okay random thougjt before I sleep! I can imagine girly!reader like getting comfortable rambling to chris like early on in the relationship but then get all nervous and flushed when he'd just staring at her so attentively and being so interested and eye !!! contact !!! he's definitely very big on eye contact to make her nervous but yes okay that's it goodnight
:((( yes he’s so so entranced by her he’s all like 😲😲😲😲 and she’s like what????!!!!!! because the eye contact makes her hella nervous uuugggghhh cuties he’s like “ok keep going” like
would girly!reader ever get a little upset in the beginning of their relationship because she thinks that she is bad at the whole bf gf thing(bc she's never been in a relationship b4!!) like she thinks that her nervousness/shyness around chris is bad and chris has to explain to her that its okay!! and that she's okay lol... do u get it i could just lowk see her getting upset abt this
yes for sure. she’s so nervous and just feels really bad for him because she doesn’t want him to misunderstand it as disinterest🙁🙁🙁 like she’s gotta bite the bullet and sit down and tell him and she’s so shy about it and he’s like ???? what. hes so so patient and reassuring
yes hello sexc i went shopping today ill give u a haul :P what have u done today
i wiiiishhhh i have the constant need (want) to buy clothes grrr😔i am in florida! drove all the way so i’m a little phew but nothing a celcius can’t fix
hi! do you plan on coming back to tumblr? if that makes sense? im not good with wording stuff
hello so 1. i lost interest in the triplets youtube im sooooorry 2. therefore i also kinda lost interest in writing. i’m super open to answer asks or questions or write a little request once in a while. i’m doing a lot recently and i am so happy where i am in life rn so :3333 yay i’m just super busy and i don’t mind that! but thanks for asking and no your wording is nice!!! yes okay bai
skater!chris would definitely watch in awe when girly!reader does her hair or makeup
yes🙁🙁 he’s so cute and attentive and all like “i like that style of makeup on you.. i- i mean you look good either way, but.. yeah, i— i like that” like brah😂
“Would you ever wanna try something a little… different?”
“Different how?”
“Mm, nothing crazy. Just… rougher, maybe?”
pairing: steve harrington x reader
warnings: established relationship, softservicedom!steve, sub!reader, first time bdsm, light bondage, rope, oral (f!receiving), piv sex, dirty talk, praise, pet names, light orgasm control/degradation, hint of possession kink, lots of check-ins, kink negotiation/exploration, nervous loverboy stevie, light angst, domestic fluff, steve's pov, aka ur his one-way ticket out of vanilla-town
word count: 4k
a/n: he ties you up but like, he loves you or whatever | playlist 𝜗ৎ
Steve Harrington can take a punch.
He’s taken plenty, actually. To the face, the gut, the ego.
He’s been thrown into walls, into worlds that shouldn’t exist. Walked away from concussions, black eyes, bruised ribs, a goddamn Russian torture lab under a shopping mall.
He can take a hit, is what he’s saying.
He’s learned how to breathe through the pain. How to swallow the blood and ignore the ringing in his ears. Tape over the cracks. Wash off the dirt. Pretend the ache doesn’t reach as deep as it does.
But the thought of hurting you?
That’s the one that floors him.
That’s the kind of fear that crawls up into his throat and sits there, trembling.
ꨄ
“Baby, you’re overthinking this.”
Your voice comes soft, lilting with amusement. You’re sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing one of his old shirts: faded navy, collar slipping off your shoulder in a way that makes his brain fuzz out a little. He loses focus for all of two seconds before he starts pacing again, back and forth over the same six feet of carpet.
“I’m not,” he says. Biggest lie in America.
“Uh-huh.” You glance at the floor. “I think the rug might disagree.”
He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair again, that nervous tic that’s been with him since high school. The same hands that used to grip baseball bats and steering wheels now twisting through his own hair, because it’s the only way he knows to keep still.
“I just... I don’t wanna screw this up. You said you wanted to try, and I do too, but—” He swallows. “What if I get it wrong?”
You tilt your head, eyes soft. “You won’t.”
“What if I do, though?”
“Then we talk. That’s the whole point, right? To figure it out together.”
