Starved! the Joe request I was working on, BUT Tumblr read it, called me horny and removed it SO imma tweak it and it should be with you in a few days but ive moved all my posts forward so I can continue posting daily, ANYWAY have a great day my lovelies :)

You had learned a long time ago that the trick to being included was to make yourself useful and quiet at the same time. Not so quiet that people forgot you existed, but not so loud that anyone had to think about you longer than they needed to. It was a skill, honestly. You'd been perfecting it since you were a kid, since dinner table conversations that moved around you like you were furniture, since a mother who loved you the way you'd love a coat you kept in the closet, necessary, occasionally reached for, never really looked at.

So when you started dating Steve Harrington, you didn't expect anything to change. You figured you'd get folded into his orbit the way you got folded into everything else, tolerated, present, a plus-one nobody minded but nobody had asked for either.

Except it didn't happen like that.

The first time you came to game night at Mike's, you sat a little apart from the group, the way you always did, waiting to see if anyone would notice if you left. Steve noticed before you'd even finished the thought. He didn't say anything dramatic about it. He just shifted his chair back six inches so it was touching yours, draped his arm over the back of it, and kept arguing with Dustin about something you didn't understand and didn't need to. It wasn't a big gesture. That was the thing about Steve, he didn't do big gestures, not really. He did small ones, over and over, until you stopped flinching every time someone's attention landed on you.

He learned how you took your coffee without asking. He noticed when you went quiet in a way that meant you were spiraling instead of just being quiet, and he'd find some excuse to touch your hand, or ask you something small and specific enough that you had to come back into your body to answer it. He introduced you to people as his girlfriend before you introduced yourself as anything at all, like he wanted to make sure nobody got the chance to make you feel like an afterthought, not even for a second.

It scared you a little, actually. How good it felt. You kept waiting for the catch.

You told yourself you weren't waiting for it. But you were.

The Tuesday it happened, the party had gathered at Mike's to map out a plan, something about a pattern in the gate activity that Dustin swore meant something, spread out on the Wheeler basement floor in a mess of graph paper and highlighted notes. You sat next to Steve like always, half in the conversation and half just watching it happen around you, the way you did when you weren't sure your voice was wanted yet.

But you'd noticed something. The pattern they kept circling only worked if you assumed the timing was consistent, and it wasn't, you'd caught it twice while they argued over Dustin's theory, a gap that threw the whole thing off by almost a day each time. It nagged at you long enough that you finally spoke up.

"I think the timing's off," you said, leaning forward to point at the two dates that didn't line up. "Look, here and here. If you shift the interval to account for that, the whole pattern still holds, it just means the next one's not for another two days, not tomorrow like you're planning for."

There was a beat where you thought maybe you'd actually landed on something. And then Mike glanced at the paper for half a second, said, "I don't think that's it," and kept talking to Dustin like you hadn't said anything at all. Dustin didn't even glance up. Lucas asked Max something unrelated. The conversation just closed back over the space where your sentence had been, seamless, like water settling after a stone sinks. They kept the plan the same, tomorrow, like Dustin had originally called it, and moved on to arguing about who'd bring the walkie-talkies.

You sat back. Nobody had been cruel about it, that was almost the worst part, there was nothing to point to, no moment you could hold up and say that, that's what hurt. It was just that your idea hadn't registered as a real idea. It had registered as noise from the girl who came with Steve.

You told yourself it didn't matter. You told yourself you didn't actually need to be right, that this wasn't about being right, that you'd only said something because you thought it might help and it was fine, genuinely fine, if it turned out you were wrong or it didn't land. But some old, tender part of you had lit up hoping, just for a second, that this might be one of the times you got to matter to the group on your own, not as an extension of somebody else. And watching that hope get waved off without even the dignity of an argument stung more than you wanted to admit.

You didn't say anything else for the rest of the night. You nodded along, passed someone a pencil when they asked, laughed at the right moments so nobody would look twice. It was a skill. You were good at it.

Steve caught your eye once, halfway through, some silent you okay? passing between you, and you gave him the smallest nod, the one that meant later, not here, don't make this a thing. He let it go, which you were grateful for in the moment and would replay bitterly in your head a few hours later, how easily later had turned into never brought up at all, how the version of you that didn't want to cause a scene had, once again, made sure nothing got said.

By the time you left Mike's, the sting had settled into something quieter and heavier, sitting low in your chest the whole walk to Steve's car. You didn't bring it up on the drive. You told yourself it wasn't a big deal, that the party just got tunnel-visioned when they were deep in a theory, that it wasn't personal. But some part of you, the part that had spent a lifetime cataloguing every time it got overlooked, filed it away anyway, right where it could fester quietly until something else came along and gave it an opening.

That something else came along about an hour later, in Steve's living room, over a conversation that had nothing to do with the Upside Down at all.

The fight happened on a Tuesday, which felt insultingly mundane for something that ended up cracking your chest open. Steve had come over to your place after school like he did most days, and he'd been off from the second he walked in, jaw tight, answers clipped, the kind of tired that had nothing to do with sleep. You knew Robin had told you Steve had a rough shift at work, some blow-up with his dad on the phone before that. You knew, logically, that his mood had nothing to do with you.

Knowing that and feeling it were two different things.

"You've been weird for like an hour," you said, when you couldn't stand the silence anymore. You didn't mean it as an attack. You meant it as an opening, a door held ajar in case he wanted to walk through it and tell you what was wrong.

"I'm fine," Steve said, in the voice that meant the opposite.

"You don't have to be fine. You can just tell me."

"I said I'm fine." He dragged a hand through his hair, and something about the sharpness of the movement made your stomach drop. "Can you just- not do the thing right now?"

"What thing?"

"The thing where you need me to perform being okay for you every five minutes so you can relax." He said it fast, like it had been sitting loaded in his mouth for a while and your question had just pulled the trigger. "I had a garbage day, I don't have the energy to manage your feelings about my feelings right now."

It landed exactly where it was aimed. You felt your face do something you couldn't control, that old, familiar flinch, the one that used to show up at dinner tables, the one your body remembered even when you didn't want it to.

"Okay," you said quietly, because quiet was what you knew how to do when things got sharp. "Sorry."

"Don't do that either." Steve's voice cracked up a notch, frustration chasing itself in a circle now that had nothing to do with logic anymore. "Don't just- shut down and apologize like I kicked a puppy. I'm allowed to have a bad day without you needing constant reassurance that we're fine."

"I don't need constant reassurance-"

"You kind of do, though." And there it was, the thing that would sit in your chest for days after, long after he wished he could take it back. "I love you, but sometimes it's a lot, okay? You need me to notice everything, remember everything, be on top of how you're feeling every single second, and today I don't have it in me, and I'm sorry, but it's a little clingy, and I can't- I can't be everything for you all the time."

You opened your mouth to say something, but he wasn't finished, the words tumbling out now like he'd lost whatever grip he'd had on the dam. "And it's not just this. It's- you barely even try with the guys, you know that? Tonight you said one thing at Mike's and then you just went quiet for the rest of the night, like always, and I get it, I get that it's hard for you, but it's hard for me too, watching you act like everything anyone says is aimed at you. Mike wasn't trying to be a jerk earlier, he just didn't think your theory tracked, and you disappeared for two hours over it like he'd insulted you personally. Not everything is a personal attack. Sometimes people just disagree, or they're busy, or they forget to ask how your day was, and it doesn't mean anything, but you act like it's proof of something every single time."

"That's not-" Your voice came out smaller than you wanted, throat already tightening. "I wasn't making it a big deal. I didn't even say anything."

"You didn't have to say anything, I could feel it coming off you the whole car ride." Steve dragged both hands down his face, some of the anger already curdling into something closer to exhaustion. "I just- I want you to actually be part of the group. Not just show up because you're with me and then shrink into the corner the second something doesn't go your way. It's exhausting watching you brace for everyone to hurt you before they've even done anything."

Something in you wanted to laugh, except it would've come out broken instead of funny. You'd spent the entire ride over telling yourself, on a loop, that it hadn't been personal, that Mike was just focused, that nobody had meant anything by it, the exact speech you gave yourself almost daily, every time a door closed a little too fast or a conversation moved on without you in it. You worked so hard to talk yourself out of taking things personally that hearing Steve accuse you of doing the opposite, of treating every slight like a wound, felt like being punished for the one thing you actually tried to manage.

The word landed and just sat there. Clingy. You'd been called worse things by people who mattered less, and it had never hurt like this, because none of them had spent the last several months being the first person to ever make you feel like you were allowed to take up space. And now the person who'd built that feeling in you was the one tearing a hole through the floor of it.

"Okay," you said again, except this time your voice wasn't quiet so much as very, very careful, the tone of someone gathering their things off a table before it gets kicked over. "Got it."

"Wait, that's not-" Steve seemed to hear it as it left his mouth this time, the way it must've sounded from the outside. "That's not what I meant."

"You said what you meant." Your hands weren't quite steady, but you weren't going to give him the satisfaction, or yourself the humiliation, of falling apart in front of him. "I think you should go."

"Come on, don't-"

"I'll see you later, Steve."

You walked to the front door yourself and held it open, because it was your house and he'd have to be the one to leave it. He hesitated for a second on the threshold, like he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it and stepped out into the evening instead. You didn't slam the door behind him. You wanted to, some petty animal part of you wanted the noise, wanted him to feel the size of what he'd just done. But you'd spent a lifetime learning how to close a door quietly, and old habits, it turned out, came back fast.

You didn't cry until you heard his car pull out of the driveway, and then you cried the ugly kind, the kind that comes with the shame of having believed something too much. You'd known better. You'd known, somewhere in the back of your mind since the very first week, that this was too good to hold, that eventually the version of you that was too much would surface and remind everyone why you'd learned to disappear in the first place.

You didn't call anyone. It didn't even occur to you as an option, not really, you'd spent so long being the one who processed things alone, quietly, without asking anyone to hold space for it, that reaching out felt like a muscle you'd never built. You went up to your room instead, your own house suddenly feeling too big and too quiet around you, your mom working the late shift like always, nobody to hear you if you let the crying get loud. You sat down on the edge of your bed and just stayed there, turning the word over and over until it lost its shape: clingy, clingy, clingy, until it didn't even sound like English anymore, just a sound that meant too much, too much, too much.

You thought about all the small ways you'd let yourself believe things were different with Steve. The chair he moved six inches closer without being asked. The way he said your name like it was worth saying. You'd built something out of those small moments, something you'd let yourself trust, and it had taken exactly one bad day and four sentences to make you doubt every brick of it.

You didn't cry as hard as you thought you would. Mostly you just felt tired, the specific tired of having to talk yourself down from a feeling you'd had a hundred times before and hoped you'd never have to sit with again, the feeling of being someone people kept around out of obligation rather than choice. You told yourself, eventually, in the flat, exhausted voice you used when you were too worn out to argue with your own head anymore, that Steve had had a bad day and said something ugly, and that those two things weren't necessarily the same as the truth. You didn't fully believe it. But you let yourself hold the possibility of it anyway, curled up on top of your covers with your shoes still on, waiting for the ache in your chest to get tired before you did.

Steve showed up at your door around nine, which you knew because you heard the knock and your stupid heart leapt before your brain could catch up and remind it that it was supposed to be angry.

You almost didn't answer. You stood in the hallway for a full minute, arms crossed, doing the math on whether opening the door made you exactly the kind of needy he'd accused you of being, unable to hold a boundary for even a few hours. But that felt like punishing yourself for his mistake, so you opened it.

Steve looked wrecked. tired and sorry in the plain, unglamorous way people looked when they were guilty.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

"Can I come in? Or- you can say no. I just want to say something, and then if you want me to leave, I'll leave."

You stepped aside. He came in and didn't sit down, like he didn't think he'd earned the couch yet.

"I've been driving around for like an hour trying to figure out how to say this without it sounding like an excuse," he started, "so I'm just gonna say the true part first and then get to the rest of it. What I said was really messed up. And it wasn't true. Any of it."

You didn't say anything, just watched him, arms still crossed, guarding something.

"My dad called before I came over," he said. "Said some stuff about how I'm never gonna make anything of myself, working retail, no direction, all his greatest hits. And I hate that it still gets to me, but it does, every time, and today it got under my skin worse than usual. And then you asked me what was wrong, which, you always ask, because you care, because that's just who you are, and instead of just telling you the truth, which would've taken ten seconds, I decided to make it about you instead. Because it was easier to be mad at something in front of me than to sit with the thing actually hurting."

"That doesn't really-"

"I know it doesn't fix it. I'm not saying it to fix it. I'm saying it because you deserve to know none of it was about you actually needing too much. You don't need too much. You ask if I'm okay because you love me, and instead of being grateful for that, I used it as a weapon because I was in a bad mood, and that's on me, not you." His voice cracked slightly, and he pushed forward before he could lose the thread. "You're not clingy. I don't even know why I reached for that word, I think I knew it would hurt, and I said it anyway, and I've hated myself for it every minute since."

"It hurt," you said quietly, "because it's the thing I've been scared of the whole time. That eventually I'd be too much. That the version of me that notices everything and needs to check in and gets scared when people go quiet would finally be the thing that made you tired of me. Everyone else got tired of it eventually. My whole life, I've been- extra. Tolerated. And you were the first person who made me feel like I wasn't, and then today you took that away in like four sentences."

Steve's face did something complicated, guilt and grief tangled together. "Can I tell you something, and I need you to actually hear it, not just let it bounce off?"

You nodded, throat too tight to speak.

"You're not extra to me. You've never been extra to me. Every single thing you think is too much, the checking in, the noticing, the needing to know we're okay, those are the things I love. You're not hard to love. You've just never had anyone stick around long enough to prove that to you, and I am so sorry that today, of all days, I made it feel like I was going to be one more person who didn't."

You felt your composure slip, the careful wall you'd built over the last few hours finally giving out. "I don't want you to just say the right things because you feel guilty."

"I'm not saying the right things. I'm saying the true things, and they happen to also be the right things, because you're not actually the problem here, I am." He took a step closer, slow, giving you room to stop him if you needed to. "I'm gonna do better with my bad days. I'm gonna tell you what's actually wrong instead of blowing it up at you. And you don't have to apologize for needing to know we're okay. I want you to ask. I want to be the person who always tells you the truth when you do."

You let him close the distance then, let yourself fold into him the way you hadn't let yourself do with anyone in years, hiding your face against his chest while he wrapped both arms around you like he was trying to make up the difference all at once.

"I'm sorry," he said again, quieter, into your hair. "You've spent your whole life not being put first. I don't ever want to be one more person who made you feel that way. Not when I've spent the last few months trying to be the opposite of that."

"You are the opposite of that," you admitted, voice muffled against his shirt. "Most of the time."

"I'll work on all of the time."

You stayed like that for a long while, not saying anything else, just breathing each other in until your heartbeat slowed down to match his. Eventually he pulled back just far enough to tilt your chin up, searching your face like he needed to see for himself that you believed him.

"For the record," he said, thumb brushing gently under your eye where a tear had escaped without your permission, "I like that you need me. I like being needed by you. I just had a bad day and forgot how to say that in a way that didn't sound like an insult."

You managed a small, watery laugh. "You're bad at fighting."

"I'm bad at fighting," he agreed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'm better at this part, though."

"The apologizing part?"

"The making sure you know you matter part." He guided you over to the couch, tucking you against his side once you'd both sat down, one hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together like it was the easiest thing in the world. "You're not an afterthought here. Not to me, not to Robin, not to any of them. You never have been. I just did a really bad job of showing it today."

You let your head rest against his shoulder, the tightness in your chest finally starting to loosen for the first time since that Tuesday afternoon.

"I'm still a little scared," you admitted. "That it'll happen again. Not the fight, I know people fight. Just- the part where you say I'm too much and mean it."

"I know." Steve pressed his lips to the top of your head. "I can't promise I'll never have a bad day again. But I can promise I'm not gonna let you carry the blame for it when I do. You're allowed to need people, especially me. I want to be the person you get to need."

The phone rang before you'd even settled into the quiet, the landline in your hallway shrieking loud enough to make you both jump. Steve kissed your temple and went to grab it, since it was closer to him than to you, and you heard Dustin's voice come through frantic and tinny even from across the room, something about the gate reading wrong, about numbers not lining up, about how they were about to head out to the spot they'd marked for tomorrow and everything had just started going haywire an hour early.

"Wait- say that again," Steve said, and something in his tone made you sit up. "It's happening now? Tonight?"

You didn't need to hear the rest of it. You already knew, with a cold, sinking certainty, exactly what had gone wrong, they'd planned around tomorrow's date instead of tonight's, the same gap you'd tried to point out on Mike's basement floor hours earlier, the one nobody had bothered to double-check.

"It's tonight," you said, loud enough for Steve to hear over Dustin. "Tell him it's tonight, not tomorrow- I told you guys the interval was off, remember? It shifts it up a day. If they're seeing activity now, that's exactly what I said would happen."

Steve relayed it word for word, and you heard the scramble on the other end, Dustin swearing, someone shouting for Mike, the sound of the party mobilizing a full day earlier than they'd planned because the girl they'd waved off in the basement had been right the whole time.

By the time everyone regrouped, breathless, half-dressed for a fight they weren't ready for, arriving at the gate site with minutes instead of hours to spare, Mike had the decency to look almost sick about it. "You said this," he admitted, catching your eye across the yard, "and I just- I didn't even really look at it. That's on me. Good catch. Seriously."

It wasn't a grand apology. It wasn't the party suddenly treating you like you'd always belonged. But it was something, an acknowledgment, out loud, in front of everyone, that your voice had been worth listening to the first time. Steve's hand found yours in the chaos, squeezing once, and you caught the small, fierce pride on his face that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with I told you she was right.

You didn't get to dwell on it long, the night dissolved into flashlights and static and the kind of adrenaline that didn't leave room for feelings until it was over, but hours later, once the gate had been sealed back up and the party had scattered home to sleep off the scare, you ended up back on your own couch anyway, Steve staying behind with you, exactly where you'd started the evening.

"Mike's gonna be insufferable about owing you an apology for a week," Steve said, tucking the blanket around you both. 

"I didn't do it to be right," you murmured, already half asleep against his chest.

"I know." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "But it's nice, isn't it? Being right and being heard, both at the same time, for once."

You fell asleep on your couch that night, tucked into his side under a blanket that smelled like his cologne anyway, his fingers idly tracing patterns against your arm long after you'd drifted off. And for the first time in longer than you could remember, the quiet didn't feel like something to be afraid of. It just felt like being home.

Dividers by: Cursed-Carmine

[qtxoxox]

You don’t look okay

requested

summary: after getting hurt on a crawl and insisting you’re fine, steve is ready to take care of you

cw: blood, mild injury, swearing, shameless overuse of ‘baby’

wc: 2.2k

red lightning tore through the dark sky of the upside down between thunder claps.

it was meant to be an easy crawl, that's why hopper had allowed you to come with. only a small area to check, right by the main gate.

you don’t know why you wanted to go so bad, maybe it was just to prove you could, or the fact that a couple of the others had been allowed to join hopper previously.

jumping off the vans was fine, getting to the area was fine also, your trackers stayed on the whole time.. it was coming back where it all got fucked up.

you and hopper were waiting in the shadows for the vans to come back when all of a sudden bright beams of light flashed in front of you, moving quicker than you anticipated.

"shit! hopper" you shouted behind you, pointing in the direction of the oncoming traffic.

"okay cmon- this is our out" he huffed, stomping in front of you.

he waited by the edge of the trees, ready at any second to launch himself onto a passing truck.

"hey! come on this is it!" he shouted to you, the light berms getting brighter and closer by the second.

you could hear the sound of heavy tires on dirt ground, getting louder as they rolled closer.

hopper shouts again, you start running. your feet move blind and fast beneath you, your heart pounding out of your chest.

it doesn't hurt at first, but you hear it.

a sharp tearing sound from lower down your body, you make a few more steps, tripping and stumbling as you do.

then you feel it.

hot, piercing pain shoots up your whole leg from your ankle to your hip. but you keep running.

you can feel the pain, you can feel it everywhere, you can feel blood pooling into your shoe, you can feel your head going fuzzy, you can feel your stomach flip.

but you keep running.

with the leg that isn't giving out under you, you jump, following hopper and forcing your whole body into the back of the passing truck.

he catches you, grabs under your arms and pulls you up into the back. you twist as you climb up, your bad leg slipping underneath you.

falling down, your back collapses against hoppers side, chest heaving and wheezing as you try and breath through the pain that had suddenly caught up with you.

"alright kid?"

"uh huh yeah i'm fine- just rough landing"

"well" he laughed it off helping you sit up against the wall. "that's nothing, not compared to where i went last time"

"still a bust- like always"

he sighs, fiddling with the walkie talkie and alerting everyone back home that you're on the way back.

you hear steve's voice crackle through, only just. all sounds around you are muffled, vision spinning as you struggle through the pain in your left leg.

it's not that hopper hasn't noticed, he's asked if you're okay about 100 times, noting your unsteady breathing that really should have evened out by now.

but it's too dark for him to see the small puddle of dark red blood that's forming on the floor around your foot.

and you are insisting you're okay. you don't know why, but when someone asks it's just reflex to say your fine.. right? even if you feel like you're dying.

