𖦹 currently writing for steve harrington. my requests are open for him, but i cannot promise i'll be able to write everything. most will probably be answered as blurbs. i also have lots of wips that i'm hella excited about!
𖦹 i write smut, but will not write mommy/daddy kinks, dd/lg dynamics, anything for real people, and other tropes i feel uncomfortable with. this is not an exhaustive list, but please don't request these.
𖦹 there are so many amazing amazing incredible steve writers on here!! if you're interested in some of the ones i've loved, the recent ones are tagged as #lizzy recs: steve! i'll be going back to retag some older ones i've loved and might put together a post of my favs
masterlists
[STRANGER THINGS] steve harrington
[ARCHIVE] percy jackson & the olympians, the last of us
𖦹 i do not consent for my work to be copied across tumblr or any other platform, especially including ai platforms. this is my only active blog, and the only platform i post my work on at the moment. this blog is not a safe space for racism, homophobia, misogyny, ableism, or zionism.
Thank you so much, @utterly-in-like! I can’t wait to dive into your fics soon— I’m on my tasm!peter kick but I saw that you write Tony Stark, and Psych (your xover with white collar)??? Man it’s been a hot minute since I read any Psychfic.
Fun fact that’s one of the fandoms I used to write the most for back in the day. The fic I’m most proud of from that era was an insane Final Destination-themed crossover fic feat Shawn Spencer, Johnny Smith from The Dead Zone, Adrian Monk from Monk, and Xander Harris from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Yeah, it was a whole thing.
BUT enough about that - you ordered a pic of Andrew Garfield and I present to you, a GIF
This one is special. See, this one is yoga instructor!Peter Parker.
tw health/body issues, post COVID illness, sexy innuendo under the cut
You really hate your sister for this, despite her good intentions.
Instead of being a sympathetic ear to your complaints about your ping-ponging energy and your slow cardio recovery post-COVID, she went and actually tried to help you. Goddamn it—all she had to do was sit there and listen to you be miserable, with the occasional wheeze and cough as you try to do something physically taxing. Like taking out the trash. Or standing up too fast.
But no. Instead, she bought you one of those gift certificates for a package of weekly yoga classes. 12 weeks seems extravagant, and you told her so with a sour, sarcastic, “Oh. You shouldn’t have.” But then you realized it was a biweekly vinyasa in the middle of Central Park at the magic hour of 5:00am.
What a bitch.
“We can go together!” she said. “We’ll make it a thing!”
The “thing” was you showing up in the middle of a dewy field at the ass crack of dawn to greet 6 other strangers—your sister nowhere to be found—as she cancelled her membership the night before and neglected to tell you.
What a bitch.
You hate running. You have no time to go to a gym. And you haven’t ridden a bike since you were 9. But here you are, rolling out the cheapest mat you can find and an old bath towel, next to an array of all walks of life and all number of age.
Great. You’re going to wheeze with your jiggly ass in the air next to a 67-year-old Herculean, bald guy who brought nothing but too-short shorts, a beat up Neoprene bottle, and his own sweat to his practice.
You rolled your eyes, and that’s when you saw him.
The Adonis. The face of an angel. The sculpted build of a Michelangelo. This was way worse. It’s one thing to embarrass yourself in front of random strangers, but another thing to embarrass yourself in front of the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.
He wore a tight black tank and board shorts (fuck, was he also a surfer?) as he greeted the class, biceps bulging from the mat tucked underneath his arm.
“Morning! How’s everyone doing?” he smiled brightly.
With devastatingly dark eyes and a saccharine sweetness to his expression, his gaze landed on you and you felt your face heat up. It’s mid-50s temperature in New York this morning, and you didn’t dress warm enough, but suddenly you’re on fire and have the urge to take off more clothes.
The slightest twinkle sparked in his eyes as they landed on you. He bit his lip, taking you in. (Fuck, did he really just do that? Is there something on my face? Do I have a tit showing?)
“Are you my new student?” he grinned, something seductive and—excited?—trapped in his throat.
Your mouth was dry, nodding in a fugue state.
Student? Like he’s the teacher? You’re going to need to bring an apple to him next time. Why is your crotch already sweating?
“My name’s Peter, it’s good to have you join us,” he says, his deep voice pouring over you like honey.
Why is he staring at you like that?
“Today’s a great day to start, we’re going to take each position very slow,” he added.
Is he serious right now?
“Just try to relax,” he says with a smirk. “I’ll take good care of you.”
You’re breathing heavy again, you notice.
And Peter keeps his promise, guiding the class through gentle stretches and poses. You keep your eyes glued to his form. For science.
Muscles flexing and a light sheen sweat forming on his face.
His eyes find you more than anyone else in the group. He starts traveling through the group when he’s convinced they’ve got the sequence down. He’s a great teacher.
At some point, midway through your 3rd downward dog, you notice that he’s glided to your side. You hadn’t even seen him coming, your eyes fixed on the blades of grass in front of your face, when you feel two large hands gently press around your pelvic crest.
Your heart stutters the second he touches you, and the butterflies in your stomach carry the wind from your lungs.
“Just like this,” Peter whispers, only loud enough for you to hear, as he guides your hips back into a more pointed position. “You’re doing so well.” You notice him line up your hips with his, and you swear he could lift you up by your pelvis with just the strength of his fingers.
You love downward dog. You love anything with dogs. Doggy style, all the way. Every time.
And with his help, goddamn it, the stretch is satisfying. You feel your spine start to decompress. Air fills your lungs in short measured breaths. His hands remain on you, encompassing your hips and the small of your back, pulling you into a delicious pose.
“Right there. Does that feel good?” he coos.
This mother Hubbard.
You moan. And then clear your throat. “Yeah,” you cough, trying to recover.
You can’t see his face but you can feel the body heat reverberating from him. And you can hear that cocky grin in his voice as he whispers back. “Good girl.”
Somehow, you survived. It was at the end of the class, when everyone else bolted and you were struggling to roll up your mat and ignore just how SWEATY your crotch was, when Peter kneeled down in front of you to help you. You gaped at his long fingers, curling the rubber into a neat cylinder.
“So how was it? I hope we didn’t go too hard on you.” His voice was like warm syrup. His eyes were dark chocolate pools. His lips looked like sugar-coated cherries.
He was bad for your health, without a doubt.
“No, um, it-it was g-good,” you shyly replied. “I’m just a little rusty.”
“Well, we can work on that,” he gazed at you with a lazy half smile. It was clear he found your timidness amusing. Appetizing, even. “See you next week?”
“Yes,” you blurted out, without hesitation. “Thank you. Thank you, Master.”
Your eyes went wide, locked on his. The word drifted into the atmosphere, a balloon swept away, never to return. He quirked a brow upward.
Your face turned crimson. “Teacher,” you stuttered “Teach— Guru? I… I don’t know why I said that.”
He licked his lips as he stared at yours, unabashed and unafraid.
“We can work on that, too.”
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