He lets out a slow breath, nods.
He’s trying. Really, he is.
But his eyes won’t stop drifting.
Toward the bed. Toward the thing sitting there like a dare.
It’s a ten-foot coil of rope.
Soft, white cotton. The kind they sell in loops at Melvald’s, next to the gardening shears and seed packets. Ordinary, if you don’t know what it means. Harmless, except for the way it’s making his stomach feel like it’s going to launch out of his throat.
He stares at it like it might sprout teeth.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching out to touch his wrist. “Come here.”
You tug him down beside you, thigh to thigh, your skin warm through his jeans. Your hand finds the back of his neck, thumb tracing over the ridges of healed scars he still avoids in the mirror sometimes.
“You know we can stop any time,” you whisper, smile gentle.
He nods. “I know. I want to. I just... don’t wanna mess it up.”
“You won’t,” you tell him again, even softer this time. Your eyes track him for a moment, quiet and fond.
Then you smile. Let your voice drop honey-warm, just a tad teasing: “Hey, how about you stop worrying for a bit and just kiss me?”
He huffs out a laugh, shaky. “Yeah, okay.”
That, at least, he knows how to do.
ꨄ
It started as a whisper in the dark, weeks ago.
Drowsy pillow talk turned into a question. Naked and tangled together, your voice soft against his chest.
“Would you ever wanna try something a little... different?”
He’d blinked up at the ceiling, pulse stuttering. “Different how?”
“Mm, nothing crazy. Just… rougher, maybe?”
It followed him around for days, that word.
Tugged at him while he showered, while he washed the dishes, while he tried, unsuccessfully, to focus at work.
He carried it with him everywhere, turning it over and over like a smooth stone in his pocket.
Wondering what it meant, coming from you.
You, who never asks for more than he can give. You, who makes him feel seen, wanted, safe.
He thought about it long enough that he started noticing things he hadn’t before. Like how your breath hitches when he gets a touch bolder with you, when he pulls you in by the hips, when his voice gets a little firmer, drops a little deeper.
And now that he's seen it, seen you, he can't unsee it. Can't stop imagining what this might mean for you.
For him.
What rougher might look like between two people who love each other the way you do.
ꨄ
Three days later, he drove all the way up to Chicago to run “errands.”
Spent the whole afternoon wandering through record shops, bookstores, antique stalls, looking for something he didn’t quite have words for, until he found it: tucked in the back of a cramped little store that smelled like incense and weed.
A zine.
Hand-stapled, smudged with black ink:
Soft Restraint: Notes on Safety & Play
The title alone made his pulse jump.
He flipped through it in a corner like a kid sneaking a dirty magazine.
Except... it wasn’t dirty. It was gentle. Thoughtful. It talked about trust and boundaries and “the quiet work of keeping someone safe.”
That part stuck.
So he bought it, stuffed it between two Duran Duran tapes, and drove home with his heart thumping double time. Spent the weekend cross-legged on his bed, reading safety notes and how-to guides, squinting at tiny diagrams while he practiced.
A shoelace around a chair leg. A necktie around a throw pillow. A silk scarf looped between two slats of his headboard.
Learning the rhythm of it: tying, untying, tightening, loosening. Two fingers loose, always.
"Every knot you tie is a promise, not a bond."
He memorized that line. Repeated it under his breath until it felt like prayer.
ꨄ
Tonight, that prayer’s being tested.
“Okay. How’s that feel?”
“Good.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Steve. It’s perfect.”
He checks again anyway, fingers trembling as he tugs at the restraint. It drapes in clean lines across your wrists, pale rope winding around the dark mahogany of his bed frame.
He hadn’t planned on using rope at all. Thought he’d get something familiar and harmless, like one of his many neckties (he’s got plenty, all unused), but the guide had warned about narrow fabrics cutting off circulation. He’d taken one look at the words nerve damage, muttered “jesus christ,” and driven straight to Melvald's.
Poor Don didn’t even glance up from his Wednesday crossword when Steve walked up, cheeks redder than a stop sign, and asked for ten feet of cotton rope.