"oh! hold on kid"

the van shakes violently as you pass through the gate, and you know what's coming next.

"count of three... just roll off doesn't matter if you fall"

"ok-okay"

you take a deep breath, biting the inside of your cheek to stop you from crying out as you pick up your leg, ready to stand.

"one.."

you push up, holding your breath as you do.

"two.."

you're standing, hands gripping the side of the door with all your weight on your right side.

"three!"

you dive. out the van, landing on the floor with a roll of your body. it was quite glamorous actually, adrenaline pumping through your veins and dictating every action for you.

sprawled out on the concrete, your brain attempts to catch up, thoughts running wild until you’re interrupted.

"well done kid" hopper stretched his arms out to you on the floor, which you took as he pulled you up.

stumbling as you tried to balance, you winced, loudly. hoppers head snapped over, eyes flicking over your face for a sign telling him what's wrong.

"alright?"

"think i.. twisted my ankle or something coming out just then"

"ah.. well not far to go then you can.. i don't know- put some ice on it?"

"i'll probably be able to walk it off you know"

you don't remember the walk back to hoppers cabin through the tunnels. on the bright side, the pain in your ankle was subsiding.

but that was because there was no blood left in it to supply to the nerves. your whole body was numb, swaying slightly with each limp.

all you could think about was getting back to the house. back to steve. he'd help you, he'd look after you, he'd-

he'd be worried, he'd be angry you're hurt, he wouldn't let you help with crawls anymore.

your mind was racing with a battle of irrational thoughts in a hazy state of teetering on unconsciousness.

the light of the cabin came into view once you finally resurfaced from the tunnels, hopper physically lifting you out of them.

"BABY!?" a familiar voice screamed out.

"steve" you weakly replied, thinking you were shouting just as loud.

he noticed immediately.

“baby? are you okay?” he came running over, skidding to a stop right in front of you.

his hands locked onto your forearms, eyes flicking frantically over your body to look for what was hurting you.

“i’m fine- just tired gotta- sit down”

“yeah- okay yeah if you’re sure”

you nodded and so did he, but yours was weak and his was unconvinced.

with a limp and a wince, that steve picked up on, you attempted to head the rest of the short distance to the cabin.

“you’re limping”

“yeah- twisted my ankle on uh- just now coming back” you breathed out through heavy breaths, keeping your eyes off steve.

“you don’t look okay”

through the dark night air, steve was squinting, trying desperately to find what was wrong. his heart was racing, he felt sick with anxiety.

“baby- look at me”

“i just- ah- wanna sit”

steve caught up with you in one step, lunging forward to scoop you up into his arms. letting out a cry of shock mixed with pain you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding as tight as your exhausted body could.

“i swear i smell blood” steve said, his voice shaking as he sped to the cabin.

“m fine” you mumbled, feeling worse than ever.

as steve stepped onto the porch, the light of the cabin lights fell over your face. your pale, almost lifeless face.

“shit-“ steve breathed out looking down at you shaking you in his arms slightly. “fuck- baby? can you hear me?”

steve’s panic alerted the others inside, a couple rushing out to check.

“what’s happened?”

“she’s- i don’t know- i know she’s hurt someone help me find where”

“it’s nothing” your voice was lost in the whimper you let out as you tried to twist your leg out of view.

the voices of all your friends blended into one as you desperately tried to stay conscious. steve laid you down on the couch, dropping to his knees beside you.

through your tear blurred vision you saw everyone crowd around, scanning your body for an obvious injury.

“you gotta tell me darlin- what’s hurting?”

you couldn’t hold back anymore, your hand reached out and pointed to your left leg before you could stop it.

“your leg? yeah?” you nodded at steve’s words. “okay good- good girl”

he whispered praise into your ear, random words to keep you awake, one hand rubbing your hairline, the other holding tight onto your hand.

max was by your foot in a second with a flashlight. everyone gasping when the light illuminated your leg and they saw it.

your jeans soaked in blood, the fabric lining of your once grey boots now saturated in a deep red.

the gash was on the inside of your lower leg, just above your ankle bone. your jeans were torn where it was, a flap of it sticking to where you were cut.

“shit!”

nancy and mike rushed off to the kitchen to grab the first aid box, robin started hyperventilating and max was gagging as she slowly peeled back the flap of denim.

“shh baby- no you’re doing so well” steve pressed his lips to your head, squeezing your hand.

tears spilled from your eyes, rolling thick and hot over your clammy cheeks, as you shook and whimpered at the sting in your leg.

“someone get her some water” steve ordered, refusing to leave your side.

hopper was back with a bottle before steve had finished, crouching down beside him to look at your face.

“why’d you not tell me?” he asked quietly, not accusingly, just genuinely curious.

“didnt want no one panicking” you whimpered. “just wanned to get back”

“dont do it again” hopper handed steve the bottle and stood back up.

lucas slotted a pillow behind your head when steve gestured to it, propping your head up enough for steve to ease the water to your lips.

“shoes gotta come off” nancy said sympathetically, back from the kitchen and now stood over your leg evaluating her next move.

“you hear that darlin?”

“mhm” you cried, moving your hand that was wrapped in steve’s up towards your mouth that had just gulped down half the bottle.

“go on” he gave nancy the all clear, placing the water away.

nancy was as carful and gentle as she could be, but with how tight the boots were in the first place, then the swelling of your foot and the wetness of the fabric, that was almost impossible.

“aah- fuck- it hurts” you sobbed, groaning against the back of steve’s hand.

“oh baby” steve was on the verge of crying himself, his heart breaking at not being able to take your pain away.

“okay im gonna wrap it, uhm i’d cut the jeans off after this too” nancy warned you.

after the pain of removing your shoe, you’d woken up a lot more, the tiredness subsiding, able to communicate better but on the other hand you felt a lot more.

“baby just stay with me okay?”

“okay” you sobbed.

“alcohol pad” max said as she handed it to a nancy who slapped it straight over your cut with no warning.

your whole body seized up, sharp pulses of stinging pain shot up your leg to your whole body,

as you screamed out, your stomach flipped with nausea, hands shaking and tears falling uncontrollably.

“i’m so sorry” nancy whispered, rubbing gentle circles into your other ankle with her thumb.

“just stay awake for me please- i promise it’s almost done” he kissed the tears that fell from your puffy eyes.

a clean gauze was placed over the broken skin, which had finally stopped its steady flow of bleeding.

with a grunt from the end of the sofa, nancy finished knotting the bandage, tucking the ends into the top of the wrapping.

the white fabric covered your whole lower leg, thick on one side with the layers of gauze.

the pain was beginning to leave, although you knew that was only temporary and probably due to the fact you were falling back into haziness.

“your colours coming back” steve noted quietly as he placed a gentle kiss to your lips.

with everyone out the room, steve cut away your dirty, ruined jeans and replaced them with a clean pair of hoppers sweatpants that did not fit you one bit, squeezing your hand as you rotated and sat up on the sofa.

“could get two of you in there” he chuckled when he tied the drawstrings.

he then took off your shirt, slipping his own hoodie back over you. the fabric was warm and soft around you, and smelled like steve, like safety.

you were breathless by the end, the hour long supply of adrenaline coming to a stop, the after effects suddenly crashing down on you.

each part of your body began to tremble uncontrollably, a cold shiver washing over you and fresh tears falling silently as you watched steve put a pair of els fluffy socks on you.

“baby?” steve stood, picking you up to slot himself under where you were sat.

once he was settled he pulled you into him, cradling you against his chest, kissing the top of your head and shushing you as you curled into him. your left leg was stuck out across the sofa, elevated by a nest of pillows.

“i’m sorry” you whimpered into steve’s chest.

“don’t apologise- but next time, don’t tell me there’s nothing wrong when there is”

you nodded tearfully against him, finally letting your body relax and your lungs breath properly.

“i love you”

“i love you baby”

the tears streaming from your eyes began to slow, your body slowly becoming less shaky with each passing moment being cuddled by steve.

“i’ve got you” he whispered, locking his arms tight and protectively around your back.

he held you close, talking softly about random things just to settle your mind, not stopping even when he knew you’d fallen asleep.

[joekeerysbellybutton]

Skull Rock

Me and @pr33tygirlavenue have been diagnosed as horny for king!steve…this is a combo of both of our dms so big up my girl Chloe for the finger sucking (and more)

18+ MDNI, unprotected p in v, cream pie, exhibitionism, panty stealing

☠︎︎ ☠︎︎ ☠︎︎

Steve was kind enough to lay a blanket beneath your warm bodies as he not so kindly bullied his cock into your cunt. You’re sheltered slightly, skull rock looming over you, but you were much more captivated by how Steve moved on top of you.

Your hands clutch at him frantically wherever they can. His hair, his shoulders, his biceps. He stretches you out on his cock like he was molding you to him – only him. He had already gotten you worked up on his fingers but his cock always gave you that delicious burn as he dragged in and out and in and out.

“Oh my god, Steve…”

“That’s it, let me hear you princess, tell me how good I make you feel.”

“So good, fuck, Steve you make me feel so good.”

What Steve had promised would only be a sloppy make out sesh at his signature spot, had quickly devolved into a frenzy once Steve had gotten you out of your panties.

They now sat shoved into his back pocket for ‘safe keeping’, his jeans pulled down to his knees to free himself and sink into your needy hole.

All your anxiety around fucking out in the woods in broad daylight quickly dissipated when his tip breached your folds.

“God you’re pussy’s so fucking tight, don’t know how you can handle me baby, but you take it so well.”

The praise goes straight to your head and your cunt, thrusting up to meet Steve’s reckless rutting. You moan out his name desperately close to another orgasm.

“Gonna come for–“

Steve is cut off by the sound of a branch snapping in the distance. His hand flies to cover your mouth, a desperate whine just slipping out before he can. He stops dead, completely sheathed inside you.

“Shh… be quiet for me, okay princess?”

Against all of your better judgement, you nod.

The sound of crunching leaves gets louder and louder and closer and closer, as Steve resumes his thrusts. Not as rapid as before but so much deeper. Slowly dragging himself through your gummy walls, grinding his hips into yours as they meet, his pupic hair rough on your clit with each slow rock into you.

The movement coaxes more from you than before. A wet warmth spreads through you like someone slowly turning up the heat.

Steve puts all his weight on top of you and you groan into his sweaty palm. He tucks his face into your neck, muffling his own grunts, his composure faltering slightly as your pussy pulses around him.

The pounding in your ears from the pressure building in your body makes you unable to hear the approaching footsteps. You lock your ankles around Steve’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer to you. Steve knows exactly what you want.

“You want to cum in you like this, huh? Fuck!” Steve’s lips are now pressed to your ear, his breath hot. “Do you want us to get caught? Oh but you wanna be filled to the brim, don’t you princess?”

Steve rolls his hips deep and you sob into his hand, tears collecting on your lower lashes.

Somewhere the footsteps stop like whoever it is, heard your cry.

“Who’s there?” a voice shouts in the distance.

Steve lifts his face to press his forehead against yours, his eyes are unwavering as they bore into yours.

“I know you love my cum inside you but, baby, you get so loud when you feel my load in your tight cunt. Can’t have you screaming like that here.”

He’s not even thrusting anymore, just grinding, you feel every ridge of his solid length. Your brows knit together pleadingly.

“You wanna get caught? You want the whole town to know what a slut you are getting fucked like this in the woods?”

All you really want is to feel him flow through you, no matter the consequences.

Steve removes his hand from your mouth.

You croak out a ‘plea–“ before Steve cuts you off by shoving two of his thick fingers into your mouth. He picks up the pace of his hips.

“Be a good girl and stay nice and quiet for me while I fill this pussy. Can you do that for me?”

You suck eagerly on his fingers, nodding your head adamantly.

Steve braces himself over you with his free hand, your aching thighs tremble around his waist.

Even if you two were able to stifle your moans completely, the sound of wet, slapping skin could be heard above the rustle of the trees for miles.

You feel Steve throb inside you and he brings a finger to rub aggressively at your clit to get you to reach your peak in tandem.

The heavy foot steps are close enough for you to hear, as though they’re right on top of you. The exhilaration you feel pushes you over the edge.

You spasmed uncontrollably around Steve’s cock and it milks him for all he’s worth as he paints your insides with his hot cum.

Before you can process what just happened, he’s pulling out, tugging up his jeans, and helping your shaking hands to smooth over your skirt.

“Harrington?”

Jim Hopper emerges from a bush opposite you.

“Hey Chief,” Steve says. Surprisingly composed for someone who just came inside you 5 seconds ago.

“Thought I heard a deer dying over here.”

“Haven’t seen any, have we babe?”

You are still far too wired to respond. You can feel Steve’s cum oozing from your cunt, your walls still going through the aftershocks. You just shake your head no.

“You kids been drinking?” The Chief eyes you suspiciously.

“No sir,” Steve answers on your behalf.

“Right…”

Hopper is not stupid and was once young himself, although you find it hard to picture, he knows what’s going on.

“Well, you better head back home, it’ll be getting dark soon.”

“Yes sir.”

Steve gives him a salute and Hopper scowls at him before turning on his heel, whistling as he walks away.

Once he’s out of your sight you turn to Steve and whack your hand into his chest.

“Steve!”

“Ow! What was that for?”

“That’s for making me talk to Hopper with your cum still dripping outta me!”

“Hey, that’s what you wanted, practically begged me for it.”

You scoff at him. “Just give me my underwear, Steve.”

He feels around his pockets and looks around the blanket.

“Shit, I think I lost them.”

“You wha–“

“Sorry princess”

“Fine whatever, let’s just go.”

You storm off ahead of him, feeling slick chafe between your thighs as you walk. Steve follows you, slipping his hand into his back pocket to fiddle with the lace fabric he had hidden away in there for safe keeping…

☠︎︎ ☠︎︎ ☠︎︎

Taglist: @ribeiroteresa97 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles @delightfuldreamer09 @br4ndnewbabygirl @kalunacow @soggycerealtbh @jas-mines-things

[sweetsprice]

simon's team finds out that he has a missus and she's heavily pregnant.

simon had never taken you to fancy galas before, and this time, he said he'd introduce you to his team, hence why you were so nervous.

he walked through the doors like he owned the place, a firm hand pressed on the small of your back.

everyone expected him to show up alone, like he always did, but tonight, he had a companion. behind him, clutching the fabric of his dark silky suit, was you. you were dressed in a flowing floral dress that hugged your body perfectly.

your cheeks were flushed, not used to all the attention on you, and you kept your eyes fixed on the floor, hiding behind his massive frame. you felt overwhelmed, completely out of place.

and then their focus shifted to your growing belly. you could hear the whispers and their gasps.

your bump was unmistakably showing. simon had helped you pick up that dress, let them see how beautiful you look, knocked up with my child. he had said, before leaving the house.

simon's hand rested possessively on your lower back, while his other hand was protectively splayed across your stomach.

lieutenant riley has a missus? and she's pregnant? was all you could hear.

gaz, who was exchanging words with a recruit, nearly choked on his champagne. soap dropped his glass. price just stared, his cigar forgotten in his hand, his eyes wide.

simon leaned down, pressing his lips to your ear, his voice so low that only you could hear. "you're doing well, love." he murmured, and there was a dark satisfaction in his tone.

simon's intention was clear. he'd brought you here deliberately, knowing exactly what the reaction would be. he wanted everyone to know who you belonged to.

it was a silent warning. let them talk. let them stare. at the end of the night, he would be the one listening to your sweet moans.

[amorieile]

THE COSMOPOLITAN METHOD ⸝⸝ oneshot

summary: According to Cosmo, two years together meant you and Steve Harrington were officially getting "too comfortable." Armed with a magazine checklist and absolutely zero mercy for your boyfriend, you spend the evening running Steve through every flirty test on the page just to watch him utterly lose his cool !

pairing: steve harrington x reader

content warnings: playful teasing, flirting, kissing, light relationship anxiety, unserious magazine advice (unserious everything really), talks about the future cs we all love that surely, mentions of canon events for plot sakes, taking superficial advice with a microscopic grain of salt (good, yes!), MDNI! 18+, smut, dry humping, groping, nipple play, fingering, oral sex (fem!receiving), unprotected p in v (do NOT do as you see pls), riding, edging, praise, teasing, dirty talk, creampie, cockwarming(?? not really, I just got tired at the end sry), always assume not betaread because I just can't read my own writing after a while I cringe myself out (</3), lmk if I missed anything!

w/c: 16.5k (way more plot than smut trust)

— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !

a/n: kinda based on a true story of me tormenting my boyfriend with a 2012 buzzfeed quiz while he fought for his life trying to understand it 😭 (strictly for comedy sakes) anyways, steve harrington taking a relationship quiz was a NEED, so watching him panic inspired this whole thing because I just know steve would treat a magazine relationship quiz like a life-or-death mission 🙂‍↕️ I hope this makes you giggle!! <3

By the time you pushed through the front door of Family Video, Hawkins had gone melty with heat.

It clung to the backs of your knees, made your lips feel tackier than they should have, and turned the parking lot outside into a flat, bright stretch of wavering air. The glass doors had been smudged by fingerprints and sunblock and whatever candy residue children carried around on summer afternoons. 

Family Video always had its own weather.

Cold at the front, stale near the horror aisle, warm and dusty by the back room where the employees pretended not to nap on slow days. You'd learned it well. The carpet had been vacuumed badly enough that one popcorn kernel still sat near the base of the New Releases shelf, and the whole place smelled of plastic cases, old cardboard, butter flavoring, and Steve’s cologne whenever he passed close enough.

You had bought the Cosmopolitan at Bradley’s Big Buy ten minutes earlier because Steve’s shift still had twenty minutes left and you had already spent enough of your life pretending to be fascinated by the same movie boxes. The magazine was glossy and ridiculous and slightly bent from being shoved into the paper bag with your gum and cherry ChapStick. Its cover promised impossible hair, dangerous romance, and a quiz that claimed it could tell you whether your boyfriend was “summer fling material or forever trouble.”

You had bought it mostly because the cashier had taken one look at the cover, looked at you, and smirked. You felt the need to spite whatever assumption they'd made.

Now, standing in Family Video with the magazine tucked under your arm, you could hear Robin before you saw her.

“No, sir,” she was saying from behind the counter, her voice flat with the kind of patience that had already been used up twice that day. “Late fees do not disappear just because you personally disagree with the passage of time.”

A man in a tucked-in polo stood on the other side of the counter, holding a tape case in both hands. “I’m saying I returned it.”

“And I’m saying I was here when you did not.”

Steve was beside her, rewinding a tape with the solemn concentration of someone performing surgery. He had one elbow propped on the counter, his Family Video vest hanging open over a striped polo, name tag slightly crooked. His hair looked good in the unfair way it always did, even after a full shift under fluorescent lights. A pencil was tucked behind his ear. You'd learned that he only did that when he was pretending to be busier than he was.

He noticed you almost immediately.

He always did, even when he tried to play it cool. His eyes lifted from the rewinder, found you near the candy display, and softened before the rest of his face caught up. For a second, his posture changed. Not much. One shoulder dropped. His mouth tilted. The pencil behind his ear slipped slightly.

“Hey, babe,” he smiled gently in his usual greeting. His gaze flicked over you quickly, not dismissive, just practiced. “You look nice.”

Then the rewinder clicked, and he looked back down.

Nice.

You stopped with one hand on the edge of the counter.

It was not the worst thing he could have said. It was not bad at all, technically. Nice was safe. Nice was warm enough to count. Nice was the kind of thing you said to someone you loved when you were also trying to remember whether The Man with One Red Shoe belonged under comedy or suspense.

But you’d spent longer than usual getting ready today.

You had changed twice before leaving, had stood in front of your mirror with one earring in and one earring out, and tried to decide whether the pink skirt was too much for a Friday night at Family Video. You had redone the front of your hair because the first attempt had gone strange in the humidity. You had put on the good perfume, the one you used sparingly because the bottle was small and because Steve always noticed when you wore it.

Or he used to.

Nice sat there now, plain and harmless, while Steve returned to his tape and Robin told the polo-shirted man she could absolutely call Keith if he wanted to experience the same answer with less eye contact.

You slid yourself onto the stool at the end of the counter and sat the magazine down.

The cover girl smiled up at you in all her glossy confidence, her lips bright, her shoulders bare, and her hair reaching heights that probably required a prayer. You flipped through pages of perfume ads, diet soda blurbs, lipstick spreads, and letters from readers who apparently, lived lives full of beach parties and emotional ultimatums.

Then, you found the article.

The “Too-Perfect” Romance: 7 Flirty Signs He’s Getting a Little Too Comfortable!

You read the title once. Then again.

A laugh pressed against your throat, but you held it in.

Steve looked up quickly anyway. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed at your quick response. “That wasn’t a nothing sound.”

You smiled with a shake of your head. “I didn’t make a sound.”

“You made a face.”

Robin’s customer finally huffed his way out of the store, muttering about principles. The bell above the door jingled after him. Robin watched him go with a dead-eyed expression, then turned toward you.

