“Death should take me while I am in the mood.”

Full time fangirl, occasionally a student | 20

[tinfoileddd]

i'll love you in the morning too || s.h.

steve harrington x fem!reader (18+; MDNI; 1.3k words)

A night out, a warm apartment, and a boyfriend who knows how to take care of you when you're drunk.

cw: reader is drunk, that's about it. steve is soft and in love -> this was born from a conversation between @girlfailurearchivist and me so she's pretty much a co-author. everyone go say thank you frances because of her beautiful wonderful brain. frances ilysm ty for letting me write this <3

masterlist || divider/banner by @designlikenonsense || ao3 link

The first sign of you coming home doesn’t come with an announcement, but with the sound of the deadbolt turning.

Your giggles slip through the front door of your shared apartment, along with the sound of your friend’s voice desperately trying to quiet you down.

(It doesn’t work.)

Not that Steve’s surprised by any of this; You’d told him a few days ago that you were planning on having a girl’s night once the week ended. To let loose, you’d said. After a rough month at work.

And Steve—

He had only pressed a kiss to your forehead and tucked an extra twenty into your wallet when you weren’t looking, telling you to have a good time and reminding you to call if you needed a ride home from the bar.

Evidently, you hadn’t needed that ride. 

Steve rounds the corner at the same time you manage to get the front door open, stumbling in as laughter peels from your lips. Your friend, clearly sober and unhappy with being the designated driver for the night, gives him a tight smile as he catches you under the arms. 

“Fun night?” he asks lightly.

“Don’t even start,” your friend says with an aggrieved noise. “I still have two more drop offs, so I’m gonna go.”

“Fair enough,” Steve says. “Get home safe.”

She nods, and he’s left with an armful of you leaning heavily on him, smiling up like he’s the best thing you’ve seen all evening.

“My knight,” you say, sighing softly as you bring your hands up to his cheeks, squishing them as you drag him down towards your mouth. “Knight Steve, here to save the day…”

He doesn’t fight it. And though the taste of vodka on your lips isn’t the most pleasant thing, he’s pretty sure there isn’t anything in the world that could ever stop him from wanting to kiss you.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says. He pulls back just enough that his nose brushes against your own. “Do you think you’re up for a shower tonight, or straight to bed?”

“Bed,” you say. “Too sleepy for a shower.”

He’s gentle as he leads you down the hall, careful to make sure you don’t tip over as you lean more and more of your weight into his side, and guides you into the bathroom. You grumble something incoherent, clearly unhappy with being here and not the bedroom, but he only circles your waist and lifts you onto the counter.

“I’ll be quick, honey,” he murmurs. “Promise.”

The Pond’s cold cream is easy enough to find — you keep the small pot right next to the faucet — and you soften under his touch as he rubs it into your skin, careful as he works the mascara from your lashes. He pulls a washcloth from the drawer and wets it, and you giggle as he wipes the cream from your face until every last trace of makeup is gone.

He grabs your toothbrush and runs it under the faucet, shaking his head when you try to bury your face into his shirt. 

“Open up, baby,” he says. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

You tilt your face up, giving him your most petulant look, but open your mouth without argument and let him scrub the night from your teeth. 

He keeps you steady when you lean over to spit the paste out into the sink and, after a minute of searching, applies balm to your lips so they don’t dry out.

It takes a bit more time for him to locate your moisturizer (he’s watched you carry it around the apartment as you apply it to know that it never stays in one place) and you’re half asleep as he smooths it across your cheeks, paying careful attention when he uses his thumbs to rub your eye cream in under your eyes.

He combs your hair and applies your hair oil the way he’s seen you do a million times, wrapping it up once he’s done and, finally, helping ease you from the bathroom.

Across the hall, you sit on the edge of the bed as he searches through the dresser. You mumble something that he doesn’t understand, but when he turns to see you blanketed in the golden light from the lamp, he finds that he doesn’t quite mind.

I love you, every molecule in his body whispers as he makes his way back to you. I love you, his heart sings as he pulls your top over your head. I love you, I love you, I love you, his soul screams when he kneels down to drag your pajama pants up your legs.