Now, kneeling over you on the bed, his face is flushed that exact same shade of cherry. Hair a mess, shirt tossed somewhere on the floor, his lips swollen from all the times you pulled him down, stealing kisses whenever he leaned too close.
You’re grinning up at him now, happy and radiant and impossibly calm, which admittedly makes him more uneasy. Makes him more determined to get this right.
“You know,” you muse, “I’m starting to think you might’ve missed your calling as a Boy Scout.”
He snorts, loosening one knot just to retie it. “Yeah, well. If I’m gonna do it, I wanna get it right.”
“Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“Breathe.”
He lets out a shaky laugh. “I am breathing.”
“Barely.”
It’s teasing, but there’s tenderness behind it. And when he looks down at you—at your hands, at your face tipped up toward him, smiling like you’ve never been safer—something inside him goes quiet.
“I’m never gonna finish this if you keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, lips twitching.
Your laughter fills the room. It’s a sound he’d build a life around, if he could. He’s been thinking about that a lot, actually.
He stops fussing with the rope long enough to take your hand. Threads his fingers through yours, palm to palm, tracing the faint indents where your rings usually sit.
Wonders, not for the first time, what it would mean to add another one there someday.
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Not just because you think I’ll like it?”
“Steve,” you smile, eyes certain. “I trust you.”
ꨄ
Trust.
Steve Harrington has been rebuilding that word from the ground up.
He’s spent years trying to be someone worthy of it. Chipping away the old armor, the fake cool, the paper-thin ego he balanced like a crown because it was easier than being known.
He used to be the king of pretending.
Steve Harrington knows how to take a punch because he’s been taking them his whole life—some with fists, most with silence.
His first heartbreak wasn’t with any girl. It was with a front door closing at age twelve, the sound of his parents’ car pulling away for another “business trip.” The kind that lasted weeks. He’d wander around his empty house with a bottle of Coke and the TV humming, pretending the static counted as company. His mom would call twice, maybe three times a month. Once, from Paris, to ask if he’d fed the dog they didn’t have anymore.
So he learned early: if you want to survive, you get good at pretending. You smile. You make it look easy. You become the kind of person people envy, so they don’t see how empty you are.
Smirks sharp enough to cut glass, laughter loud enough to drown doubt. He coasted on locker-room bravado and casual cruelty. Smoke and mirrors. Nothing but bullshit.
He used to think confidence meant control. That being untouchable meant being safe.
But monsters changed that. Watching his friends bleed changed that. Realizing he’d die for any one of those dumb, brave kids changed that.
You changed that.
You taught him that caring out loud is its own kind of courage.
That love isn’t what you earn by being impressive, it’s what you build by being honest.
And if he's being honest, if there’s one thing Steve's come to realize about himself—after monsters and heartbreak and all the quiet, ordinary fears that came in between—it’s that he’s never been cool about caring. Never. And when it comes to you?
He doesn’t even want to try.
He wants to be the guy who cares. Loudly. Clumsily. The guy who asks, who listens, who gets it wrong and learns. The guy who remembers the little things: the sound of your laugh, the weight of your hand, the way you sigh out his name when you’re close.
He used to think trust meant being liked.
Never getting dumped. Never getting left behind.
Now, he knows better.
It’s quieter.
It’s earned.
It’s work.
Tonight feels like a trust fall. His biggest one yet.
ꨄ
“Too tight?”
“No.”
“Can you move your fingers?”
You wiggle them. “See? All good.”
He exhales. “Okay. The book said it should be, like, two fingers loose, so—"
“Wait,” you grin, “you read about this?”
He scoffs, ears turning red. “Well, yeah. Figured I should, you know… practice.”
You study him for a long moment, quiet.
“Wow,” you whisper, awe blooming behind your teasing smile. “So you’re an expert now, huh?”
Cheeks tinged pink, he grins, thumb stroking over the soft curve of your lips. Dips his voice all low and playful, edged with something daring:
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
You giggle softly, and he can’t help but lean down. To kiss you slow and sweet, even as everything inside him riots: heart hammering, mind buzzing, all his instincts screaming be careful, be good.
He’s trying. Really, he is.