“What did you find?”

Your eyes flitted across the words of the page. “An article.”

“That’s never good.” Steve leaned over the counter, trying to see. You tilted the page away from him just as he came near.

His voice came low with curiosity.  “Why can’t I read it?”

You hummed lightly, “because you’re the subject.”

He blinked down at you, his eyes turning owl-ish at the vagueness of your words. “The subject of what?”

Robin’s mouth opened into a grin. “Oh, this is promising.”

You smoothed the magazine page with your palm and began reading silently.

You’ve made it past the two-year mark without a single major blowout, and your Friday nights are a perfectly oiled machine of movie rentals and shared pizza toppings.

You glanced up.

Steve was watching you now, tape forgotten, eyebrows drawn together. He had the expression he got when Dustin explained something too quickly and Steve was trying to decide whether he had missed an insult.

You looked back down.

Don’t get too cozy just yet! In our fast-paced eighties, there is a very fine line between a secure romance and a total relationship snooze-fest! Sometimes, when a guy knows he’s finally "won" your heart, he quietly hits the cruise control button. He might love you to pieces, but is he still trying to wow you?

Grab that gloss, lounge back on your bed, and take this quick checklist to see if your dream boy is secretly sliding into the "Comfort Trap"—and exactly how to tease him right out of it!

It was stupid. Completely stupid. Written in the breathless, bossy voice of someone who had never met Steve Harrington after midnight in a hospital waiting room, or seen him go quiet when one of the kids flinched at a loud noise, or watched him check the rearview mirror three times on the way home because caution had become part of him.

Still.

You had twenty minutes to kill.

Steve had said nice without really looking. And the article had numbered instructions. You folded the magazine back just enough to hide the page title and smiled to yourself.

Robin, who had the instincts of a person raised on chaos, took one step away from Steve.

He noticed and immediately frowned in questioning. “Why are you moving?”

Robin shrugged, her shoulders reaching the ends of her hair in doing so. “No reason.”

“That is also not a no-reason face.”

You tapped the first numbered section with your fingernail.

Steve looked between you and Robin, suddenly alert. “What’s happening?”

You kept smiling.

“Education,” you had to bite the i side of your cheek to stop from laughing outright.

───

The “Automatic” Compliment

When you spend forty-five minutes crimping your hair or putting on your absolute best pleated miniskirt, does he give you a real, jaw-dropping reaction? Or does he just look up from his car radio, smile, and say, "You look nice, babe," out of total reflex? If his praise feels like an automated recording, his eyes might be getting a little lazy.

The Solution:  Next time he says it without looking, step right into his line of sight, block his view, and playfully demand he give you three specific reasons why!

The article accused him of having lazy eyes.

You found that unfair, mostly because Steve’s eyes were not lazy. They were restless if anything. Always tracking movement. Always catching on exits and windows and whoever had just walked into a room. Even when he seemed relaxed, some part of him stayed awake, cataloging changes, and always listening for small changes.

But the article was not interested in nuance, the article clearly wanted drama. The article wanted you to step right into his line of sight and demand three specific reasons.

So, you did.

Steve had just gone back to sorting returns into piles with the kind of vague competence that would probably make Keith complain later. He held Teen Wolf in one hand and Out of Africa in the other, staring at them with open uncertainty.

“Comedy?” he muttered, his lips were pulled into a small frown as he wracked his brain for the possible answer.

“Drama,” Robin said without looking.

Steve wasn't entirely convinced, his voice turning questioning. “There’s a wolf.”

“It has feelings.”

He scoffed that, “all movies have feelings.”

Robin quickly shot back her response. “Not the ones you recommend.”

You took that moment to slip off the stool and come around the counter besides your boyfriend.

Steve saw you move, but he didn't seem to understand the danger quickly enough. He looked at you, then at the magazine on the counter, then back at you right as you stepped in front of him and blocked the shelf.

He stopped, not with suspicion, but with clear unsureness.

“Hi,” he said with a softness that made you grin on instinct. 

Steve mirrored your expression by impact and pure reflex. “Hi.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for the briefest second. “Do you need something?”

You nodded with severe certainty “Yes.”

“Okay,” Steve looked up into your eyes and his head tilted, he seemed to wait for the further set of instructions he was clearly waiting for.

You specified soon after that, each word clearly enunciated, and your fingers held up in pairing. “Three specific reasons.”

He waited for more clarification with a gentle handed posture. His soft smile hadn't disappeared, but it became mixed in with something else now. “For…?”

“Why I look nice.”

The silence after that was truly beautiful.

Robin slowly lowered the inventory sheet she had been pretending to read and you swore her hard blinks could be heard across the air.

Steve stared at you with the VHS tapes still in his hands, and his mouth parted slightly. He looked, for one unguarded moment, completely removed from every version of himself he had ever practiced in a mirror or labeled to be. Instead, he just was your boyfriend in a dumb vest, ambushed by a request he should probably have been prepared for.

“Three,” you repeated with the underlying giddy feeling in your body simmering.

He stammered a bit at the blunt reminder. “Right now?”

“You already had time when I came in.”

“I was working.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly in clear disbelief. “You were rewinding Short Circuit?”

“It requires attention.”

Robin made a small noise from where she watched, mirroring your disbelieving look. “Does it?”

Steve shot her a look, then returned his attention to you. His gaze moved over your face properly this time, slower than before, and the amusement in you shifted into something quieter. You had meant to tease him, you hadn't expected the teasing to make him actually look.

He noticed your earrings first. You could tell because his eyes caught on the little flash near your jaw when you turned your head.

“Your earrings,” he cleared his throat with a particularly strong bobble of his head. Your brows quirked up on instinct. 

“That’s one?”

Steve shook his head quickly, then continued. “No, that’s the category. I’m building.”

Robin whispered to you with a clearly mocking tone that had you biting back a wider smile, “He’s building.”

Steve ignored her with effort, you could tell by the lack of bite back. “They’re the ones you wore to the Fourth of July thing, right? Before—” He stopped, jaw shifting around the rest of the sentence. You could tell he was trying to reference a memory that didn't come clearly to him, so you let him go on without issue. “Anyway. They look good. They do that little shiny thing when you move.”

You felt yourself soften, then immediately fought it because you were supposed to be conducting an experiment. A terribly stupid experiment, but an experiment you decided was going to be fun entertainment nonetheless. 

“One,” you allowed with your index finger tilting to the side in counting.

He adjusted the tapes in his hands, more comfortable now that he had survived the first answer. “Your skirt. The buttons on the side.”

The sentence wasn't what you were expecting it to be, your voice turned questioning before it evened back out. “You noticed the buttons?”

He gave you a look that was clear betrayal, his hand went up to stretch across the back of his neck. “I’m trying to be respectful in front of Buckley.”

Robin lifted both hands as if offended by being compared to something akin to an obstacle, “Im not even here. I am basically a chair.”

“You’re a very loud chair,” Steve huffed back to her. Then, to you, “Yes, I noticed the buttons. I noticed the whole skirt. It’s pink and it makes your legs look—” He stopped again and your eyebrows lifted along with your smile.

His ears went red, he gave a weak cough as his eyes looked at the ceiling than back to you. “Long.”

“Two,” you then counted with another finger, deeply pleased now.

Steve looked relieved to be nearing the end, then immediately concerned because the third reason required more care. He looked at your hair, your lips, the way you were standing there with one hip angled against the counter, pretending you had not started this solely just to watch him squirm.

“Your hair,” he said with finality. “You did something different.”

You touched it without meaning to. “Different bad?”

“No—Different good. It’s softer here.” He gestured near his own temple, not quite touching you like you'd have preferred. “And it keeps falling forward, so you keep pushing it back, and you only do that when you’re trying not to mess with it because you spent time on it.”

You went still at the explanation. 

Steve seemed to realize he had said something too observant for the tone of the game. He looked down at the tapes, then back up, shrugging one shoulder with a forced casualness that didn't suit him.

“So,” he licked his lips as his eyes lifted to meet yours with a hopeful expression. “Three.”

Robin broke the silence first, which you'd been grateful for because you were all too aware of the warmth seeping into your chest. “I hate to say it, but that was kind of good.”

Steve pointed Teen Wolf at her, “don’t sound so surprised.”

You took the tapes from his hands and set them on the counter, and you looked at him through a slight tilt of your head. “Better.”

His words came back questioning again. “Better than what?”

“The automated recording,” that was all you said with a light breeze in your tone.

“The what?” He asked but you had already gone back to the stool, pulling the magazine into your lap.

Steve watched you sit down. He felt a strange mixture of pride and suspicion, which was not an emotion he enjoyed. Pride, because you were smiling at the page now in a way that meant he had done something right. Suspicion, because he had no idea what the page had made you do in the first place.

Robin leaned close to him and murmured, “If she asks you to describe her personality next, fake your death.”

Steve whispered back, “What magazine is that?”

Robin looked at the glossy cover and grinned at Steve’s distress. “The kind that destroys men who say nice.”

Steve looked at you again.

You only turned the page.

He swallowed more visibly distressed now as you remained quiet.

──

2. He Swaps the Leather Jacket for the Lounge Sweatshirt

Remember those first six months when he wouldn't dare meet you without a splash of premium cologne and a perfectly pressed jacket? If he now regularly shows up to your dates wearing his old high school gym fleece with a mystery stain on the sleeve, the mystery is officially fading.

The Solution:  Snatch his favorite oversized sweatshirt right off his back and wear it yourself with nothing but your favorite perfume. Remind him who really looks best in his clothes!

Steve’s shift ended late because nothing in Hawkins could ever end at the time printed on a schedule.

A kid knocked over half the horror display and immediately blamed the “wind,” despite the fact that the air inside Family Video had not moved with any conviction since June. Keith called from the back office to complain that someone had stacked the returned tapes “emotionally wrong,” which made Robin press both palms flat on the counter and whisper, “I am not going to jail for him.” Then, a mother came in looking for a cartoon whose title she didn't know, only that it involved “a little man, maybe a duck, and possibly space.”

By the time Steve was finally allowed to clock out, his patience had frayed around the edges.

You could see it in the way he pulled off his vest, too fast, and missed the hook when he tried to hang it in the back. You could hear him mutter something at the locker that sounded less like English and more like a private feud. When he came out again, he had changed into the old Hawkins High gym sweatshirt he kept there for cold nights, rainy closings, and days when he claimed the uniform made him feel “itchy in a spiritual way.”

The sweatshirt was gray in theory. In practice, it had been washed into a soft, faded color that belonged to old socks and cloudy dishwater. The cuffs were stretched. The collar sat loose at the base of his throat. One sleeve had a faint stain near the elbow that neither of you had ever successfully identified, though Steve had once insisted it was “probably nacho cheese” with a confidence that made you less comfortable.

He looked tired in it.

He also, looked painfully familiar.

Your eyes dropped to the open magazine in your lap.

He Swaps the Leather Jacket for the Lounge Sweatshirt.

The article spoke of fading mystery and premium cologne with the urgency of a national crisis. You read the solution once and felt your grin arrive before you could stop it.

The words repeated in your brain: snatch his favorite oversized sweatshirt right off his back.

Steve came around the counter while digging in his pocket for his keys. “You ready?”

You stood and he glanced up, saw your expression, and stopped walking with clear intent.

“No,” he said with an immediate shake of his head

You hadn't even moved yet, your hands came up to your sides on instinct. “No what?”

Steve groaned in a way that didn't quite feel frustrated, but was knowing. “No whatever that face is.”

“I don’t have a face.” You did.

“You have the face you had before the whole three reasons thing.”

Robin, clocked out but still lingering because apparently this was better than whatever she had waiting at home, grabbed her bag from behind the counter. “For the record, I support her.”

“You don’t even know what she’s doing,” Steve immediately sighed in defeat.

Robin didn't seem bothered by the lack of information. “I know enough.”

You stepped closer and caught the hem of his sweatshirt. Steve’s hands immediately closed around your wrists, not tight, just startled. His expressive eyes instantly fell to your with faint concern and mostly curiosity.  “Whoa. Hi. What are we doing?”

You shrugged your shoulders, lips finding the familiar grin that had him faltering. “Testing a theory.”

Steve pouted in a way that you knew he'd deny if questioned later on. “Why do your theories involve grabbing me at work?”

“Because you just happen to be here.”

“That can't possibly be a complete answer.”

“It’s a location, though.”

Robin leaned on the counter, delighted as she sang over to you. “He’s panicking.”

“I am not panicking,” Steve scoffed with dismissal, but regardless of his claim, his voice was panicking enough.

You tugged the sweatshirt upward, with a plea on your lips and a look in your eyes. “Arms up.”

He sputtered at your request, his brows shooting upwards in clear refusal. “Absolutely not.”

“Steve…”

“No, this is a public establishment.”

You gave him a sidelong glance, looking over at his stance. “Keith is in the back alphabetizing gum wrappers or something.”

“Buckley is right there.”

Robin waved over at herself with the familiar grin you loved, humming a tune. “Chair.”

Steve looked at you, then at Robin, then toward the front windows where the parking lot sat mostly empty except for his car. His resistance lasted three more seconds. You could see the exact moment he gave up, because his jaw worked to hide a smile and his eyes dropped to the floor.

“Fine,” he muttered, but he didn't make a show of sighing this time. “But if you stretch the collar, I’m suing.”

There was no containing the laugh that left you. “You don’t even know how to sue.”

“I’ll learn.”

He ducked his head and lifted his arms, letting you pull the sweatshirt up over his torso. His white T-shirt rode up for half a second, revealing a narrow strip of skin above his jeans before he yanked it down with one hand before you could reach for it. He promptly ignored your dramatized look of resignation at being denied. His hair emerged from the collar in static-disrupted disarray, several pieces standing up at angles he would have considered unforgivable under normal circumstances.

You put the sweatshirt on before he could take it back. Although, you doubted he would ever actually do that. For all his whining, your boyfriend rarely said anything beyond a few complaints.

It swallowed you in the familiar fabric.

The sleeves fell past your hands, the hem dropped low over your skirt, and the collar slipped a little too wide on one side. Warmth held inside the fabric from his body. So did the smell of him: laundry detergent on the old cotton, the faded spice of his cologne, and something skin-warm and harder to name. The perfume you had put on earlier rose beneath it, mixing with him until the whole thing felt private despite the fluorescent lights and Robin’s shameless staring.

Steve went quiet in the moments still. You pushed your hair free from the collar and lifted your chin. Your hands were now taking residence upon the sides of your hips. “Well?”

He had seen you in his clothes before. A borrowed jacket during a rainstorm. A T-shirt after a late night when you spilled soda on yourself at his house. Socks frequently, because your feet had gone cold and he had acted annoyed while digging through a drawer with unnecessary urgency.

But there was a difference between necessity and choice.

This, was choice. This was you standing in the middle of Family Video wearing his old sweatshirt over your skirt, perfume clinging to the collar, and looking at him with bright, ridiculous expectation.

Steve’s brain provided several responses and rejected all of them for being either too honest or too stupid.

“That’s mine,” he managed with a breathlessness that immediately made him wince when heard.

You corrected him, clearly pleased. “Was.”

“You’re swimming in it.”

“I'm aware.”

“You look—” He stopped because your eyes sharpened in a way that told him his next adjective needed to mean something.

Robin clapped once from where she was, and you refrained from sighing at the girl's clear joy at her friend's inner struggle. “Careful, Harrington.”

Steve dragged a hand over his mouth, buying time. He had just been trained, apparently. Nice was no longer safe. Nice had been retired from service.

“You look good,” he decided to settle for, then saw your mouth twitch and hurried on. “You look really good. In my sweatshirt. Which is confusing because it looks better on you, but it is still, legally mine.”

“‘Legally’?”

Steve quickly corrected himself again. “Emotionally.”

You stepped closer and lifted one sleeve-covered hand to poke his chest. The movement had him squirming a bit because you knew where to poke to get a reaction. As such were the benefits of being with someone for so long. “I think I’ll keep it.”

Steve looked down at your covered hand, then at the place where the collar had slipped, then back to your face. He tried for annoyance and missed by several miles. He was never good at that.

His words didn't match his tone nor face. “You’re lucky I’m generous.”

“You’re lucky I look better in your clothes.”

Robin made a noise of approval that had you slightly leaning on the heels of your shoes. “She does.”

“Why are you still here?” Steve asked with such restraint that you let one palm rub against his forearm. He welcomed the familiar touch by leaning into it.

“I live here now.”

Keith appeared in the back doorway at exactly the wrong time, holding a clipboard and a soda. He took in the scene: Steve in his T-shirt, you in Steve’s sweatshirt, Robin grinning beside the register. His expression flattened.

“Is this happening on the clock?”

Steve grabbed his keys and reached up for your palm to pull you besides him. “Nope. Leaving. Bye.”

Outside, the evening heat pressed immediately. The air smelled of asphalt, cut grass from somewhere beyond the plaza, and the warm metallic scent of Steve’s car after a day in the sun. He unlocked the passenger side first out of habit, then paused when you walked past it.

His head shot up. “Where are you going?”

You looked over your shoulder with a smile that had him already weary. “You’ll see.”

Steve felt the first prickle of fresh suspicion. You still had the magazine tucked under your arm. He knew then that he really should have hidden it when he had the chance.

───

3. The Dreaded “I Don’t Care, What Do You Want to Do?”

Flexibility is cute, but romantic laziness is not!  If every single date night starts with him shrugging his shoulders and leaving the heavy lifting of choosing the restaurant or the movie up to you, he’s retired from being the captain of the ship.

The Solution: Take total control. Steal his car keys out of his pocket, slide into the driver's seat yourself, and drive him to a secret destination without telling him where you’re going!

The BMW had been baking all afternoon, and climbing into it felt briefly like entering a punishment designed by someone who hated vinyl. You pushed through either ways.

Steve opened both doors first to let the heat roll out. He complained under his breath when you leaned against the driver’s side, because he was already beginning to understand what you wanted and did not know how to prevent it without sounding insane.

His words sounded strained in their attempt not to seem sure. “You’re not driving.”

“I haven’t exactly asked.”

Steve's hands came out to gesture wildly at you. “You’re standing by the driver’s door wearing my sweatshirt and holding an evil magazine.”

Your frowned, lips pulled to the side as you argued against the idea. “Evil is strong, don't you think?”

“I think it's accurate.” You huffed out a sigh and merely held out your hand to him He stared at it blankly, big hazel eyes flicking to your face then your outstretched palm.

“Keys,” you all but sang in glee.

Steve laughed once, not because it was funny, but because his body needed somewhere to put the clear alarm. “No way.”

“The article says I’m supposed to take total control.”

Steve's voice now was a delightful mix of clear distress and restrained panic. “Babe, articles have never seen you parallel park.”

“I don't even parallel park.”

“Exactly.” You only wiggled your fingers in response, paired along with a particularly determined look up at him.

Steve looked toward the empty storefront beside Family Video, then back at you. His keys sat in his palm, heavy with all the trust and terror he attached to that car. He loved the Beamer in a way he would not have admitted under oath. Actually, scratch that—Steve would gladly declare his love for his car anytime, but now? It felt oddly like a trap. It had been freedom when his house felt too quiet. It had been status when he had been shallow enough to need it. And later one, it had gone on to become transportation for the kids with their walkie-talkies, frantic errands, and the late-night drives where neither of you said much but the silence was nice anyways.

Letting someone else drive it was not nothing to Steve.

Letting you drive it while grinning like you had a plan was something else entirely.

“You know,” he said carefully, his muscles pulled at where they crossed against his chest, “a healthy relationship includes respecting boundaries.”

Your question came instantly. “Is your boundary the driver’s seat?”

“My boundary is not dying.”

“I’m a good driver!”

“You once hit a curb and blamed the curb!”

“It came out of nowhere.” The Defense felt weak now on your lips, and you barely held in the wince that tried to escape you.

But Steve only closed his eyes and you waited.

The thing was, you knew he would give them to you. Not because he was helpless, he certainly wasn't. Not because you could push him anywhere you wanted, both him and you weren't like that. Steve could be stubborn when something mattered. He could dig his heels in so hard it made everyone around him want to throw things. But this was not about the car, not really. It was about you asking him to let go of control for twenty minutes, and Steve had been trying, in small uneven ways, to learn how to do that.

He dropped the keys into your hand with such anguish you saved the date so you could make fun of him later on. But for now, the keys in your palm were a big enough win.

“If you grind the gears,” Steve exhaled with more defeat than irritation, “I’m breaking up with you until Monday.”

The threat was as fake as his excitement. “It’s Friday though?”

“I'll need the recovery time.” You slid into the driver’s seat before he could change his mind at your delighted grin.

Steve walked around the front of the car slowly, one hand trailing over the hood in a gesture so mournful you laughed before he even got in. He lowered himself into the passenger seat with stiff dignity and immediately reached for the dashboard by pure instinct.

You looked at his hand and he quickly moved it to his knee with a faint twitch of his fingers.

Your voice came passive in its gratitude. “Thank you for bracing, real show of trust.”

His defense came hot and rapid. “I wasn’t bracing!”

Yours came cooler and breezily. “You were absolutely bracing.”

Steve decided then to correct his stance into something more softly shaped. “I was settling…”

“You were preparing for impact—”

Steve pointed at the windshield with a regained passion that had you rolling your eyes. “Eyes on the road.”

“We’re parked?”

“Consider it practice.”

You adjusted the seat, which made him wince because you moved it forward. He quickly turned silent when you glared at him through your side profile. Then, you adjusted the mirror, the hanging air freshener swayed gently at the movement. Steve watched every change with increasing distress, mouth pressed into a line, fingers tapping once against his thigh before he made them stop.

You started the car a moment after leaning in to give him what you'd call, and you were sure he'd also deny, a much needed kiss near the corner of his mouth for his tension.

The engine rumbled to life beneath you, familiar but different from this side. Steve’s car always sounded more dramatic than necessary, and now that sound moved up through the soles of your shoes, into your knees, into the base of your ribs. You pulled out of the parking space carefully. 

Too carefully, apparently, because Steve inhaled and did not exhale until you straightened.

“See?” you made a point to extend your hand in a show of gesturing. 

He finally exhaled, his head whirling around the perimeter. “Great. We’ve traveled twelve feet.”

“Progress.”

You drove past the pizza place first.

Steve twisted in his seat, his face losing some of that tension when confusion took its place. “Wait. I thought we were eating.”

“We are.”

“Pizza is back there.”

You adjusted your grip on the wheel,  and inhaled sharply when Steve seemed like he wanted to comment on that too. Thankfully, he refrained. “Maybe we’re not getting pizza.”

He looked genuinely unsettled now, looking something akin to a puppy set free in a foreign meadow. “But it’s Friday.”

“Exactly.” Your words did little to ease him in the slightest.

“What does exactly mean?”

Your right hand came up to emphasize your next words. “It means you say ‘I don’t care, what do you want to do?’ too much.”

His expression shifted, defensive at first, then confused. “I say that because I don’t want to make you do stuff you don’t want to do.”

You nodded to his words because they were true, and because you loved him more for it. “I know.”

Steve was sure he was feeling unrecorded levels of distress currently. “So why is that bad?”

You glanced at him, then back at the road. The light had gone soft and low, catching in the dust along the windshield. “It’s not bad! It’s just sometimes I want you to want something out loud.”

Steve leaned back, the argument leaving him in stages.

He had not thought of it that way. To him, letting you pick felt considerate. It felt safe because if he chose wrong, if you got quiet, if the night bent into disappointment, then it would be his fault in a way he could not fix by rewinding a tape or buying another soda. It seemed better to let you choose. Better to be the guy who went along with what you wanted and did not become another person demanding things from you. Steve was many things, considerate high on that list.

But you were looking at the road with both hands on his steering wheel, wearing his sweatshirt, saying you wanted him to want things.

That sat somewhere tender.

“Okay,” he spoke softner after a minute had passed in the lull.

You felt the agreement settle without the usual push and pull. “Okay?”

Steve let one roughened palm drag over his eyes as he cleared his throat. “Okay. I can want things out loud.”

You smiled, but kept your eyes on the road. Your nails tapped against the wheel again now. “Good.”

“Right now, I want to know where we’re going.”

The attempt had you smiling and not bothering to hide the exasperation on your face. “Nope, not that kind of want.”

He groaned against his hand, “that’s cruel.”

“It’s mysterious.” you preferred the term over his.

“It’s kidnapping with lip gloss.” You laughed at his response, and Steve’s shoulders eased by pure bodily instinct. 

You drove beyond the familiar restaurants, beyond the streets where the houses sat close together with bikes in driveways and porch lights beginning to flick on. The town thinned into trees and long grass. The car moved through pockets of cooling air, windows down, and the radio catching half of one station and then another until Steve gave up and turned the volume low.

When you finally turned onto the road near an old quarry, he sat up.

“Oh,” his brows twisted as he took in the dim, but no less deliberate view..

You parked near the overlook where the trees opened just enough to show the water below, darkening under the evening sky. Nobody else was there. The place had an abandoned feeling now, less romantic than it probably used to be, because Hawkins had taught everyone to distrust woods after sunset. Still, the view was good. Ot was pretty in an intimate way. The water held the last orange light in broken pieces. Cicadas screamed from the trees, and somewhere far off, a dog barked and stopped.

You turned the engine off then, the keys rustling softly against the opening. For a few seconds, the car ticked quietly as it cooled.

Steve looked at the overlook, then at you. His voice came out different when he spoke, less teasing. You liked the shift. “You planned this?”

You nodded with an unnecessary addition of solemnity. “I had a magazine and a lot of confidence.”

“That’s a dangerous combination.”

“Apparently.”

He smiled, but his eyes moved back to the view. You could tell he liked it because he didn't immediately make another attempt at a joke. He just sat there with his elbow near the open window, hair slightly ruffled by the drive, looking out over the quarry while the last of his workday drained out of him.

Steve had spent a lot of time in cars with people he loved and feared losing. He had driven toward danger, away from danger, around town at three in the morning because somebody needed a ride or a distraction or a place to talk where no parents could hear. Sitting still in the passenger seat while you turned off the engine was strangely difficult. It left his hands empty. It left the evening open.

Then you held out his keys, the abrupt movement had him looking down at them quickly.

“You survived,” your voice came out lighter than intended. 

He took them and let his fingers brush yours deliberately. Steve's posture wasn't as tense as it had been prior, and you took it as a tactical win. “Barely.”

You didn't let him off so easily. “You liked it.”

“I liked the destination.” His words had truth to them, but certainly not the full truth.

“You didn’t like my driving?” He hesitated one second too long.

You gasped and Steve immediately turned to you, one hand reaching out to rub your forearm. “No, no, your driving was fine.”

“Fine?”

He quickly corrected himself. “Good. Great. Beautifully legal even.”

You rolled your eyes and got out before he could continue and somehow dig himself deeper.

Steve followed, still smiling. That was your favorite part. He went to the trunk and pulled out the old blanket he kept there. You caught sight of a flashlight, jumper cables, an empty fast-food cup, and the stupid nail-studded bat partially hidden beneath a towel. He noticed your exasperated gaze land on it and shut the trunk a little too fast.

“Emergency stuff,” he cleared his throat too fast.

You looked at him and he suddenly found the grass beneath him interesting. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Steve murmured into the open air. “Not a nothing face.”

The decision to ignore the words came easy. You reached for the blanket instead of asking. He handed it over with a small nod, grateful and embarrassed at once.

The two of you spread the blanket over the hood of the car after he made you promise not to scratch the paint. It was still warm from the engine beneath, and when you climbed up beside him, the metal gave a faint settling sound. Steve passed you a bag of pretzels from the trunk, opened badly down the side, and you ate them while the sky turned deeper and the heat softened around you.

For a while, there was nothing else.

There was just Steve telling you about a customer who asked whether Pretty in Pink was part of a series because “there had to be other colors,” and you telling him about the woman at Bradley’s who squeezed every peach in the bin with the intensity of a medical exam. He laughed with his head tilted back, throat exposed to the evening, and you felt the ordinary pleasure of having made him laugh settle into you.

Then the windshield caught his reflection.

Steve glanced at it and you saw the words actively flash in front of your eyes.

───

4. His Mirror Time Outpaces Your Eye-Contact Time 

An eighties boy who spends an hour fixing his legendary hair or splashing on his favorite cologne is great to look at — but if he spends more time checking his reflection in the diner window than he does looking deeply into your eyes across the table, his vanity might be serving his own ego rather than trying to impress you!

The Solution: Mess up his hair! Messing up a vain boy's hair is a high-risk, high-reward move that instantly forces his full attention away from the mirror and entirely onto you.

The first time, you let it pass.

Steve had always had an intimate relationship with reflective surfaces. Car windows, store glass, dark television screens, spoons if he was desperate. It would have been annoying if it were not so earnest. He checked his hair with the focus of a man maintaining an ecosystem. He denied it every time, but the evidence was constant.

The second time, he turned his head slightly, pretending to watch a bird move through the trees while his eyes flicked toward the windshield.

You lowered your half bitten pretzel into your lap, waiting for the moment to prove itself.

The third time, he smoothed one hand near his temple.

You reached for the magazine, which sat on the hood beside your thigh, and tapped the fourth section.

Steve noticed the movement.

“What number are we on?” he asked with the faint resignment of a man knowing he's in too deep to argue anymore.

You held your fingers up at his face. “Four.”

His face fell and his exhale came steady.  “Oh, God.”

“You don’t even know what four is!”

“I know I won’t like it.”

You smiled at the truth of the statement and even more at his expression.

He put both hands up in a time out position, his grin was weak in its pleading. “Can I opt out?”

Your answer came sharply ennunciated. “Nope.”

“Is this democracy?”

“Why would I possibly have this be a democracy?”

He looked toward the empty road, and his exaggerated sigh didn't fool you enough to ignore his bitten back smile. “Is there a witness?”

“Nope.”

“This can't possibly be just—”

You moved before he could get any farther and he immediately tried to escape. But he was too late, because your hands went straight into his hair by then.

Steve made a sound of pure betrayal. The sound erupted a warmth in your chest as you grinned hearing his own struggle with maintaining betrayl. “Hey! No—no, watch the hair!”

You laughed so hard your first attempt barely did any damage, which gave him hope for half a second. Then you got both hands properly into it, pushing the front back, raking your fingers through the carefully maintained height, mussing the sides until his entire head looked softer, younger, more touchable and less arranged.

He caught your wrists and his eyes twinkled near yours. Small pieves of now unkempt hair fell over his brows and he had to blow them away. “We have rules.”

“We do not have rules,” you argued, struggling against his grip.

His hands were still wrapped around your wrists, they weren't restraining as much as they were holding in pleading hope. His grip was gentle, pulling you into him. “My hair has rules!”

The correction came quick on your tongue.“Your hair is vain.”

Steve gasped in blatant pffense which only served to make you laugh harder. “I'll have you know, my hair is a public service.”

You couldn't be comvinced. “You looked at yourself in the windshield three times.”

“I was checking for danger.” he tried to firmly combat your argument with his own.

“Was the danger split ends?”

Steve stared at you, scandalized. There was no hiding the wide smile that crawled its way onto your face now at his whine. “Sweetheart, that was really mean.”

“It was accurate.”

“It was both.”

You tried to continue ruining him, but he held your wrists away now, laughing despite himself. The sound exhoed against your ear drums. His grip was warm. His thumbs landed near your pulse points. The evening had cooled enough that the warmth of him felt more noticeable, especially with the blanket beneath your legs and his sweatshirt still hanging loose over your body.

His hair had slowly become a disaster.

Not terrible, it could never be terrible. Steve Harrington’s hair seemed incapable of true failure, which was deeply unfair to you. Or anyone else, really. But the shape was gone from it. One piece fell over his forehead, another stuck up near the back, and the sides had lost their polished swoop. He looked less like the version of himself he presented to the world and more like the one who woke up late and padded barefoot into the kitchen, squinting at the coffee maker.

Your laughter thinned into a smaller version of a smile. Steve saw the change and stopped pulling your hands away.

“What?” he mirrored your expression, as if your joy could be naturally echoed into his just as easily.

“Nothing.”

He narrowed his eyes at the softness of your voice. “You don’t get to use my line.”

You just shook your head at him, eyes softening gently. “You look different.”

“Worse?” The question left him in natural humor.

“No.”

He looked at you, and beneath the joking offense there was something cautious. Steve was used to being looked at. He had been looked at for years by people who wanted something from the surface. He knew how to stand under that kind of attention. He knew what to do with it.

But with you, it was always different. 

You were looking at him with his hair messed up and his guard lowered, your sleeves falling over your hands, your knee pressed against his thigh on the warm hood of his car. You were not laughing at him now, not exactly. You were seeing him in a way that made him want to joke and stay quiet at the same time.

He released one of your wrists, and you used your free hand to push the fallen piece of hair back more gently than before.

“There,” you breathed softer into the chilling air. “Improved.”

He huffed with a glint in his eye as he tilted his head looking to you. “Ruined.”

You remained steadfast in your description. “Improved.”

“Sabotaged.” a sigh escaped you before you decided to settle on the middle ground.

“Humanized.”

“That’s worse.”

You laughed again, and he grabbed you around the waist before you could dodge. It was not a dramatic move. It was entirely clumsy, half seated on the hood, one knee sliding on the blanket, and had pretzels nearly tipping over. You yelped, caught his shoulder, and he pulled you closer with a grin he wouldn't ever bother hiding.

“Retaliation,” he hummed against you.

Your eyes narrowed to glare up against him. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Steve.”

“You attacked a national treasure.”

The laugh left you all sputtered and incredulous. “You are not a national treasure.”

“My hair is.”

He tried to tickle your side through the sweatshirt, but the fabric was too thick and his angle was bad. You squirmed anyway because the attempt was enough, laughing into his shoulder while he complained about unfair defenses and oversized sleeves. The blanket bunched beneath you. Your knee knocked the pretzel bag. Steve caught it with one hand at the last second and looked so proud of himself that you shoved his shoulder.

“My hero,” you sighed dreamily as you exaggerated fanning yourself.

“Always.”

It was a joke, but it landed in the quiet between you with more weight than either of you meant. His smile flickered for half a second. Not gone, just altered instead.

You knew better than to poke directly at that. There were words that made Steve stiffen because they came with too many memories: hero, brave, fine. Compliments could hurt when they touched old bruises.

So you stole a pretzel from the bag he had saved and held it up against his lips. “Your reward.”

He accepted it solemnly, head tilting down to nibble against your fingers rather than the pretzel. That had you shoving at him all the same. “I deserve more.”

“You deserve a comb.”

“That too.”

The transition back into ease happened slowly but naturally, without announcement. Steve leaned back on his hands, letting his ruined hair stay ruined. You sat beside him, head against his shoulder, watching the quarry disappear into blue shadow. The air cooled enough that you finally felt grateful for his sweatshirt. He did not ask for it back again.

Later, when he drove you home, he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror only once. That once was entirely enough for you anyway. 

You reached over and tilted the mirror away.

He groaned your name and you smiled all the way to your driveway.

───

5. He Treats Your Presence Like a Given

Does he toss you his car keys, expect you to carry the snacks, and assume you’ll just automatically follow him wherever his friends are hanging out? When a guy stops asking you out on real, proper dates and just expects you to "be around," he’s treating you less like a girlfriend and more like his favorite security blanket.

The Solution:  Create a little mystery. Next time he assumes you're free, tell him you have "secret plans" for the afternoon. A tiny bit of healthy distance will make him realize just how much he misses his favorite view!

The next morning, Steve called before noon.

You were still sitting on your bedroom floor with your back against the bed, legs stretched out, the Cosmopolitan magazine open beside a half-eaten bowl of cereal. The window was cracked, but the air coming through was already warm. Somewhere outside, a lawn mower started, stopped, then started again with the stubborn cough of old machinery from your neighbors. 

Your room smelled faintly of hairspray, clean laundry, and the perfume still clinging to Steve’s sweatshirt, which you had absolutely not returned.

The phone rang twice before you picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Steve greeted immediately. His voice had that slightly distracted quality that meant he was at work and probably doing three things badly. You could hear the store behind him: Robin talking too loudly, the dull clack of tape cases, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights even through the line. “Movie tonight?”

No lead-in. No question about your morning. No attempt at charm.

Just movie tonight, offered with the easy assumption that of course you would be there, because usually you were. Usually you liked being there. Usually Steve called and you fit yourself into the shape of his evening without minding much at all.

You looked down.

Number five sat open on the magazine page.

He Treats Your Presence Like a Given.

The article accused him of turning you into his favorite security blanket.

That was unfair too, but not entirely untrue in the way the most irritating things sometimes were. Steve did not take you for granted, and certainly not on purpose. He was too careful for that in the places where it counted. He noticed when you were cold. He remembered which pizza toppings you hated. He opened doors because he had been raised with manners and then kept doing it because he liked the brief second where his hand landed near your back.

But he did assume you would be around.

Sometimes, because he wanted you there.

Sometimes, because he needed you there and had not learned how to say need without dressing it up as a casual plan.

You let the silence stretch as your fingers came up to your lips in pondering. 

On the other end, Steve paused. “Hello?”

“I have secret plans.”

The line went quiet after your words.

You could picture his face too clearly: eyebrows lifting, mouth tightening a little, free hand landing on his hip. Steve did not like mysteries unless he was solving them, and even then he preferred them to arrive with flashlights, maps, and Dustin explaining too much.

“Secret plans,” he repeated, and you could practically see the way his face had been scrunching up.

“Yup.”

“With who?” The question came out too quickly.

You smiled into the receiver and you were sure he could practically hear it.

Steve regretted it immediately. You could hear it in the way he inhaled and then exhaled through his nose, probably turning away from Robin so she could not see his face.

“I didn’t mean that in a weird way,” he added. You knew that, of course. But would that stop you from poking fun at your boyfriend? Absolutely not.

You forced a flat hum to even your voice. “And what way did you mean it?”

Steve’s defense came strong, but no less real. “A normal boyfriend curiosity way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Not jealousy. I’m not jealous.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I’m clarifying.”

Your fingers looped around the phone cord as your eyes flickered down to the magazine sprawled in your lap. “Sounds suspicious.”

At Family Video, Steve leaned against the wall near the phone and closed his eyes. Robin, sitting on the floor with a stack of returns around her, looked up with predatory interest.

“Are you being dumped?” she whispered, her blue eyes wide at his bodily reaction.

Steve covered the receiver and promptly ignored her, though not before throwing Robin a glare. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

He turned his back to her. And into the phone, he cleared his throat and said, “Are your secret plans dangerous?”

You only hummed in response. “Maybe.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“They’re secret.”

The faint spund of rustling hit your ear, and you could picture the scene everytime you blinked. With Steve running his hand through his hair because he'd become fidgety all of a sudden. “You keep saying that like it explains anything.”

You tried not to feel cruel at how the mental image made you grin and feel warmth crawl up your body. “It does.”

“It explains nothing.”

You pulled the sweatshirt sleeve over your hand and toyed with the phone cord wrapped around your ankle. “You can survive one afternoon without me.”

“I know that.”

Judging by his voice now, you weren't entirely convinced. “Do you?”

He stopped.

That was the trouble with joking. Sometimes it opened a door you had not meant to touch.

Steve knew he could survive without you for an afternoon. He had survived worse things than an empty passenger seat. He had survived silence in his parents’ house, survived losing versions of himself he had once thought were permanent, survived monsters with too many teeth and nights where sleep arrived late and left early.

But his day had begun to arrange itself around you without asking permission. He knew when you usually came by. He knew which stool you liked. He knew the face you made when Robin got into a fight with a customer and the face you made when Steve pretended he was above gossip and then leaned in anyway. He knew the small relief of looking up and finding you there.

He knew familiarity for certainty.

The realization made him pick at the peeling edge of a sticker on the phone.

“You’re really busy?” he asked, quieter.

You softened, because you hadn't really meant to hurt him. “For a little while.”

“Okay.”

Your tried not to falter, but your voice didn't heed your wishes. “You sound disappointed.”

Steve denied it quickly. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m handsome and disappointed.” That got you. You laughed, and the line loosened again.

Your secret plans were not glamorous. They involved going to the mall with a friend, buying a lemonade too sour to fully finish, and letting yourself try on clothes you couldn't afford in a department store dressing room with bad lighting. You walked past the arcade and heard machines chiming through the open entrance. You lingered in the music store longer than necessary, flipping through records with one hand while the other kept finding the soft cuff of one of Steve’s other jackets you held onto and never gave back.

You did miss him.

That was the annoying part. Or, rather, not.

The magazine had intended mystery to make him miss you, but nobody had warned you that absence worked both ways. By mid-afternoon, you caught yourself wondering whether he had eaten lunch or just stolen Red Vines from the candy display. You wondered whether Robin had teased him into a worse mood or a better one. You wondered if he had fidgeted with his hair because he'd become restless.

At four, you found a pay phone near the arcade.

The metal was hot against your fingers. A kid with sticky blue lips waited nearby, bouncing on his heels, probably impatient to call his mother for another ride he had already missed. You fed coins into the slot and dialed Family Video from memory.

Steve picked up on the second ring.

“Family Video, where late fees are real and the employees have no mercy.”

You snorted at the welcome. “Nice greeting.”

There was a pause, and then his voice changed. “Hey.”

One word, and it was warmer than it had any right to be.

You leaned against the phone, voice softening after hearing his. “My secret plans are over.”

“Oh, thank God.” You tried to not laugh at the sincerity of his wreckage. 

“You survived?”

“Barely. A woman asked for a movie with ‘the guy from that thing,’ and Robin threatened to eat the return log.”

You clicked your tongue in sympathy. “Sounds traumatic.”

“I’ve seen war.” His tone had you picturing the bobble of his head clearly.

You leaned your shoulder against the side of the pay phone. “Did you miss me?”

Steve looked toward the front of the store, where Robin was helping a teenager pick between two horror movies and making both sound morally inferior. He turned slightly toward the wall.

“Yeah, always,” he said.

No joke.

No handsome and disappointed.

Just yeah, always

Your fingers tightened around the phone cord.