He brushes his fingers up your arm, light as a sigh.
“Still okay?” he whispers.
“Still okay.”
“You’ll tell me if you want to stop?”
“Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
He blinks, throat tight.
“I love you too.”
ꨄ
He eats you out first, always.
He gets lost in it, goes a little crazed for it, the way he tends to do when he’s down here. Tip of his nose glistening, pressing, soft nudges to your clit that punctuate the relentless pressure of his tongue as he licks his way inside. The taste, the feel, the rich heady scent and the slick glide of it against his lips—its enough to quiet everything else.
His hand slides up your thigh, past the junction of your hip, reaching up your stomach. But where he expects to find the familiar grasp of your fingers threading through his, that grounding touch he relies on to steady himself just as much as you do, he finds only empty air.
For a moment, he falters.
It’s strange. Disorienting, even. He’s used to that anchor, the feel of you squeezing back with a grip so tight it borders on desperation, a silent promise that you’re right there with him, holding on.
But now... now there’s space where your fingers used to be. And when he hears the dull rasp of cotton grating against wood... that’s new, too. So is the sight that greets him when he glances up, past the swell of your stomach, your breasts, the faint shimmer of sweat at your collarbone.
The subtle pressure at the bend of your elbows. The contrast of linen-white braids against your skin.
Steve’s gaze lingers there. Tracing the lines of it, studying it.
It’s a simple double-column knot, one he practiced over and over on a pillow until his fingers could do it without shaking.
But seeing it now, on you, it feels different. Alive. An extension of his touch in some strange, perfect way. And even though he can’t reach you there, can’t ground you the way he wants, it still feels right. Safe.
He lets that thought ground him instead as your hips start to stir beneath him, impatiently canting toward his face.
The sound of your soft whimpering pulls him back.
He smiles, eyes flicking down to the place he knows by heart, the place that beckons him louder than anything else.
Even in the low light, you’re positively dripping. Glistening under the dark glow of his bedside lamp, golden pools of warmth illuminating everything that’s wet: his fingers, his chin, the inside of your thighs.
He swallows hard, hand splayed over your knee as he gently pushes it back.
“God,” he breathes, tongue dragging across his bottom lip, licking up every bit of you left behind. “What’s got my girl so worked up, hm?”
You let out a soft groan, headboard creaking again as you tug on the binds.
His gaze flicks up. “Wrists feel okay?”
You nod, fingers flexing. Then, quiet as breath: “Steve?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Please?”
Heat flares through him. Something primal and tender sparking at the sight of your pleading gaze, made of equal parts awe and responsibility. He watches the rope flex against your skin, the way your body bends and arches with it.
Following the pull. Trusting the pressure.
Vulnerability, given fully.
It’s captivating. More stunning than anything he could’ve conjured up in his mind.
He almost tells you as much, right then, just how beautiful you look bound like this.
But then he remembers what you had told him, before this whole night started.
You wanted him a little different tonight.
A little firmer. A little meaner.
So he climbs back up your body. Swallows the softness in his voice and lets something steadier take its place.
His chest heaves as he leans down, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your temple, holding your face in both hands.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low. “All tied up like this. This what you wanted?
Your reaction is immediate, the creak of wood giving you away before any nod or whimper can. The sheets rustle under your back as you wriggle your hips.
“Y-yeah. ‘S what I wanted.”
“Thought so,” he hums, sliding a hand down to feel the velvety warmth of your slit. He drags a slow line upward, teasing over your folds, gathering up the pooled wetness on the pad of his index. Brings it back up to your mouth; he’s barely tapped his finger against your lips when you start opening for him, suckling instinctively.
“Wish you could see yourself right now,” he murmurs, watching the way your lips purse around his finger. “All spread out like this.”
Your hips twitch, the headboard groans.
“Soaking wet. Desperate. So greedy, you know that?”
“Stevie,” you moan around his finger, struggling harder. “Please.”
He tuts softly, pulling his hand away. “Stay still. Don’t move unless I tell you.”
The words land somewhere deep in his throat, the timbre of it surprising even him.