The mall noise continued around you: sneakers squeaking, teenagers laughing too loudly, and the arcade machines spilling synthetic music into the corridor. But the line between you and Steve felt briefly separate from all of it, thin and private and warm.

“I’ll come by,” you hummed into the receiver.

“I’ll act surprised.”

“You better.”

When you walked into Family Video an hour later, Steve looked up from the counter and caught himself before saying the first easy thing.

You saw the effort.

His gaze moved over you properly, taking in the mall bag at your side, his jacket on your body, your hair slightly wind-tangled from the drive.

Then he smiled.

“There you are,” he greeted.  It was not a compliment, exactly.

It worked better than one, though.

Robin glanced between you both and rolled her eyes so hard it was nearly athletic.

“Disgusting,” she scoffed at Steve,  before smiling secretly when she saw the affect it had on you. “Do it again.”

Steve threw a wadded receipt at her and missed. And you sat on your stool, pretending you were not pleased.

He noticed anyway.

───

6. The Future is a Forbidden Zone 

Pay close attention to how he acts when you bring up anything happening more than two weeks from now. If he cracks a defensive joke, blushes, or immediately changes the subject to sports or cars, he might be totally terrified of growing up. He might love you today, but is he brave enough to dream about tomorrow?

The Solution:  Don't nag him! Instead, paint a fun, wildly dramatic picture of what you two will look like in the upcoming decade. Turning the future into a playful joke takes the pressure off and lets him see that growing up doesn't have to be boring.

Closing dragged that night.

Not in a bad way. Just in the way ordinary time dragged when nothing terrible happened and everyone was tired enough to notice the minute hand moving. A storm threatened for an hour without arriving. The air outside thickened, pressing against the windows, and the neon sign gave the front glass a red-blue glow that made the aisles look emptier than they were.

Keith left early because of “stomach problems,” which Robin translated as “he found something better to do.” She stayed until her ride came, drumming her fingers against the counter and telling Steve that if he forgot to lock the back door again, she would personally spread rumors about his favorite movie being The Care Bears Movie.

“It was one time,” Steve had defended himself vehemently. 

“One time is enough when crime exists.”

“No criminal wants our instructional workout tapes.”

“You don’t know their lives!”

After she left, the store settled even more.

You sat cross-legged on the counter while Steve counted the register. He had let you stay because he always let you stay, even though he complained that Keith would blame him if you scuffed the laminate. The Cosmopolitan lay open beside you, pages softened from a day of folding and handling. A half-empty soda sweated onto a napkin near your thigh. 

Steve counted bills under his breath.

You watched his hands.

He had nice hands, though he would have made a face if you said it too seriously. They were steady with money, restless when he talked, amd gentle when he touched you in public because he was more careful now than he used to be. There was a faint scar near one knuckle. Another near his wrist. Small reminders that did not announce themselves unless you already knew where to look.

You glanced down at the sixth section.

The Future is a Forbidden Zone.

The article described boys who blushed, joked, or changed the subject when anything more than two weeks away came up. It sounded exaggerated. It also sounded enough like Steve to make you bite the inside of your cheek.

Steve could talk about tomorrow. He could talk about next Friday, the next shift, the next movie, the next time Dustin needed a ride and pretended it was not a favor. But farther out than that, his voice shifted. He did not shut down exactly. He just moved sideways. A joke, a complaint, a sudden question about whether you wanted fries.

The future made him slippery.

You understood why.

The future had not been a reliable place for anyone in Hawkins. Plans got interrupted here. People disappeared. Malls burned. Girls moved away. Boys woke up different than they used to be and had to keep living in the same houses, driving the same roads, and pretending the town had not opened its mouth beneath them.

Still, the magazine said not to nag.

It said to paint a fun, wildly dramatic picture.

So you leaned back on your hands and said, “What do you think we’ll be doing in the nineties?”

Steve lost count instantly.

You knew because his lips stopped moving and his thumb froze on a five-dollar bill.

He looked up, expressive eyes on yours. “The nineties?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

“The decade?”

The scoff left you before you could help it, and so did the sarcasm. “No, Steve. The sandwich.”

He stared at you with his scrunched up face, and you only smiled innocently.

He looked back down at the money, too focused now. “I don’t know. Hopefully not this.”

You tilted your head down at him, one leg dangled of the edge of the counter now, swinging casually. “You don’t see yourself managing Family Video for the rest of your life?”

Steve’s sigh came almost endearing in how displeased it was. “Please don’t say something that depressing while I’m holding cash.”

You continued brighter now that his face seemed determined to keep its sour state. “You could have a little office.”

“No.”

“A nameplate?”

“No.”

“Keith could work under you.”

Steve looked up at you horrified now. “Why would you say that?”

You laughed, then swung one foot lightly against the cabinet beneath the counter again. “Fine. Not Family Video. Something else. Something with ties.”

“Ties?”

The words came assured. “You’ll own at least three.”

“I already own ties.”

“Not funeral or wedding ties. Work ties.”

He made that familiar face that had you wanting to kiss it back to normal. “I don’t trust jobs where your neck has to be trapped.”

You continued on, you weren't quite sure he was a engaged as you,  but you went on anyways. “You’ll complain every morning and wear them anyway.”

“Sounds right.”

“And you’ll drive something practical.”

Steve's refusal came instantaneously. “No way.”

You only have a hum in response. “Uh-huh.”

“No.”

The words continued to flow. “A station wagon.”

Steve put the money down, hands resting on the area above where your thighs rested. “We’re breaking up.”

You didn't bother rolling your eyes at his words; instead, you let your smile stick and your tongue continue. “With wood paneling.”

“We’re broken up and I want my closet back.”

You crossed your arms in his jacket and continued to ignore him. “You’ll have little sunglasses in the glove compartment.”

“I already have sunglasses in the glove compartment. That part is cool.”

“And tissues.”

Steve nodded alongside you at that. “For allergies.”

“And snacks.”

“For emergencies.”

You leaned into him then,  the smile still easily in place. “And you’ll yell at kids for putting their feet on the seats.”

“They should not put their feet on the seats.”

You pointed at him for proving your point. “See? Dad car.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The word dad seemed to have landed differently than the rest.

You saw it happen. He tried to keep the joke moving, but his fingers shifted against the counter, pressing lightly into the laminate. His gaze dropped to the register. Not scared, exactly. Just weary at it being verbalized.

Steve had a complicated relationship with the idea of becoming anything permanent. He wanted it more than he trusted it. You knew that. You had learned it in pieces. In the way he got quiet around families at diners, watching fathers who remembered their kids’ orders. In the way he talked about his own parents with a shrug too practiced to be casual. In the way he could handle six teenagers in danger better than one sincere conversation about what he might want when danger was not the center of the room.

So, you kept the tone light.

“You’ll be the kind of dad who says he’s not mad, just disappointed, and then immediately gets mad.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, almost embarrassed at the accuracy. “I don’t say that.”

“You would.”

He tried to disagree stronger. “I’d be cool!”

You nodded at that. “You’d try.”

“I would succeed.”

Your grin came unabashed as your imagined ymthe picture you were painting. “You’d wear tube socks with sneakers.”

“That, is a personal attack.”

“You’d stand at the grill holding tongs and click them twice before using them.” Everyone clicked tongs twice. You were fairly certain it was law. But Steve looked down, smiling despite himself.

“Okay,” he sighed at final, with an amount of pleased resignation that you hadn't fully been ready to receive. “What about you?”

You blinked before you could help it. “What about me?”

Steve smiled at you, and your brain did a weird stutter. “In our tragic station wagon future.”

You had not expected him to ask it so seriously.

You had been building the future out of jokes so it would not collapse under its own weight. Suddenly, he was looking at you through the fluorescent quiet of Family Video, his hair still a little imperfect from running through it before, and his tired eyes steady on your face.

You swallowed quickly after realizing you fell quiet.

“I’ll be there,” you settled for, then made yourself smile before it became too much. “Obviously. Someone has to pick the radio station.”

Steve held your gaze.

His face did not do anything dramatic. There was no sudden confession. No grand realization. He just breathed in, small and careful, then nodded once.

“Obviously,” he repeated.

He looked back down at the register after that, but he had lost count beyond saving.

You didn't tease him immediately like you'd normally do.

You let him start over with the bills while you reached for the soda and took a sip that had gone mostly watery. The silence between you stayed easy enough, though changed at the edges. Steve counted more slowly this time. Every so often, his eyes flicked up to you, then away.

He was thinking.

Not running, not joking his way fully out of it.

Thinking.

When he finally finished the register and locked it, he leaned both hands on the counter and looked at the magazine.

“So,” he exhaled deeply into the open air, “is there a number about girlfriends who use journalism for psychological warfare?”

You closed the magazine with a strange lightness. “Probably in next month’s issue.”

He nodded. “Great. Can’t wait.”

You slipped off the counter, landing close enough that he had to look down at you. The store was dim except for the front lights and the glow from the sign. Steve smelled faintly of work and cologne and the peppermint gum he had chewed earlier.

“You’re doing okay,” you said at last because you couldn't help yourself. 

He lifted an eyebrow at that.  “Am I being graded?”

“Constantly.”

“What’s my grade?”

“it's pending.”

Steve snorted. “That’s worse than failing.”

“You can improve with extra credit.”

His expression warmed and he let his hands fall to your waist. “Oh, yeah?”

You took one step back and pointed toward the door. The smile on your face mirrored his before it fell. “Lock up.”

He groaned, but still went.

You watched him move through the store, checking the back, flipping switches, rattling the front door after locking it because Robin had trained him with fear. He looked young in the empty store and not young at all. He looked tired and solid and a little ridiculous with his key ring in his mouth while he adjusted the alarm panel.

When he came back to you, he held out his hand without making a production of it.

You took it.

Neither of you said anything about the nineties again that night, but Steve held your hand all the way to the car and didn't let go until he had to open your door.

───

7. The Spark Has Moved from the Bedroom to the Sofa

If your primary shared activity has slowly shifted from breathless, passionate sessions to falling asleep halfway through a rented thriller tape on the couch, your chemistry is taking a backseat to comfort. Snuggling is wonderful, but it should never entirely replace the fire!

The Solution:  Turn off the TV right in the middle of the movie's climax. When he complains, look him dead in the eye and tell him you have a much better way to keep both of you entertained!

Steve’s house was too clean when his parents were gone.

It always unsettled you a little, though you had learned not to say that. The Harrington house had the polished stillness of a place maintained for people who were rarely there long enough to leave evidence behind. The lamps worked. The counters shone. The couch pillows were arranged with decorative precision until Steve got home and ruined them by existing.

You liked it better after he ruined them.

You liked the shoes near the door, the jacket over the banister, and the half-empty glass of water beside the sink. You liked when he left a tape on the coffee table and a blanket half-folded over the arm of the couch. Those small messes made the house less showroom and more shelter.

After closing, he drove you there with the windows down and the radio low. The storm still had not arrived, but the air had changed. It smelled damp now, heavy with the promise of rain. Steve kept one hand on the wheel and the other near your knee, not quite touching until the roads emptied and his fingers finally settled there.

At his house, he insisted he was making popcorn because “date night requires snacks.” You followed him into the kitchen, still wearing his jacket because it was warmed than any blanket he could give, and watched him tear open the plastic wrapper with more confidence than the task required.

“You burned it last time,” you frowned at his work.

He was quick to correct you. “I did not burn it. I gave it character.”

“You set off the smoke detector.”

He paused before murmuring. “Briefly.”

“You waved a dish towel at it and yelled, ‘Don’t start.’”

Steve only shrugged. “That was a negotiation.”

You leaned against the counter while he put the bag in the microwave. He pressed the buttons, then turned around and caught you looking at him.

“What?”

The words came naturally. “Nothing.”

They also did little to please Steve. “Nope. We retired nothing. Be specific.”

You smiled and simply just shook your head. “You look nice, babe. ‘That's all.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s my trauma now.”

Your voice came light and teasing now. “Three reasons?”

“I’m not falling for that.”

“You sure?”

The microwave started popping. Steve tried not to smile and failed by inches. “One, I’m making popcorn. Two, I drove. Three, my hair recovered from your previous assault.”

You didn't bother to hide the roll of your eyes. “You call those reasons?”

He simply shrugged with his grin. “I call them evidence.”

The popcorn began popping faster. Steve glanced back, then leaned beside you against the counter. His shoulder brushed yours. For a few moments, neither of you moved. The kitchen light was warmer than at his job, softer on his face, catching the tiredness under his eyes without making him look worn down. He had taken off his work polo and changed into a plain T-shirt, and the simplicity of it made you aware of how long the day had been.

He looked at you then, properly.

Not because a magazine told him to. Not because you demanded reasons. Just because you were there in his kitchen, sleeves over your hands, perfume faded, and hair imperfect from heat and wind and the day’s nonsense.

His hand found the hem of the jacket. “Still mine.”

“Still not.”

He pulled you into him by the grip he had on the hem of the fabric. “I’m going to start charging rent.”

You tilted your head up at him because the angle needed you to. “I’ll pay in compliments.”

“Specific ones?”

You huffed and leaned up to plant a chaste kiss on his lower jawline. “Don’t get greedy.”

The microwave beeped before he could answer.

The first bag came out mostly edible, only slightly scorched at one corner, which Steve declared a triumph. He poured it into a large bowl, added too much salt, then carried it into the living room with the dignity of a man presenting a feast.

The movie was a thriller neither of you had strong feelings about. Steve had picked it because the cover looked “medium scary,” which apparently meant scary enough to justify sitting close but not scary enough to ruin the evening. You took your usual side of the couch. He took his. Within five minutes, your legs were over his lap and his hand rested on your shin, his thumb moving absently over the ribbed cuff of your sock.

The television threw blue-white light across the room.

A woman on screen walked through a dark hallway with a candle despite every instinct and all available electricity. Steve, who had survived things that made movie monsters look lazy, immediately became furious.

“Don’t go in there,” he groaned at the television with his hands gesturing wildly.

Your reminder came gentle and blank. “She can’t hear you.”

“She should!”

“She’s fictional, babe.”

“She’s stupid.”

You took a handful of popcorn and shrugged. “Maybe she’s brave.”

“Brave people can turn on lamps.”

You laughed, and his hand tightened briefly around your ankle, pleased with himself for the achievement. 

This, apparently, was the comfort the article had warned you about.

The couch. The shared popcorn. The old rhythm of your legs across him, his fingers warm through your sock, the easy commentary over a bad movie. The way you both knew without discussing it who would get up for drinks, who would complain about the blanket being too far away, who would pretend not to be sleepy first.

It did not feel like the absence of romance.

It felt lived in.

You thought about the word comfortable and how the magazine had treated it like something dangerous, a warning sign in glossy print. Maybe sometimes it was. Maybe people did stop trying. Maybe affection could become furniture if no one touched it on purpose. But you had seen Steve try in ways that did not look glamorous enough for an article. He tried by checking your tires when he noticed one looked low. He tried by buying the cereal you liked and pretending it was for him even when he hated it. He tried by standing between you and things he had every right to run from.

Still, the final instruction was sitting there in your head, bright and absurd.

Turn off the TV right in the middle of the movie’s climax.

So, you waited.

The movie dragged itself toward chaos. Rain lashed the windows on screen. Someone found a bloody key. The heroine finally realized the killer was in the house roughly forty minutes after Steve had announced it.

He leaned forward despite himself.

“Okay, now run,” he instructed, his voice antsy now. “No, not upstairs. Why is it always upstairs? There’s nowhere to go upstairs!”

You reached for the remote, and you had to bite back a grin at how ridiculous this all seemed in reality.

He did not seem to notice, he was too entranced by the stupidity of the characters through the screen. 

The music rose. The heroine hid behind a door. A shadow moved across the wall.

And you clicked the television off.

The room fell silent so abruptly that the house seemed to inhale.

Steve froze promptly. 

His face, lit now only by the lamp, stayed aimed at the blank screen. His mouth was slightly open. One hand hovered above the popcorn bowl.

For three seconds, he did nothing. Then he turned to you, mouth agaped.

“You did not.”

You set the remote on the coffee table and nodded with a premium amount of sympathy. “I did.”

“That was the climax!”

You hummed, “I’m aware.”

Steve’s face was shoved into his hands now, his whine xould practically be heard for miles. “We watched the whole movie to get there.”

“Technically, you yelled at the whole movie to get there.”

“The killer was behind her!”

“I’m sure he’ll wait.”

Steve stared at you with deep, personal betrayal. “You’re sick.”

You tried to look serious and failed when you broke into a smile.

His eyes moved from you to the magazine lying on the coffee table, where you had dropped it earlier without thinking. The cover caught the lamp light. The headline peeked up from beneath the fold.

You watched understanding hit him.

Slowly, then all at once.

“Oh my God,” he said.

You pressed your lips together, which did nothing to hide the small giggles that left you as his voice turned blatantly aggrieved. 

“This whole time!”

Yoy played dumb. “What whole time?”

“This whole time was that—that thing.” He pointed at the magazine with such venom in his voice it was even barder to take him seriously now. “You’ve been Cosmo-ing me!”

You shook your head but couldn't stop your amusement. “I have not been Cosmo-ing you.”

Steve started to list his recount of the events. “You stole my sweatshirt.”

You shot back quickly. “You gave it up willingly.”

“You hijacked my car.” His voice became more breathless with each passing second with every realization. 

“You handed me the keys!”

This time, his tone of betrayal made you roll your eyes. “You attacked my hair.”

“It was deserved—”

“You had secret plans.”

You grinned at his expression. “They were secret.”

“You made me talk about the nineties!”

You shrugged and picked at the invisible lint of your bottoms. “The article made a few points.”

Steve sat back against the couch, processing betrayal with one hand over his mouth. He was quiet long enough that you wondered if the joke had gone too far. Then his shoulders started shaking.

He laughed.

Not loudly at first, just a helpless, disbelieving sound behind his hand. Then he dropped his hand and looked at you with his hair slightly messy again from the couch, eyes bright, mouth pulling open into the kind of laugh that made him look younger than he let himself be most days.

“You are unbelievable,” he breathed out, almost disbelieving. 

Your voice came out just as quiet as it was incredulous. “You’re not mad?”

“I don’t know. I might be. I can’t tell because it’s stupid.”

You tried for your favor. “It was educational.”

“It was psychological warfare with perfume.”

You smiled before you could control it. “You passed some of it.”

“Some?”

The words came instinctively. “You need room to grow.”

He pointed at you with a new sense of knowledge. “That is exactly what a magazine cult leader would say.”

You laughed, then reached for the popcorn bowl before it tipped. The room had changed without the TV. Not into something staged, but something quieter. More aware of itself. You could hear the refrigerator hum in his kitchen, the faint rush of air through the vents, and the distant roll of thunder finally approaching after hours of threats.

Steve’s laughter softened.

He looked at you, and this time there was no audience, no fluorescent light, no Robin waiting to make things worse. Just the couch, the cooling bowl of popcorn, the blank television, the old sweatshirt, and the magazine that had started as a joke and somehow exposed all these small places where comfort and effort touched.

“So,” he tilted his head upwards to the ceiling, “what’s the final diagnosis?”

You picked up the magazine and flipped it closed. The cover girl disappeared under your hand.

“You’re comfortable,” you decided to say at last.

Steve watched you carefully.

You could feel how much hung on the word now, though neither of you had meant for the night to become serious. His hand still rested near your ankle, but his thumb had stopped moving. He was waiting with the particular stillness he got when he was trying not to brace for bad news.

You nudged his thigh gently with your foot.

“But not lazy.”

His shoulders loosened and you wanted to melt into them. “You sure?”

You nodded against the cushion beneath your head. “Yeah.”

He looked down, smiling faintly. And you appreciated the sight on reflex. “Because I said nice?”

There was a faint silence before you took a deep breath and exhaled with a smile yourself. “You recovered from that mishap.”

Steve nodded to himself at your words. “I gave three reasons.”

“You did.”

“Good ones.”

“Mostly good ones.”

He made an offended sound, but it did not land. His hand resumed its slow movement over your sock. “For the record, I’m not trying to stop trying.”

You looked at him, because you weren't sure where else to look at.

He didn't look away, but he did look a little uncomfortable with his own sincerity. His jaw shifted, and his free hand picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion.

“I know sometimes I do the easy thing,” he said before you could jump in to stop him. “The restaurant thing. Or the movie thing. Or I just assume you’re coming over because you usually do, and I like when you do, so I don’t. . . think about how it sounds.” He paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the blank TV. “And future stuff is… I don’t know. Weird.”

You let him find the words without helping too much. You knew it was important to him.

Steve was not always graceful with this. If you rushed him, he might joke his way out. If you stared too hard, he might shut the sentence down and pretend it had never started. So you kept your body relaxed against the couch and waited. 

You would wait for him forever if need be, Steve was worth that and more.

He exhaled, “I want things. I just don’t always say them because saying them makes them real, and real things can get messed up.”

The words sat between you.

You looked down at the sweatshirt sleeves over your hands, then back at him. “I don’t need you to be perfect.”

“I know.”

You made a face. “Do you?”

He gave you the small, crooked smile that you loved. “I’m learning.”

There it was again: the same answer from the night before, but quieter now. Less joke, more promise.

Rain finally began against the windows, soft at first, then steadier. It tapped along the glass and filled the room with a low, gentle sound. Steve glanced toward it, then back to you.

“You also don’t have to use a magazine to tell me stuff,” he cleared his throat.

“I know.” And you did, that was something you were entirely sure of when it came to Steve. 

“Do you?”

You smiled because you deserved that. “Maybe I’m learning too.”

He nodded, satisfied. “Good. Because if next month’s issue tells you to fake your own disappearance to test my devotion, I’m calling Hopper.”

“He’d be very annoyed, I'm sure.”

“He’d arrest the magazine.”

“You think he has that authority?”

“For you? Probably.”

The seriousness eased. Not vanished, exactly, but folded into the warmth already there. Steve reached over and took the magazine from your lap, holding it up between two fingers.

“This,” Steve declared with a fevered passion, “is going in a drawer.”

Your words came out song-like and taunting. “You’re scared.”

“I prefer the term cautious.”

“You literally fight monsters.”

Steve gave you a pointed look. “Monsters don’t give you numbered relationship advice.”

You grabbed for the magazine, and he lifted it out of reach, which made you lean across him. The popcorn bowl wobbled dangerously. He caught it again with one hand and laughed under his breath.

“Careful.”

“You started it.”

“You started it at approximately five-ten yesterday after noon.”

“You kept failing tests.”

Steve defended himself fiercely. “I didn’t know there were tests!”

“That’s how tests work.”

“No, that’s how traps work.”

You got the magazine back only because he let you, though he pretended otherwise. When you tossed it onto the far end of the coffee table, he looked at you with narrowed, wide eyes.

“You’re done?”

“With the article?”

“Yes.”

You nodded solemnly, but your eyes gave you away to joy. “Done.”

“No more solutions?”

“No more solutions.” you promised. 

“Good.”

A beat passed.

Then you looked him dead in the eye, deciding to follow the last stupid line of advice you were given. “I do have a much better way to keep us entertained, though.”

Steve’s eyebrows lifted.

The line was ridiculous. You knew it. It belonged to the glossy page and the bossy article and the version of romance that thought every moment needed a dramatic instruction. But in the quiet living room, with rain beginning properly outside and the movie forgotten, it made Steve’s mouth curve.

“Oh, yeah?” he hummed with a tilt of of head. 

“Maybe.”

His hand slid from your ankle to your calf, still slow, still asking. “Does this better way involve stealing any more of my clothes?”

“You’re not wearing a sweatshirt anymore.”

“Thank God for that,” his words came out dry and low, sending goosebumps against where his fingers touched.

“Could steal your shirt though.”

His laugh came out all startled. “Okay, trouble.”

You grinned, but when he leaned closer, he didn't rush. That was one of the things you trusted about him. For all his teasing, for all the old reputation that still followed him around town in pieces, Steve had become careful with closeness. His hand came to your jaw, thumb resting near the corner of your mouth. His eyes searched your face with enough patience to make your chest ache.

“You sure the movie can stay off?” he asked against you. 

Your brow quirked up.  “You were yelling at it.”

“I was invested!”

“You’ll survive.”

“Barely,” he murmured and before you could argue, Steve kissed you.

The first kiss was smiling and badly aimed because you laughed right before it landed. His nose bumped yours. Your hand went into his hair by instinct, and he made a muffled sound of protest against your mouth.

“Hair,” he murmured with his lips putting against yours, the reaction only spurring you on more. 

“National treasure,” you whispered back.

“Exactly.”

You kissed him again, better this time.

The rain thickened against the windows. The lamp beside the couch hummed softly. Steve’s hand moved to your waist, fingers pressing into the thick fabric of his sweatshirt, and you shifted closer until your knees fit awkwardly against his thigh and the popcorn bowl had to be relocated to the coffee table for everyone’s comfort.

It was certainly not graceful. Your elbow hit the cushion, and he laughed into your mouth. You told him to stop laughing, which made him laugh more. He called you bossy. You called him dramatic. He tried to defend himself and lost the thread of the argument when you kissed the corner of his mouth.

This, too, felt comfortable.

But it was not dull.

It was the kind of comfort that knew where to put its hands and still paid attention. The kind that could laugh without breaking the mood. The kind that did not need to perform mystery to feel wanted, but could still play at it for fun. Steve touched you with familiarity, yes, but not carelessness. You could feel the difference in every pause, every small adjustment, and every time he pulled back just enough to look at you before leaning in again.

Your fingers fisted in the cotton of his shirt as the second kiss deepened, slower at first, then messier. Steve’s mouth opened wider under yours, his tongue slid hot and slick against your own, with spit gathering at the corners of your lips. Every breath you took was shared; the air between you grew thick and humid. He tasted of some sort of your faint chapstick taste, and tilted your head so your nose brushed and your teeth clicked again.

One of his hands then slide up your back, his palm broad and warm, until it cuped the nape of your neck and held you exactly where he wanted you. The other hand stayed low, fingers splayed across the curve of your lower back, squeezing once, then again, guiding the subtle roll of your hips that neither of you planned.

“Thought you weren't a fan of this,” you murmured against his lips when given the chance to break free for a moment. The moment didn't last long because his hand on your head pulled you in once again, a pout on his lips at your escape.

“Correction, I'm not a fan of the magazine,” you huffed a laugh at the intensity of his correction, and he used the opening to pull you in for another kiss. Though, this one was softer in a way that had your breath hitching on contact. “I'd like the record to show—I'm pretty encouraging of this.

Against his lips, you scoffed because he didn't let you break apart again. You could feel his smile against yours as you shoved at him for his distinction as his hands fell to your hips once more. 

Pressing closer to him, you felt him hardening beneath you, thick and insistent through the soft cotton of his sweats. The friction was barely there; just the slow, unconscious grind of you against the ridge of him, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch every time the head of him caught against you through your bottoms more insistantly now. You rock forward again, slower this time, as if trying to test something. 

Apparently, it's successful since Steve groans into your mouth, and the sound vibrates against your tongue, and his hips lift in a tiny, helpless thrust that drags another wet slide of fabric on fabric.

“Okay, so that's really not fair.” He breaks the kiss with a wet sound, lips parting from yours by inches. A thin strand of spit stretches, then snaps. His warm eyes are now turned glassy, his pupils blown wide, and his mouth red and shiny. “You know, you're the one that was excited for this movie for like—I don't know, a week?” he managed finally through pants, with his voice hoarse, and chest heaving under your palm.

“Ever think I was just trying to seduce you?” The ridiculous words did little to wipe away your smile, or his, for that matter.

Steve quirked his eyebrow up at you, “with begging and whining?” 

The look you shot at him must've been a good one, because he grinned down at you and pulled you in closer. “I'm kidding.”

“Mhm.” You weren't convinced, but it did little to deter him. Steve pressed his lips against the column of your neck in a makeshift trying apology. 

Instead of replying, your mouth found his again; slower this time, deeper, and your mouth curling together in a hazy slide. Steve’s hand at your neck tightened on reflex and the action had you pulled in closer, his thumb stroking the soft skin behind your ear. The other hand sliped lower now, taking up residence on your upper thigh. His fingers dug in just enough to guide another slow, deliberate grind of your hips. 

The ridge of his length dragged alongside you through two layers of cotton. The pressure was entirely maddening, it wasn't enough and too much at once. You felt yourself getting tenser, the crotch of your leggings clinging and every tiny movement he took made the fabric pull and drag.

Steve’s breathing grew more ragged against you. He sucked your bottom lip between his teeth then nibbled, then soothing with his tongue after you made a winced noise before diving back in for another open-mouthed kiss that left the both of you gasping. 

His hand that was placed below your ear roamed now. Up your side and over your ribs, with  the heel of his palm brushing the underside of your breast through your top. He doesn’t cup or squeeze like you'd prefer, he just let the weight of his hand rest there, thumb stroking slow circles that makes your body push up towards the friction. 

His hips lift again, meeting your slow grind with a shallow thrust that presses him harder against you, leaving you to curse against his lips. The friction sparked through you, sharp and sweet, and you moan into his mouth, though the sound swallowed by another kiss.

“You're such a weirdo.” The exhale that the words left you from was more breathless than you'd intended.  His hand on your breast finally moved when you spoke, a rough palm covering the soft swell, thumb flicking once over a stiff peak more incessantly this time. The touch is still half-hidden under your shirt and still restrained, but the heat of it burns through the fabric all the same. 

Steve would've sputtered at your words if he didn't know you better. And fortunately for him, he did. “Just say you missed me, honey. It'll make it easier for the both of us.”

“Can't say it if I don't mean it.” Your response had him strained against your throat, and the vibrations of his laughter sent shivers up your spine. You arch into his grip, pressing down against him harder with every slow roll of your hips. Steve’s abdomen flexed beneath you, the spasms eased through shaky exhales, and the tiny, helpless thrust of his hips tells you he’s just as affected.

“Come on, just say it.” His words were pressed into you now. You could hear the room becoming actively smaller between the two of you. Steve’s fingertips slid underneath the rising hem of your top, gripping at your sides directly now, leaving you to feel the warmth of his skin more clearly.

You could feel your head distantly shaking side to side, more so with just the need to push at him further than any real argument against his statement. His groan was propelled into your skin at that, his head tilting into you as if it was bodily necessity. 

Steve’s laugh rumbled low in his chest, the sound vibrating straight into you again. “You’re so damn stubborn,” he muttered, and his lips dragged higher over your pulse. His fingers slipped higher beneath your top until the fabric bunched under your arms, baring your stomach and the lower curve of your breasts. He didn’t bother pulling your top or bra off, he just shoved it up and out of the way so his palm could close over one bare breast, hus thumb circling the stiff nipple before he pinched it between his fingers.

You gasped instantly, hips jerking forward on instinct. The bulge of his cock dragged harder against you, the head catching right where you needed it. Steve groaned at the sudden pressure alongside you, his free hand sliding down to grip your ass and pull you inhumanly closer.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet,” he breathed, his voice turning rough. “I can feel it even through your clothes.” His hips rolled up to meet your grind in another slow and deliberate movement, letting you feel every inch of him. The cotton of his sweats was damp where you’d been rubbing against him, clinging to the shape of him.

You rocked harder, chasing the friction he slowly gave you. Steve’s thumb flicked over your nipple again, then he ducked his head and sucked it into his mouth through the bunched fabric of your top, his teeth scraping lightly before his tongue soothed the sting. The wet heat of his mouth made your back arch, pushing your breast deeper against his lips.

“Steve,” His name came out shaky. Your fingers threaded into his hair by the pure need to hold onto something, then holding him there as he sucked harder, the pull sending sparks straight between your legs. He switched to the other nipple, giving it the same treatment while his hand worked the first, rolling and tugging until both peaks were tight and aching.

His other hand stayed on your ass then the flesh of your thigh, his fingers digging into your skin as he guided your hips in a slower, filthier grind. Each roll dragged your swollen clit against the head of his cock through the layers of fabric, the pressure building until your thighs started to shake. Steve’s breathing grew ragged against your chest, hot puffs of air cooling the wet and reddening spots he’d left on your top.

“Still not gonna say it?” he asked, though his voice was muffled against your breast. He looked up at you through his long lashes, eyes dark and glassy, and his lips were pink as they coated themselves in saliva everytime his tongue poked out to wet them. His hips lifted again, thrusting up to meet your familiar movements, the motion making his cock catch and drag right over your clit in a way that had you moaning.

"I'm good, thanks." You shook your head, but the motion was weak and entirely distracted by the way his hand was sliding lower, how his fingers were slipping between your thighs to your front. He pressed two fingers against the soaked fabric covering you, rubbing slow circles that made your hips stutter.

“God, you’re dripping,” he breathed out, almost wonderingly. His fingers pressed harder, pushing the fabric against your entrance, the pressure just shy of pushing inside. You shot him a glare at his teasing. “I can feel how hot you are. How bad you want it.”

You rocked back against his hand, chasing more. He wouldn't fully give it to you, though. Steve’s mouth found yours again, the kiss messy and filled with wanting, it had your tongues sliding together in tandem as his fingers kept working between your legs. The heel of his palm ground against your clit while his fingers continued to tease your entrance through the thin fabric, the material growing wetter with every pass.

His cock twitched beneath you, thick and insistent, and you had to bite back the noises that wanted to leave you. Steve’s free hand slid up your back, having his fingers splaying wide between your shoulder blades as he held you close, chest to chest, with the heat of his skin burning through both your shirts.

“Say it,” he pleaded against your lips, the words barely audible over the wet sounds of your mouths moving together. His fingers pressed harder, the tips just barely pushing the fabric inside you, the stretch barely there but enough to make you clench around nothing but the want of him. “Just say you missed me and I’ll give you what you want.”

Steve’s fingers kept working between your legs. His mouth stayed on yours, swallowing every shaky breath you let out while his other hand stayed busy under your top, thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple in slow, deliberate tugs whenever his hand moved.

“Still so stubborn,” he chuckled against your lips, voice low and warm with the click of his tongue. “You’re twitching in my lap and you still won’t say it?” 

“Stop being smug,” was the only response you could get out. You rocked down harder then, chasing that pressure, and Steve groaned into your mouth. You had to bite back your smile against his lips at the reaction. His hand slipped out from between your legs only to grip the waistband of your bottoms, his fingers hooking under the elastic at your hips. He tugged once, slow, testing, then looked up at you with that half-smile that always made your stomach flip.

“Lift up for me?” he murmured the leading question softly. You braced your hands on his shoulders and raised your hips just enough for him to peel the pants down your thighs, dragging your panties halfway with them. The cool air hit your skin and you shivered on contact, but Steve’s hands were already back in their place, and his warm palms slid up the backs of your thighs until his thumbs hooked into the waistband of your panties too.

He paused there, looking up at you with his painfully mesmerizing big and soft eyes. “Still not gonna say it?” His voice stayed gentle, almost coaxing. He only grinned wide when you glared back up at him.

“That’s alright. I’ll get it out of you eventually.” He pulled your panties down the rest of the way, leaving them tangled around one ankle as he settled you back down on his lap. The cotton of his sweats was entirely damp where you’d been grinding, and now there was nothing between you and that thick, prominent feeling  of him except the thin fabric of his bottoms.

Steve’s hands settled on your hips again, guiding you into another slow roll. This time the friction was hotter, wetter, the head of his cock dragging right through your folds and catching on your clit with every pass. You gasped, fingers tightening on his shoulders, and he made a low approving sound in his throat.

“There you go,” he cooed, his voice soft and a little condescending, like he was praising a pet that finally learned the trick. You didn't have it in you to bite back at the moment. “That’s better, isn’t it? All that attitude and you’re still soaking my sweats.” His hands squeezed your hips, encouraging another grind. “Look at you, dripping all over me and still pretending you didn’t miss me.”

“Shut up, Steve.” The words weren't fruitful or honest. You rocked harder quickly after that, chasing the feeling even though your legs shook at the movement, and Steve’s breath hitched. That noise made the slight sting all the more worth it. One hand slid between your bodies again, fingers spreading your folds so the head of his cock could press more directly against your clit. The pressure was perfect, just enough to make your hips stutter and he held you there, letting you grind against his fingers and the thick length trapped in his pants.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he repeated again in that same breathless way. “I can feel how swollen you are. How bad you need it.” His thumb found your clit and rubbed slow circles while his fingers teased your entrance, not pushing inside yet, just pressing and circling until your thighs started to shake. The taunting had your head bowed low and a whiny plea in your throat. “You're killing me here.”

He shifted you higher on his lap, one hand sliding down to grip the back of your thigh and lay you on your back as he spread you open. Then he leaned in, his mouth finding the soft skin just above your hip, kissing and nipping his way lower until his breath ghosted over your bare skin. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and warm, and that same soft, iritatingly condescending tone crept back into his voice that made your stomach flex.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, having his lips brushing your inner thigh now in soft kisses. “So worked up and still being so mean to me.” His tongue dragged a slow stripe up your slit, tasting you, and he hummed like he’d just found something sweet. “Sweetheart, you taste so fucking good when you’re not being mean.”

“I wasn't—fuck, I wasn't mean.” Your words fell on deaf ears when his hands held your thighs apart as he licked again, slower this time, with his tongue flat and broad as he dragged it from your entrance up to your clit. He circled the swollen bud once, twice, then sucked it gently between his lips, the wet heat of his mouth making your back arch against where you were laid out. One hand stayed on your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles, while the other slid up to press two fingers against your entrance, rubbing but not pushing even though your hips lifted up to meet them.

“Say it,” he whispered against your clit, the words vibrating through you. “Just say you missed me and I’ll give you my fingers. I’ll give you my tongue. I’ll give you whatever you could want.” His tongue flicked over your clit again, faster now, while his fingers pressed harder, the tips just barely stretching you. His words seemed to leave you as if they were a carousel, only reaching you when your head stopped spinning. “Or you can keep being stubborn. Either way, I’m not stopping until you’re shaking and begging.”

“Fuck. Please, Steve—don't, don’t tease.” Your words came desperate in their pleas as you rocked against his mouth, chasing more. Steve groaned into you at that, the sound muffled but hungry. His fingers finally pushed inside then, slow and deliberate, curling just right as his tongue kept working your clit. The wet sounds of his mouth and your slick filled the space between you, mixing with the low, coaxing praise he kept murmuring against your skin.

“That’s it,” he cooed, voice soft and warm even as his fingers thrust deeper. Your forearm came up to your face now, sprawled across your face to muffle your sounds. “Good girl. Just like that. Keep grinding on my tongue. I’ve got you.” His free hand slid up your body again, finding your breast and rolling your nipple between his fingers while his mouth stayed busy between your legs. The action had you gasping out his name and biting the sleeve of the jacket underneath you. “You’re so fucking pretty like this, honey. All spread out and dripping for me.”

Your hips rolled in tiny, shaky circles over Steve’s mouth, thighs trembling around his head as his tongue kept flicking quick and firm over your clit. Every pass made your stomach clench and your breath hitch, and the fingers he’d finally pushed inside you curled just right, dragging over that spot that made your walls flutter around him.

“F-fuck—Steve—oh god,” you gasped, voice cracking. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in as your whole body twitched. “Please—please, fuck, I missed you, won’t ignore you again, I missed—ah!”

He hummed against you, clearly pleased, the vibration shooting straight through your clit, and you felt him smile against you. His fingers thrust deeper now, more slow and steady, while his tongue circled and sucked, never letting up. Your hips jerked on pure reflex now, chasing every bit of pressure, and you could feel how soaked you were, seeing through half-lidded eyes the slick dripping down his fingers, and coating his chin, making every wet sound louder.

“That’s it,” he murmured with his voice low and warm against you. “Good girl. Say it again, tell me how much you missed me again?”

“I missed you,” you sighed, and the words tumbled out broken and breathless. “Missed your mouth, missed your stupid attitude, missed—fuck, Steve, please don’t stop—”

He didn’t. His tongue pressed flat and hard, licking languidly from your entrance up to clit, then sucking the swollen bud between his lips again after forcing your hips flat with his other hand wrapped against your waist. His fingers kept working inside you, curling and thrusting, and stretching you open while his thumb rubbed tight circles. Your thighs shook harder, your breath coming in short, desperate pants.

“Close,” you whimpered with a voice thin and shaky, you were borderline wordless now. “Steve, fuck—I’m gonna—please, I’m so close—”

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips brushing your slick folds. “Not yet,” he breathed heavy and his voice rasped. “You’re not coming until I say so. You can hold it for me, can’t you?”

You whined with your hips stuttering, trying to chase his mouth again, but he held you steady with a hand on your thigh. His fingers slowed inside you, just barely moving now, forcefully keeping you right on the edge without letting you tip over. Your walls clenched around him, desperate, and you felt yourself dripping even more, the wet sounds filthy and loud in the quiet room.

“Steve, please—fuck, I need it, I need to come, please let me just—” He licked you again, his movements slow and deliberate, and his tongue continuously dragging over your clit until your whole body jerked. 

“Not yet,” he repeated with a gentle voice but still firmly, his grasp on you turning slightly tighter in a soft warning. “You’re so pretty like this. You can wait a little longer, yeah?”

Your head fell forward, forehead pressing against his as your breath came in shaky gasps. Every nerve in your body felt on the frustrating edge without being allowed to be tipped over completely. Your head lifted weakly as your proped yourself on your elbows to look at him. “Please—come on, please? I’ll do anything. Fuck, Steve, I’m so close right now—”

He kissed your inner thigh in what felt like an apology, then your clit, soft and teasing. The action had your breath shake and your groan turn entirely frustrated. “I know, baby. I know. Just a little more.” His fingers curled inside you, pressing right against that spot, and you felt your orgasm building again, hotter and tighter, but he pulled back just before you could tip over once more.

Your words came out a mixed sobbed with your thighs shaking, and hips twitching against nothing anymore. “Fuck—fuck, Steve, don't do that! Come on—”

He shifted you down his body, hands guiding your hips until your legs were straddling his lap again and you're no longer lying down. His cock was rock hard under his sweats, the fabric soaked where you’d been grinding. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved them down just enough to free himself, the thick length springing up between you, all flushed and leaking.