It’s new. Near frightening in its weight. But beneath that fear is a warmth, a rightness. A promise. Care that takes shape in guidance.
“I got you,” he whispers, chest pressing into yours. “Don’t pull too hard on the rope, okay? If anything doesn’t feel good, tell me.”
Your nod is all the permission he needs.
He shuffles closer, pressing against the back of your thighs and pushing them back. His own cock twitches against his stomach, tip red and swollen and leaking something fierce. He grants himself two quick strokes before he lowers himself fully.
The headboard gives a deep, resonant creak as he sinks in slow, reveling in the wet, plush stretch of your entrance. He watches your face the entire way. Doesn’t stop until he’s all the way inside.
“Fuck, Steve—” you gasp, fists clenching tight above your head. “S-so—it’s so deep. Feels so good.”
“Yeah? Right there?” He makes quick work of tucking a pillow under your hips, finding the angle that would’ve had you marking him in crescents if your hands weren’t folded helplessly above you.
“You like being tied up, baby?” He grunts, brows knitting as he starts rolling his hips; slow, deep rocking motions that have your lashes fluttering with every stroke. “Held down, made to—made to take my cock?"
Even now, after everything, hearing himself say it sends a hot flush crawling up his neck. That sudden surge of boldness, the raw, heady implication behind the words, it all sends a quiet thrill tightening in his chest. But you only mewl louder, head rubbing against the pillow as you nod fiercely.
“Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling. He can tell from the soft clench of your eyes, the tiny tears beading at the corners, just how much of him you’re feeling. “M-make me take it. Want to be... want to be good for you.”
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, hips pistoning faster, fingers circling your clit in tandem with his thrusts. “You’re so good. Taking me so good.”
Words start to fail you; your jaw falls slack, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Every thrust makes your head loll back, your eyes glassy and half-lidded as you try to hold onto his gaze. You’ve gone quiet in a way he recognizes, letting out nothing but soft, breathy little gasps that punctuate the rhythm of his relentless pace. It’s the way you get when everything's too much, too good, too intense, words unable to keep up with how you’re feeling.
“Oh god,” you inhale sharply, tightening around him all of a sudden. “Steve, I’m... c-can I… hm—"
“What do you need, baby? Tell me.”
“Can I—ah, can I please come?”
“Hah, shit—”
Your question knocks the air out of him before he can even think. Hits him squarely in the chest with all the blunt force of a Mack truck.
He lets out a strangled groan: loud, guttural, punched out of his lungs and edged with something close to pain. He has to stop thrusting for a second, has to bow his head, press his forehead against your shoulder and fist the sheets to stave off his orgasm.
You’d brought this up during The Talk. About wanting to ask for permission. For his permission to come.
Still, it catches him so off guard it leaves him reeling, gasping for air.
He takes a slow breath to recover, eyes clenched tight. Then he resumes his pace, nodding against your neck.
“Y-yeah, go ahead, baby. Let me feel you. Come for me.”
He keeps his fingers working over your clit, his other hand tucked under your knee so he can hike your leg up higher and drive in at just the right angle. Sucks soft welts above your collarbone while he whispers quiet, adoring encouragements into your skin.
It’s not long before he feels you flutter around him, clenching hard—once, twice—your moans pitching higher and higher against his ear—
And yeah.
Yeah.
He gets it now.
Really, truly gets it.
Why there are books and movies and magazines dedicated to this stuff. Whispers of a world he never quite understood before.
Beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it.
There’s something near spellbinding in the way you move: the slow twist of your wrists, the curve of your spine, the turn of your face as you press your nose into your arm, one delicate teardrop rolling down your temple.
You look caught between two instincts; pulled into the warmth of him, recoiling from the depth of it, wanting to escape the intensity and reach for him in the same breath.
There’s no solving it, no containing it. No way to deal with it, except to surrender.
To feel it. To take what he’s giving you.
And he watches, struck silent, realizing that he’s the one drawing that reaction from you.
“There you go,” he grunts, keeping his thrusts deep, stroking over that sensitive spot inside you. There’s this strange, heady sensation that surges through him while he watches you squirm, his chest seizing with an overwhelming desire to protect, to hold, to keep. “Such a good girl. My girl. All mine, aren’t you?”
You nod through your orgasm, unable to do much else but whine and whimper and rock your wrists side to side as the pleasure crests.
“That’s it. Take it. Take all of it, baby. Let me feel you.”
Your orgasm hits harder and longer than he’s ever seen it. You can’t seem to stop quivering, shaking, squeezing around his cock in long, drawn-out pulses, over and over. And every time he thinks you’re about done, there’s just a little more.
He rides it all out with you, his own climax washing over him with a quiet shudder. It’s insignificant compared to watching yours unfold; he’s too mesmerized to pay it much mind.
And afterward, it takes a few quiet moments for you to come back to the world. He waits, hand smoothing over your thigh while he stays buried inside you.
When your eyes flutter open, lashes jeweled with tears, you let out a soft laugh: a fucked-out, watery sound that floods him with relief.
He drops himself down, lips colliding with yours in a desperate rush of feeling. Knows he should give you another second to catch your breath, but this is the only way he knows to bleed out some of that intense pressure in his chest. Well, that and:
“God, I love you. Love you so much. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
You giggle, panting softly, giving his lips another peck. “So... you liked it, then? The rope?”
“Liked it?” He huffs, nuzzling your neck, lips trailing soft kisses down your throat. “Baby, I fucking loved it. Can’t believe I got to see you come like that.”
You laugh at the ceiling, letting out a quiet puff of air. “Ok, good.”
He glances up at the headboard. “You feel okay? Wrists hurt?”
You hum quietly, flexing your fingers. “Not at all. Guy who tied 'em up did a really good job.”
He lets out an affectionate huff, dipping down for another kiss because he can’t help himself. “Oh yeah? He sounds hot.”
“Eh, he’s okay.”
He quirks a brow, pushing himself up on his hands—still buried inside you, still half-hard.
“Just okay?”
You nod, smile blissed-out and lazy. “Mm, yeah. I try not to encourage it. He—” A quick nudge of his hips forward, just a tad, and it earns a soft gasp from you. “—h-he gets a little cocky sometimes.”
He snorts, sinking down onto his elbows, licking a smirk across your lips.
“Don’t think you were complaining about his cock a second ago.” He mumbles, gently rolling his hips, feeling himself grow fully hard again. Knows he could go for at least three more rounds, easy.
He reaches his hand down to tease your clit, feeling the slick heat of you under his fingers, a living, pulsing reminder of just how hard he made you come. He knows you’re sensitive, especially after an orgasm so intense, but this—this was another one of your brilliant, wicked ideas: to draw out the pleasure, take whatever he wants to give you.
Your breath hitches against his mouth, and suddenly a dozen new ideas start rushing through his head.
“You wanna keep going?” he breathes, glancing up to where you’re still bound to the bed. His eyes sweep along the gentle indentations along your wrist: no irritation, no signs of strain.
“Mhm,” you nod, breathless, utterly boneless in his arms.
And wrapped up in the quiet power of your surrender, Steve’s mind starts to wander again.
To burnt pancakes and mismatched mugs.
To messy gardens and sun-warmed porches.
To footprints in flour and laughter filling the kitchen.
To days that start with your smile and nights that end with your hand curled in his. To shared plans whispered in half-sleep and the deep, unshakable comfort of knowing that no matter what comes next, you’ll be beside him through every season.
Love. Devotion. The sweetness of home he’s found in you without ever realizing he’d been searching for it.
And now, threaded through all of that, is something new. Something tender but fierce, a protective warmth that takes root in his chest.
He’s only just beginning to understand it. Only discovered it because you trusted him first—trusted him in ways he’s still learning how to live up to.
He hopes he’ll get to spend his lifetime cherishing that trust.
Cherishing you, if you’ll have him.
You smile up at him, hazy and adoring, and he mirrors it without thought.
“You want more?” he whispers, stroking your cheek in a quiet sort of promise.
“Yes.”
“Then ask me nicely, honey. I want to hear you say it.”
if you want to read abt how these cuties ended up together, this fic is sort of a sequel to this one!