“Ride me,” he murmured this time and his voice low and coaxing. “Take what you need. You’ve earned it, honey.”

You didn’t hesitate, the restlessness in your body didn't let you. You reached down and wrapped your hand around his cock, not before and lined him up, the head pressing against your entrance. You sank down slow, feeling every inch stretch you open, your walls fluttering and clenching around him as he filled you. The stretch was perfect, deep and thick, and you moaned loud and broken as you bottomed out, hips flush against his.

Steve groaned alongside you with his head tipping back, and hands gripping your hips harder now. “Fuck—there you go. So fucking tight. So wet for me.”

You started to move, slow at first, rolling your hips in languid circles, feeling him drag against every sensitive spot inside you. Your hands braced on his chest, nails digging in as you rode him, each roll of your hips sending sparks through your whole body. Steve's broken gasps sounds filled the room, mixing with your broken moans and his low, practically mindless praise.

“That’s it,” he breathed, and you could clearly hear how his voice shook. His head tipped back with every movement. “Good girl. Fuck, you feel so good. Missed this so much. Missed how you squeeze me, how you drip all over me.”

You couldn’t form words anymore. Your head lolled forward, forehead pressed to his, breath coming in short, desperate pants. Your hips moved on their own with his strained help, chasing every bit of friction he gave while inside you. The pleasure built fast, hot and tight, and you felt yourself tipping over the edge again, walls clenching hard around him.

Your hand came up to smack agakn his bicep helplessly. “Steve, fuck—”

He thrust up to meet you messily now, rough palms guiding your hips with his voice low and urgent. “Close? Let me feel it, yeah?”

You shattered with a broken cry, your whole body shaking as your orgasm continued to build and crashed through you. Your walls pulsed around him,  and you kept moving through it, riding out every wave with shaky and unstable footing. Steve groaned loud against his mindless bubbles against your shoulder, his hips jerking up in a stutter and you felt him throb inside you as he came down with you.

You stayed there for what seemed like a lifetime, bodies pressed limblessly together, breathing hard, and your hips still twitching with the remaining aftershocks. Steve’s hands stroked your back, then your hips, soothing and warm, while you melted against him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, breath coming in shaky wordless sounds.

“Fuck,” he whispered, and he almost sounded reverent. Steve's knuckles went to drag against the line of your spine, the touch barely registering with how light it was. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

You just hummed, too far gone to speak with your body still twitching and clenching around him as the pleasure slowly ebbed, leaving you warm and languid and utterly spent.

Steve’s hair was a mess now. Yours couldn't have been much better now either. The collar of your shirt had slipped off one shoulder, and he kept tugging it back up absently, not because he was concerned about modesty so much as because taking care of you in small ways was one of his habits. Your breath was still easing down when you felt the pressure of a kiss just below your eye, then one followed up to your temple. 

You were ready to let all the leftover tension in your body release when he spoke.

“Tomorrow,” Steve started quietly, and he took the moment for him to hook his chin over your head, pulling you into him even more.“I’m picking the date.”

You opened one eye to scan him when your vision returned to you. “Are you?”

“Mhm.”

“What are we doing?”

Steve used your words against you with a clear hum of delight. “Secret plans.”

You smiled against his chest, your own knuckles across him, mirroring his own actions on you. “With who?”

He pinched your side gently through the shirt that covered you once more, the action pulled a squirm from you. “Funny.”

“You walked into that!”

“I did and I regret it.”

The rain tapped steadily and the the microwave clock glowed green. Steve’s arm rested around your shoulders, heavy and warm.

“I’ll pick something,” he said. “A real thing. Not just pizza because it’s Friday.”

“I like pizza because it’s Friday.”

“I know. But I’ll pick.”

You lifted your head enough to look at him. He was staring at the blank television, but not really seeing it. His face had gone thoughtful in the dim light, mouth relaxed, and his eyes were tired but not drained. 

“And,” Steve added, “I’ll ask first. If you want to come.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You kept your voice light because otherwise the moment might become too delicate to touch. “That sounds very advanced.”

“I’m an advanced boyfriend.” You weren't entirely convinced. 

“You’re a boyfriend with homework.”

“I did great on the first quiz!”

“You got a B-minus.”

His head snapped toward you. “B-minus?”

You conceded. “Maybe B.”

“I gave three reasons and let you drive my car?”

“B-plus.”

“And discussed the nineties.”

You considered that, “A-minus.”

He relaxed back into the couch. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get too comfortable just yet.”

Steve looked down at you with his mouth tilting. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You settled against him again, listening to the rain and the steady beat of his heart. The house around you felt less empty than it had when you arrived. The couch pillows were crushed. The popcorn bowl sat abandoned on the table. The magazine lay face down near the remote, defeated for now. Steve’s shoes were kicked halfway beneath the coffee table, and your mall bag had tipped over near the armchair, one receipt peeking out.

It was ordinary evidence, proof of a night spent badly and well.

After a while, Steve kissed the top of your head. He probably thought you were too sleepy to call him on it when he murmured, “You looked really pretty today.”

You smiled without opening your eyes quickly. “Three reasons?”

His sigh moved beneath your cheek when he pressed another kiss there. “I created a monster.”

You could only shrug. “You encouraged her.”

“I did.” His hand moved once over your shoulder. Steve’s fingers gently rubbed small circles into your shoulder blades, and you could only lean onto his touch. “Okay. The jeans. The ribbons. Your hair. The way you stole my clothes again and acted like I was lucky to witness it.”

“That’s four.” Your voice came pleased against him.

“I’m overachieving then. ”

“Good.”

“And,” Steve said quieter, “the way you came back.”

You opened your eyes and he was looking at the ceiling now, not at you, because that last one had slipped out seemed more vulnerable than he intended. His throat moved. His fingers kept tracing a small, absent path over your sleeve.

You didn't tease him for it this time, something told you that'd be too cruel; Instead, you reached for his hand and threaded your fingers through his as if it was always meant there 

“I'm always going to come back,” you decided to settle for saying, your voice soft.

Steve looked down at you then.

For a second, the room held still and quiet around you: rain at the windows, lamp light on his tired face, qnd your hand in his. He didn't say anything grand, really. He didn't need to. Steve just squeezed your fingers once and rested his cheek against your hair.

“Good,” Steve murmured against the crown of your hair.

It was not magazine-perfect, it was even better.

other links: ▪︎ my masterlist

[softaestluv]

Ghost desperately needs to fuck his client. (You)

tags | plug! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader, smoking, weed, smut, vaginal fingering, riding, creampie, not edited, brain worm I had

──────────────

The first time you ever bought from Ghost you were wearing a skirt way too short to be socially acceptable, stumbling to his beat-up car with a drunk smile plastered on your face. He remembers it all a little too clearly, the way you leaned into the passenger window, smelling like tequila and the minty mouthwash you used to try and cover the smell up.

“Hi.” You giggled.

“Hi.” He responded, raising his eyebrow at you.

“Um, my friends over there,” You pointed to a group of girls across the street, “Dared me to come buy some off you.”

He stared at you without responding, and there was a long pause of silence before your smile dropped into something smaller.

“Wait? Do you not sell?” You covered your mouth, “Oh my gosh that’s so embarrassing, they told me they bought from you before!”

“Relax, bird. I do.”

“Oh! Great, that’s great. Um, how much for an eighth?”

“On the house.” He smirked, digging through the back of his car.

“What?”

“First time buyer, gotta guarantee you like it.”

You caught the bag he tossed you with a shy smile on your face, humming. “Okay, thank you!”

Ghost watched you jog to your friends after that, holding the bag out to them with a proud smirk.

The next time you bought from him, you were all by yourself, jean shorts showing off your pretty legs.

“Hi.”

He chuckled, “You’re back.”

You leaned into the window, low-cut shirt clinging to the swell of your breasts.

“I am.” You smiled, “How much for an eighth this time, for real?’

“Already have some pre-rolls, you can just have ‘em.”

“Huh? No, I didn’t pay you last time!”

“No one ever wants the pre-rolls anyway,” He shrugs, he lies. “They’re cherry flavored.”

That sparks your interest, “Really? I didn’t know they did that.”

You hand him your phone then, “Put your number in, yeah? So, I don’t have to hope to randomly run into you to buy more.”

When he hands the phone back you laugh after reading the contact name, “Ghost? That’s your drug dealer name? Really?”

“Do you want free weed or not?”

You laugh louder this time, “Yes! Yes! I was just teasing. Thank you!”

You text him two weeks later, a stupid meme at that with beady eyes, ‘more, please sir?’

He hates the way it makes the corners of his lips twitch.

He’s mobile that day, and you send him your address with one too many exclamation marks tagged on the end. You run out in leggings and slippers, a giddy smile on your lips.

“Hi.”

He laughs, “Hi, bird.”

“I liked the pre-rolls!” You say excitedly, leaning into the window, “Never had those before.”

“Yeah? What you need today?”

“You have any more?”

He frowns a little, “Get in with me, I’ll roll you some.”

You open his passenger side door too willingly, “Oh good. I don’t know how to roll,” You confess, “My friends usually do it for me.”

His mouth dips into a smirk, “Yeah? ‘Ts not that hard, watch.”

You lean closer, eyes wide like he’s actually teaching you valuable information and not how to roll a joint.

“Gotta make sure to take out all the seeds and stems before you grind it.” You watch him grind it enraptured. “Gotta roll up the tip first, then, wrap the paper tight.”

You nod eagerly.

“Fill it with your flower, roll it upwards with your thumb to make your shape. Then,” He licks across the paper, “Seal it with the glued edge, and twist the tip.”

He holds it out to you, “There you go.”

You take it between your fingers with a soft smile, “Thank you.”

You text him three days later, a picture of a lopsided joint that he definitely didn’t sell you.

‘How’d I do?’

‘Looks like shit.’

‘That’s mean :(‘

‘Come over, let me help.’

‘On my way!’

You show up an hour later, the crooked joint in your hands. You sit on his couch with a frown.

“You know, I didn’t think it came out that bad.”

“Give it here.” He laughs, “You packed it up wayyy too much. Got too much at the end here too, didn’t tap it out.”

Still, he lights it, holding it out for you to smoke. You take it between your fingers, inhaling a small amount before coughing slightly. He smirks at your watery eyes, taking the joint from you to smoke it.

“Sorry,” You say, “I got my lip gloss on it.”

He chuckles, the tip glistening with the gloss, placing it in the corner of his lips, “Doesn’t matter.”

It tastes like your lip gloss. Strawberries and weed.

You take turns smoking it. Simon watches you the whole time, with lidded eyes, focused on the way your pretty lips curl around the joint. The way your chest rises with each inhale, your eyes becoming heavier and heavier, a lazy smile smeared across your lips as you lean closer to him on his old couch.

All he can think about is those lips wrapped around his cock and not the tip of the joint. And he’s definitely rock hard in his sweats, but he doesn’t care if you notice, not when you keep giggling at every bad joke he cracks.

He jerks himself off when you leave, promising you’ll be safe and text him when you get home. He finishes when your message pops at the top of his screen ‘made it safe :)’

He invites you over himself a week later because he’s got random inventory, he ordered them himself, of strawberry wraps and he’s certain you’ll like them.

You do like them. You’re melted into his couch, blinking lazily at him.

“How come you never charge me?” It’s a whisper.

He looks at you, the room dizzy with smoke and your pretty gaze.

“Never make pretty girls pay.”

“Oh?” You sound disappointed, “So, you give it free to other girls?”

He shakes his head, “Just you.”

You squint, “Are you only giving me free weed so you can get a lay?”

He smirks, “Is it working?”

You scoff, smacking him in the shoulder, “Unbelievable.”

He catches your wrist.

“You giving it to my friends for free too?”

“Careful,” He smirks, “You’re starting to sound jealous.”

You roll your eyes, trying to pull away from him. He keeps you close, tugging you into his lap so fast you have no choice but to slip onto his thighs. You don’t look at him, eyes focused to the side.

“Just you.”

You peer down at him then, “Huh?”

His fingers find your cheek, still burning from the embers of the joint, “You’re the only one I don’t charge.”

“Yeah?” You whisper.

“C’mere already.” He murmurs, pulling you down to kiss him.

You make a noise of surprise, like you hadn’t expected your smoke sessions to lead to this, with his cock pressed between your thighs eagerly, grip on your chin and hip to keep you close to him.

You kiss him back earnestly, smaller hands finding his shoulders. He loves it, fuck he loves the way your hands shake against his skin, the vibrations that leave your chest and fill his. He’s been dreaming about this since the moment you walked over in your tiny skirt.

Your bottom lip pops away from his, glistening with his saliva and not the lip gloss you insist on wearing.

“Wanted you to do that for ages.”

He chuckles against your lips, “Yeah?”

Your hips grind against his then, “Only reason my friends made me go was because I wouldn’t shut up about how hot you were.”

He presses his teeth against your neck, fingers making quick work of your belt and pants. “Came over with your ass and tits out, been jerking off to the memory ever since.”

You inhale sharply, “Fuck.”

Your eyes flutter when his fingers find your cunt, squelching with the sound of your arousal. He dips one finger in, drawing a whimper from you, and god you’re so fucking warm. The weeds got you nice and lax, a small grin on your lips as he coaxes you with one thick finger and he's sure he's never wanted to fuck someone more.

Your grin turns into a broken cry when he adds another, lips quivering around the shape of his name. Ghost. Ghost?

His thumbs already on your lips, gaze strong on you, “Simon.”

You nod in quiet understanding, “Simon.”

There’s a sticky strip of arousal that clings to your panties when he slides them off your thighs and it takes everything in him not to bury his face below and smell.

You scramble to his sweats, tugging them down impatiently. He lifts his hips willingly, lets his strained cock smack against his abdomen angrily. You lick your lips when you see it, eyes wide at the sight.

He grips it by the base, thumb coming up to wipe at the precum spilling from the tip.

“Oh my god.” You groan, “Let me ride you, please.”

He slides lower on the couch, tapping your hips casually in agreement like he hadn’t been picturing you on top of him for weeks, “Go on.”

You rise to your knees above him, shaking hand grabbing his cock so lightly it makes his eyes flutter. You glide his tip along your seams until it snags at your entrance, and you make a soft noise when he pops through. You slide down eagerly as much as he holds your hips and grits through his teeth to take it slow.

Your head falls to his shoulder when you sink to the base, his head rolling to the back of the couch because you’re so fucking warm and tight, and the weed definitely isn’t helping because he’s feeling everything ten times worse.

And when you lift your hips, he swears he sees heaven between your thighs when you drop back down and your pussy makes an obscene squelch.

You bury your face in his neck, arms around his shoulders and just fucking go at it. Ass slamming against his so fast the room echoes with each slap. You whine high-pitched with each thrust like you aren’t the one setting the pace, like you aren’t the fucking yourself raw around his cock.

“Jesus, bird, slow down.” He grunts, fingers dimpling your skin.

He says it because your legs are shaking and there’s sweat beading on your chest, whimpers falling from your lips endlessly, but more so because he doesn’t want it to end this soon. When he hasn’t even laid you back properly to fuck you the way he had hoped.

You don’t listen well.

You just keep sloppily fucking yourself onto his cock because you’ve found the sweet spot, the one that has you on the brink of an orgasm.

His lips on your neck do it for you, your toes curling into his shitty ass couch when you break. You soak his balls then, pussy clenching so tight around him he has to bite down on his cheek so he doesn’t bust.

He’s already moving you to your back, finding a home between your thighs when you come back down. You don’t even argue, like the perfect thing you are, folding your own legs to his shoulders, and arching into the couch.

He slides in slow, and your pussy spreads for him so prettily.

“Fuck,” he drawls, “Listen to her, just fuckin dying for me to fuck her.”

You whine loud at that, hips bucking to get him to move. He doesn’t wait a second longer, thrusts so hard into you, you feel it in your toes and your legs straighten out in shock.

He fucks you slow and hard, pace languid from the weed pulsing in his veins. You like it, at least he thinks you do from the way you keep writhing under him, the beginning syllables of his name broken on your lips between every thrust.

When he leans forward, pressing your knees to your shoulders, you gasp in shock from the stretch, but then his tip snags against that spot in your cunt that melts your brain into mush, and your eyes just roll into the back of your head.

He smirks proudly, bullying his length against that spot until you’re pushing at hips, murmuring something along the lines that it’s too much.

He doesn’t stop.

You pulse around him when you cum a second time, sweet voice ripped from your throat, and turned into blinded pleasure when he stamps his thumb against your swollen clit. Your feet tense at his shoulders, fingers tight against the cushions.

He finishes inside of you then, head falling to your shoulder with a deep groan, hips fucking into you with each pump.

“Best free weed ever.”

[gutsby]

The Big Ones Hurt

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Summary: Simon overhears you say his dick is small.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Consensual freeuse. Traffic light safe word system. Your boyfriend fucks you rough (but lovingly) while you’re on the phone.

Word count: 3.1k

You were being a good friend.

It really was as simple as that—a woman you’d known for over a decade now was going through the worst breakup of her life, and she needed your support. You’d offered that support without hesitation, thinking nothing of the fact that you were in the healthiest of relationships yourself. You sure as hell never would’ve imagined a conversation like that could lead to this.

“His dick was huge, too,” your friend groaned across the line. You heard a shuffling of pillows and a soft thump, and you pictured her punting one off the bed.

You were lying on your stomach in your own bed several hundred miles away, holding your phone to your ear and trying to bite back a slow-growing grin.

“Couldn’t have been that big,” you hummed.

Again, your best friend groaned as if she were in pain.

“No, I’m telling you, the guy was fucking massive, hon. Just hung like a…a goddamn horse. I’m gonna be sick.”

“You can find another monster cock someday.”

“I don’t want to, though! It was so good.”

“You know, a big dick isn’t everything.”

Now you were trailing a finger over the embroidered edge of a pillowcase, trying your hardest not to think of the man who’d just slipped out of your sheets thirty minutes prior. Right before your friend had called with her devastating news, before you had been obliged to join the I-Hate-All-Men tirade of the century, you’d been getting put through the mattress by your boyfriend—a man who didn’t lie, or cheat on you, or steal, or shatter your heart into a million pieces.

A man whose dick was considerably bigger than most.

Simon was probably already three beers deep with his buddies at the pub down the road, the same lopsided, happy-go-lucky smile on his face he always wore when you and him had just had a quickie before he left home

Suddenly, the tail-end of a sentence snapped you out of your reverie, your friend’s tone loud and a little shrill:

“—easy for you to say!”

You blinked. “Easy f—wait, what?”

“Simon Riley. Love of your life.” You could imagine the woman snapping fingers in front of your face if she had been with you then, as if to say, Ring a bell? “Don’t even try to act like he isn’t a crazy good lay. And huge.”

Your cheeks heated at the accusation. Hell, you’d probably mentioned to friends in passing that your boyfriend was an altogether generous lover, a caring man in every respect, along with a couple other vague intimations about his prowess that would leave a whole lot more to the imagination than not, but this? You hadn’t even touched on anything about his size.

Normally, you wouldn’t engage in that kind of talk—at least not to that level of detail, revealing intimate facts.

But your best friend was hurting, and it seemed like she needed something to feel better in the moment.

So, shortly, it slipped out before you could think better:

“Simon’s not even big.”

Your mouth clamped shut as soon as you said it.

Liar, every fiber of your being hissed at once.

(Shut the fuck up, I’m helping a friend out)

“No way. You’re full of shit,” she giggled.

(Well, yes)

“Nope.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

You swallowed hard. Already hating yourself as the silence across the line stretched on and you knew your friend expected you to elaborate, and then you did.

“Honestly, it’s pretty, um…small. And—And that’s OK! Like, nobody’s perfect. The sex with him is still so great, and if anything, it’s nice not having such a big dick to worry about, y’know? So don’t feel like dating a smaller guy is so bad. You can still have amazing sex.”

You tried to end it on a positive note—the message you meant to get across, which was that the girl could be happy with a guy of any size and she didn’t need to stay hung up on her stupid ex—but it fell flat, even to your own ears. Clearly, you’d dropped a bombshell.

“But he is just…such a big dude. You’d think—”

“No, I know, Simon’s tall,” you interrupted hastily. Wincing. “But like I was saying, you can still do a lot with an average-sized dick. Or—Or even a tiny one.”

“It’s tiny?!”

Fucking shit.

“No, no, no, not tiny! I mean, not that…tiny. He’s fine.”

Your pulse was pounding so loud in your ears you could hardly hear yourself think. Or breathe. Or lie. Or try to piece together the most incoherent string of words that came out a little something like, ‘Seriously, uh…Simon’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever dated, and um…dick size doesn’t even really matter. The big ones hurt. I mean, the guy’s not huge, but not tiny, and—’

“Well shit, lovie, how fuckin’ little are we talkin’ here?”

At the rumble of a voice by your other, phone-free ear, you nearly jumped and catapulted your device across the room. You would’ve yelped, too, had it not been for a big, broad palm clamping over your mouth. As a familiar weight and breadth and scent settled over your being—a body coming to lay on top of you from behind—your friend continued to chatter on the line, clueless.

“OK, OK, I get it. Love a guy of any size. And Simon’s not perfect—even though that fucker’s about as delectable as you can get in every other way…”

While the woman’s voice faded off into a far-distant hum rattling off Simon’s best qualities and lamenting the odds she’d ever find a man quite so wonderful, you were confronted with several of these same features at once: his wide, muscular chest blanketing the back of you entirely; his stubble tickling the cusp of your cheek as he leaned in close; his strength pinning you to the bed and only loosening the grip around your mouth a little; and of course, there was that voice again, lower—

“Too bad about my microdick, huh?” Simon chuckled.

“—and I bet he knows how to use it!” your friend went on, not hearing a word of what was going on with you.

“Hey, uh—hey, I’ve gotta go. I think I—” you started.

As soon as you did, though, you felt the pressure on your spine soar to new heights. You let out a low whine.

Simon was crushing you now.

Your friend cut in, “Yeah? You OK?”

Before you could attempt a reply, the hand that had once been covering your lips lowered to just underneath your chin; Simon squeezed your throat.

Playfully, he made clear by nipping at your earlobe.

“No need to stop on my account,” he murmured.

So, rushed and more than a little flustered now, you made up some excuse on the phone about mistakenly hearing the doorbell, and you let your friend forge on. You dropped the phone onto the bed by your pillow.

Then you turned your head, the rest of your body immobilized by the heft of your boyfriend’s weight on your back, and you finally, finally got to meet his gaze.

Behind you, Simon was smirking.

His whole demeanor betrayed amusement.

It wasn’t every day the man got to hear his dick was the size of something much smaller than it actually was, you reckoned. Still, he deserved an explanation.

“S-Si…” You tried to grit out a whisper, deflated by his weight and forced to hide your words from your friend.

Never mind the fact that your boyfriend looked, smelled, and felt just as irresistible as he had when he left home less than an hour ago. A simple, all-black ensemble fit him like a second skin and accentuated every mouthwatering ridge of his body, most visible to you in the glimpse of his bicep you caught under your chin. He was warm. Solid. Drenched in that dizzyingly potent sandalwood aftershave that you liked so much.

You’d never tapped the ‘mute’ on your phone so fast.

“Shit, Si, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean— I only said it— she’s going through a breakup right now, and I just t—”

Simon hit ‘unmute,’ followed by ‘speakerphone.’

He leaned back.

“…but what reeeally fucked me up was how he acted after. Like, couldn’t even look me in the eye, the dick…”

Your friend prattled on—back to sinking neck-deep in a story of how shitty the dating scene was and how she should’ve given up ages ago—while you flitted your gaze to your phone. You stared in awe, wondering why the fuck Simon had decided to tap those buttons in a moment like this, and questions started to bubble up.

At the same time, you heard the clink of a belt buckle.

Simon knelt behind you. He straddled your ass, and when you tried to sit up, he pressed a palm to the center of your back. He moved about it all swiftly.

Finally, the quietest, quickest hiss, ‘Si, what the fu—’

“Spit.”

That part, he said too loud. But the man didn’t seem to care much at all as he reached with his other hand and stuck his upturned palm under your face, waiting for it.

“What did you say?” your friend cut in presently.

Your face stung with embarrassment—at just the prospect of being found out by someone who had no concept of what was going on—that you forced it out:

“N-Nothing. Keep going.”

You spit in Simon’s hand like he’d told you.

Your phone couldn’t have been resting more than two or three inches from your face on the bed, and the space in general was small. There wasn’t a lot to be done by way of masking your activity, other than to simply hang up the fucking phone, but it didn’t sound like discretion and decorum and being considerate were at the top of Simon’s list of priorities right now.

Still, you felt a press of his lips against the back of your neck before he mumbled, “Remember our safewords?”

You did.

‘Yellow’ to slow down, ‘red’ to stop.

It wasn’t often you had to use the words with Simon, but from time to time, in particularly heated and impassioned moments, you appreciated the safety net.

And freeuse was something relatively new to you both—just accepting him in and letting him have his way with you at random points during your day, casually.

It didn’t make it any less tricky, or jarring, when the man next pushed inside you, bottoming out in one go.

Your sleep shorts tugged to the side, lying facedown underneath this massive, hulking man, you had only to grit your teeth and feel yourself stretched to full capacity with the shove of Simon’s bare cock in you.

“Oh, fuck,” you let out, hoarse.

“No, right? It was so gross, honestly.”

Amidst the airing of your friend’s mile-long list of grievances against her ex, your boyfriend settled his full, thick, demonstrably larger than average dick in your body until it felt like he was scraping your lungs.

You clawed the sheets and squirmed under him.

“That feel tiny to you, sweetheart?” Simon’s mouth was right next to your ear now, whispering filth while your walls stretched and squeezed to accommodate him. Warmth leaked out from where you connected.

You shook your head weakly, barely able to breathe.

It somehow made it even wilder and more maddening to have your senses deprived—Simon behind you, restricting your movements, with you obliged not to make a sound at the pleasure he was inflicting on you.

Your hips pinned to those pretty, floral-patterned sheets and your pussy made to gape in a perfectly wide ‘o’ around Simon’s whole cock, you felt helpless.

Stretched.

Protected, still.

Simon hadn’t even withdrawn to get a full stroke in, and he was already caressing your cheek with the backs of his knuckles, giving you more time to adjust to him. His tip kissed your cervix, and a heat sank in.

“Sweet dove’s still sore from earlier, yeah?” he murmured. “Didn’t think I gave her that much…”

But he did, of course.

“—couldn’t even make me cum—” your friend went on

Simon always gave you enough.

Just as your walls preemptively clenched around that slick, hard length and the man started to stir, rolling his hips against your ass in the shallowest of movements, your lips parted on a half-moan. Your chest constricted

“—it must be so much better with Simon, isn’t it?”

Suddenly, your boyfriend took a fistful of your hair.

In a murmur again, close to your ear:

“Go on, then. Don’t be impolite.”

“S-So, so good,” you rushed out. Those thrusts finally picked up, and Simon fucked you quietly into the bed. You sucked in another strangled breath, and trying your hardest not to moan, “He’s fucking…incredible.”

“I bet,” your friend laughed.

More shit-talking of men ensued.

Simon returned to his original, dominant position blanketing your body completely with his own, forearms planted on either side of your head on the bed and your phone resting inches away from you both. His cock pounded a furious pace inside you, precum and spit and your shared fluids easing the repeated slide. You gripped the sheets tighter, and Simon did the same with his ironclad hold in your hair.

Then his cock slid in higher, a little to the left, and the tip of him hit that special, tender, mind-numbing spot.

You felt the grin against the side of your face before you heard him chuckle, quiet as anything but elated.

Simon was the only guy who’d hit your G-spot before.

He hit it again. And again. And again, shaking the whole bed frame with the force of his thrusts. He kissed your neck and let your head loll back on him. While your friend chattered on, he did what he did best

“That’s a good girl,” he praised. “Gonna come f’me?”

You nodded, head bobbing against his softly.

If there were any moment for retribution, now would be it. If Simon were even the slightest bit the spiteful, insecure type, he probably would’ve taken the opportunity to make you beg for him—tell him how huge his cock was and how lucky you were to get it; how terrible it was to lie about a thing like size. It was.

But Simon didn’t, opting instead to give you pleasure. And he got plenty from you, too, you could tell by the breaths that were growing more and more ragged against your neck and the frantic stutter of his hips.

He was so big it was as if you could feel him in your throat. With every thrust that pushed you closer and closer to the edge, and with every twitch of every inch stuffed inside you, you feared you might not be able to conceal the sounds from your friend for much longer.

Your jaw unhinged on another wide-open, noiseless moan that probably made it look like you were in pain, and at the same time, your friend carried on over the phone, laughing about this loser’s goofy fucking face.

“Yellow?” Simon panted into your ear.

In other words, did you want him to slow down?

You shook your head no. Let him pelt your insides with the force of those hard, merciless thrusts and carve a path clean through your body in a way that only he ever could. He molded you to him perfectly. Tenderly.

Crescents digging into your scalp from how tightly he held you to him, you felt Simon twitch and keep beating your G-spot while you writhed under him, “You wanted a big dick, yeah? Don’t run from it now.”

It was in those words—paired with the obvious stretch and the depths your boyfriend was able to reach with his cock, how lovingly he fucked you while controlling your pleasure—that you broke. You couldn’t hold it in.

At the last possible second, Simon offered you his free hand to cover your mouth, knowing how loud you were liable to get, and you let out a muffled shriek into his palm. You grit your teeth and whimpered and kind of despised how high-pitched and needy you sounded, but you knew Simon loved it, almost as much as he adored the slippery wet noises your body and his made when he was emptying the contents of his balls into your cunt and fucking you senseless through all of it.

You finished as close as you were when you’d started, Simon’s chest glued onto your back. You both were breathing heavily, senses reeling from your highs. Simon’s cum stayed plugged in you with his thick cock holding it there, and the heat burrowed to your core.

You blinked, and you smiled contentedly at the warmth

Simon planted kisses wherever he could find bare skin for them to go, along your jaw and on your cheek and over your ear, like he always did after you two had sex.

“Wasn’t too far, was it?” he whispered. “Know I’m—”

“—big,” you giggled, barely louder than a breath after his hand had slid from your lips and cupped your face.

Then you went on, as the haze in your mind was starting to clear the slightest bit, and you remembered why you were here in the first place, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about your size, Si. I’m—”

“—going to bed!” your friend announced suddenly.

Your attention and Simon’s snapped back to the phone

With all that had been going on over the last couple minutes, you’d almost forgotten the woman was still on the line at all. She’d been talking before that, right?

“I— OK. Yeah, no, that’s fine,” you said, stupidly. Then, regaining a bit more of your composure, “I’m so sorry about everything that’s been going on with…him. You deserve so much better, and you will find better, OK?”

That sounded coherent enough.

You would call again tomorrow. Really listen and be there to offer more helpful advice than you’d done tonight—this was more about letting her vent, anyway.

So, reaching for the phone and expecting to hear your best friend chirp a quick, simple good-bye at any second, you lifted your hips back against Simon. You angled his still-hard dick inside you and pushed him deeper through the sticky warm mess he’d just coated your walls with, and you bit back a smile when he grunted. You met his eyes over your shoulder, and you felt his grip on your chin flex. His gaze sharpened.

But, before he could smirk and murmur in your ear something like, ‘Round three can be arranged if you really want it,’ your friend cut in again over the line.

Her voice rang louder, and a little lighter, too, this time.

“Goooooodniiiiiiiiiight, hon, I love you so, so much!”

“I love you, too. Night!” you answered reflexively.

Then, your friend added, as swift as anything:

“And goodnight to you, too, Simon! Glad to hear that microdick’s being put to good use, happy for you two!”

Before you could say a word, she laughed and hung up.

[gandalfsbignaturals]

isnt it really cool how your memories can just physically attack you at random

[pillsatoru]

satoru fucks you in full nelson after seeing that you were ovulating 𑄝੭

“that’s so not fair!” you whined, clasping your hands with satoru’s who was currently leaning over your body, flashing that stupid grin of his at you. “you know martial arts and I don’t!”

“sounds like a skill issue, sweets. you’re so weak.” he teased, putting his entire weight down on you to hear that small little squeak of yours.

this was normal between the two of you, enjoying your usual pillow fights with one another whenever a sleepover happened. gojo had invited you over to his place after class, offering to cook dinner and sit through your favorite movies after seeing you had a rough day.

he assumed you were overloaded with classwork but that wasn’t entirely the case.

you were ovulating.

and you were also planning on avoiding satoru at all costs especially because he was the only thing on your mind. his voice, his lips, his fingers were all you could think about. it wasn’t helping that he was shirtless at the moment, making him 100x hotter. his pink pecks blended so well with his pale skin, beauty marks littered all over his body.

you wanted to kiss every single one of them.

“cmon, don’t tell me you’re giving up already.” he taunted, slapping your face playfully. you bit back a moan, finding out a new thing about yourself right that second. you had to think of something quick before he realized how flushed you were and the way your legs were trembling. you quickly shifted your hands to his waist, tickling away until he was laughing, begging you to stop.

“shit! this isn’t f-fair ow!” gojo wheezed, dropping back onto the floor, trying his best to catch his breath and he hugged his sides to stop you.

“i win!” you cheered.

“you cheated..” he managed to let out. you responded by sticking out your tongue, ready to sit against the pillow propped up when suddenly you got attacked with the tickles as well. “not so funny now, hm? you crying?” he laughed, watching you grip onto his bicep as if that would help at all.

“satoru! a-stop!” you shifted onto his lap, feeling his arms wrap around your torso to lay you down on his chest. “i win.” he whispered into your ear, tucking your hair behind it. the current position he had you in was awkward. your back was on him and his arms had a firm grip on you.

why the hell was this making you wet?

you gulped, wanting to get off of him but he wasn’t letting go, unsurprisingly. “what’s wrong sweets?”

“nothing.. just, you’re hugging me weirdly.”

gojo hummed, letting one hand leave your waist to wrap around your neck. your eyes widened at the sudden weight on your nape. as if that wasn’t enough, the roll of his hips made it clear what his motives were. his prominent bulge poked at your backside, twitching needlessly.

“you actually thought that i wouldn’t notice my best girl was horny? you’re practically dripping through these flimsy pj shorts, baby.”

your mouth dried out, only gasping when he pulled down your shorts to prove his point. your panties were drenched. “see?” he coo’ed, teasing your clit with a feather like touch. “satoru!” you whimpered out, struggling to do anything but watch him toy with you.

“let me help you out, okay?”

he temporarily released his hold on you, only to grab onto the back of your thighs, forcing them up to your chest. with your panties now to the side, he had full access to your cunt. “wish i could see you properly.” he sighed. “but i like this position, don’t you?”

the bastard didn’t give you a chance to reply before he inserted two fingers into you. he chuckled at the way your body arched, groaning at your walls closing in on him.

“i’m going to make you feel so good, wanna show you how much i’ve been needing you.” he kissed your shoulder, curling his digits, causing an embarrassing wet sound to come out of you. “you’re so wet.” gojo hummed. “think you’re ready to take me.”

you shook your head, grabbing onto his hand that was fingering you. “just.. just touch me a bit more like this..” you pleaded, fluttering your eyes shut.

gojo raised a brow, but did as you said.

you moaned, grinding your hips to the same rhythm he was using, fucking yourself on his fingers. he watched carefully over your shoulder, mesmerized by the way he just slipped in and out. you felt your tummy turn, a warning of your release. you braced yourself to let go before gojo halted his movements.

“alright that’s enough of that. i need my cock in you, like right now.”

“but-“ you protested, pouting when he reached toward his pants, pulling them off to release his cock. his lips curled at your reaction, loving how flustered you’ve gotten upon seeing his length. “i don’t expect you to take it all, so i’ll put half of it in. how does that sound, sweets?” he mumbled against your skin, trailing hot kissed down your collarbone. he didn’t wait for a response, gripping his base after a few pumps, lining it up to your entrance.

he needed to feel all of you, fuck condoms.

your nails clawed at his arm that was still wrapped around your neck, moaning when he split you open. “oh my god!”

gojo clamped his hand over your mouth, muffling your screams. he loved how in just one thrust, he had you unraveled. “shhh, sweets. you forget i have neighbors.”his breath hitched as you clenched around him, making it impossible to go past a few inches. “fuck, baby. please stop being so goddamn tight.”

you could feel his veins scrape at your inner walls, touching in just the right places. “that’s it..” 

he praised with every thrust he gave, using your body for leverage as he picked up the pace. “you’re taking me so well.” your eyes were shut close, drooling into his mouth. this wasn’t how’d you imagined your night to go, but in no way were you complaining.

your pussy was so relieved to get the attention it needed.

a wicked grin spread across gojo’s face, knowing you were close. he tightened his hold on you to the point of bruising, inhaling sharply. “fuck fuck fuck.”

“ngh!” you whined, head falling back on his shoulder. his hair’s even more of a disaster than usual, sweat-damp strands sticking to his forehead as those ocean-blue eyes stay on you. "fuckin’ hell," gojo grits out between panting breaths before suddenly flipping you over in one brutal motion. "wanna see your face" 

“b-but i liked the other position..” you bit your lip after admitting to that. 

he flashes is all teeth before driving into you again deeper this time just watch those pretty noises fall apart for him instead. 

“we’ll go back to that one in a bit. just wanna see your face when you cum.”

[superhoeva]

tws: 18+/smut, fem!reader, strangers to lovers (?), drinking, tipsy sex, public sex, smoking (mentioned), blood (very quick mention, nothing serious), ruined wedding

driver!simon rescuing runaway bride!reader from the church where your wedding was supposed to take place. you’d left it all–your family, your phone, your responsibilities, your no-longer-husband-to-be–behind so you could sit in the back of simon’s cab and tell him all the reasons you ditched.

“he's just… he's boring. he likes to eat dinner the same time as our 74-year-old neighbor! he didn’t wanna go anywhere or do anything. he’d come home after all day at work, just to half-ignore me. doesn't believe in kissing for any longer than 0.7 seconds. and dear god–simon, is it? right?–the sex…”

simon lets you unleash it all as he circles in the streets, adding in his two cents here and there when you take a second to breathe.

“so a fuckin’ knob then, huh? too bad you got all pretty for’a bloke like that… y’sure he wasn’t the 74-year-old?”

that last one pulls a laugh from you that makes simon think about that pub on the other side of town.

half an hour later, there you are, in the pub. still in your gown and veil. simon’s arm wrapped tight around your side as the two of you squish against the wood of the bar.

surrounding you is a clamoring of happy drunks, who toast loudly to the assumed “marriage” between simon and yourself. for some reason, you don’t correct them. nor does simon, who instead holds you tight and shoves his tongue into your mouth after the tenth chant of kiss! from the rest of the pub.

you kiss him back, groaning at the touch that reaches to grip your chin. when you pull away, simon holds his breath at the tipsy grin on your face, a warm feeling running through his cock when you turn back to your glass and chug until the top of your lip is covered in foam from the second beer he bought you.

“alright?”

you bob a nod at simon’s question as he thumbs away the mess at your lip with dark eyes.

fourteen minutes later…

the pub bathroom is already small enough. feels even smaller with simon hanging over your shoulder and yanking you back by the hips. the fastening of your dress has been ripped well past your ass, buttons scattered under the sink you're holding onto for dear life. squeezing the sides of the porcelain every time simon pumps into you.

“f-fuck…” you whine, and simon digs himself deeper. “ah!-there-there…”

his cock is hitting deep. heavy. wet and stretching you out in a way the man you’d abandoned earlier. (what was his name again?) he even uses the veil still tucked in your hair to keep the view of your face nice and clear for him to stare at you in the mirror. the sight of you, groaning with running mascara, makes it easy for simon to imagine another world where you're his new, pretty wife.

mrs. riley. his missus.

“y’know… i’ll eat supper whenever y’want. kiss ya right. don’t quite like ignoring pretty things either,” he grunts in your ear, balls smacking loudly in between the slurred sentences. the wet peck he gives you under the side of your ear precedes a tragic pause of his thrusts. while you take the break to catch simon’s gaze in the glass before you, he pants with deep huffs.

god, you look a right mess. make up ruined. lips swollen. veil scrunched and the top of your dress tugged low enough for your nipples to show. simon looks over it all at the same time before peeling his front from your back so he can watching something else.

there’s a ring of cream at the base of his cock that’s still stuck halfway inside your pussy. your lips are spread wide, properly stuffed, and pulsate with a gentle rhythm.

“…you memorize your vows?”

you blink at the low question, trying not to squirm anymore than you already are. “uh. y-yeah? i think. why?–"

“go on, then,” simon directs, one of his arms wrapping around your front. with a tight tug, he stuffs himself the rest of the way, clenching his teeth at the way your voice cracks in the middle of a loud moan. scrunching his nose, he sniffs. then resumes fucking you.

slower.

harder.

like a proper husband should.

it takes you a while to sputter the first few words. simon is patient enough because the pay off is better than he imagined.

the recited promises are broken, but there. real-sounding enough just over the wet plaps that simon can flutter his eyes shut and pretend he’s the one you wrote them about. that you’ll always give yourself to him, to laugh everyday with him, to love him through it all.

the man proves himself easily, that much is obvious by how you end up squirting on his cock and down his dress; the way you sob his name and accidentally blubber out delirious i love you’s; how the three words you chant out like a prayer cause him to spill deep inside you as he makes sounds he’s never made for anyone else.

simon loves you back. feels like it, at least, when he comes with shaking legs and can’t think of anything worse than a future without you. he ends up sure of the fact when the first thing you utter, in a tired, hoarse voice, after finally finding your breath is–

“i meant to ask earlier… do you have a smoke?”

simon grins a bit, almost laughing. red stains on his teeth from how hard you made him bite his lip.

note: is this bad? pls don't let this be bad. anyways, runaway brides must be the new thing and i think @tojisteddy n i share the same brain :3