You let out a giggle when he ties the drawstring, and it’s only then that he looks up. There’s an adoring smile on your face and you card your fingers through his hair, your voice soft when you breathe out, “You’re so handsome, Steve. I’m so lucky that you’re mine.”

He stands, his heart beating just a little bit faster, and he can’t stop himself from pressing a kiss against your temple. 

(Not that he’ll ever tell you, but every compliment that falls from your lips, every confirmation that he’s enough — that he’s enough for you—)

(It means more than he can put into words.)

You whine when he pulls away, reaching out for another kiss, and he feels guilty when he pries your hands from his face.

“Later,” he promises. “Let’s get you into bed now, yeah?”

He’s careful when he tucks the covers around you, making sure to arrange the pillows around your head the way he knows that you like them. He glances down, and there’s something about the way your lashes frame your eyes that has him leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead before saying, “I’ll be right back, okay?”

You hum, eyes slipping shut, and he slips out of the room. 

It’s second nature, really, to fill up a glass with water and rummage around for pain killers in the kitchen cabinet, the same way that arranging them on the bedside table so they’re within arms reach comes to him without thought.

(He’s spent so long trying to keep everyone around him safe and out of harm's way. He’s spent the longest nights of his life, bruised and bloodied and aching, vision blurry as he counted the heads of those he loves the most, making sure they were still there and still breathing—)

(Who knew that it would lead him here? In a warm home filled with love and laughter, one where the worst thing he has to fear is you having a hangover in the morning?)

He flicks the light off and slides into bed behind you, tugging you until your back is pressed to his front, and finally—

Something in his chest eases.

“Steve?”

Your voice is quiet, thick with sleep, and it takes a moment for him to even realize that you’d spoken. You turn in his arms, tracing your fingers down his chin as you meet his gaze

“What’s up, honey?” he asks.

“Love you,” you whisper, earnest in a way a person only is when drunk, like it’s very important for him to know this right in this moment.

He huffs out a laugh. “I love you, too.”

“You’re just…” You clumsily pat his face. “You’re so nice, and so good. Do you know how good you are? Always takin’ care of people, takin’ care of me… So nice. Even when I’m a bother.”

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face anymore than he can stop himself from turning his head, kissing the pads of your fingers with a kind of reverence that feels sacrilegious. 

“I’ll always take care of you,” he says, resolution laced into every syllable. “And you’re never a bother, baby.”

You sigh, clearly content, and bury your face into his shirt. “Will you still love me in the morning?”

(And if he holds you to him just a bit tighter—)

(Well, he doesn’t think anyone can blame him.)

“I’ll love you in the morning too. Promise.”

[spacejjunk]

today is a WIP day for me, gonna be working on editing and writing all day soooooo...

♡ send some requests in ♡

[bwfambi]

ARACHNID DNA

CONTENT : obsessive!peter, making out, fluff with cute romance

SUMMARY : peters hormones spike and all he can do is think of you..

A/N :: to all the people that found me on tt, ily

Peter had always hung around you, whether it was in social spaces or at your apartment alone working on a project. You appreciated it deeply, usually thanking him with the brightest smile that could light up a room.

You’d never seen Peter as more than a close friend, someone who was always there for you no matter what. Sure, Ned would jab at you, smiling as he pointed at Peter staring before Peter immediately looked away, but it always went over your head.

Peter, nonetheless, was clumsy at hiding his affection for you yet grateful to whichever god made you oblivious to his growing fondness for you.

“If we take the subway down to South Ferry, there should be a cute café we can get matcha at!” You exclaim, nudging at Peter repeatedly as he instantly looks up at you with a pout, his hand still writing on the paper he’s been so focused on.

He smiles at you in return, now tapping his finger on the wooden table, the soft thuds drowning in the noise of people talking, yelling, and whispering. “Isn’t this the third time you’ve gotten matcha today?” He emphasises, holding your shoulder while putting on a fake worried expression.

You scoff at his attempt to act out his ‘worry’ for your health, mostly by the fact that it’s his wallet that’s funding your matcha craze, and it’s him following along watching you drink it with a smirk each time.

Yet Peter had a little spidey secret of his. You had a suspicion he was Spider-Man, but you never really called him out on it in worry that your little web friend would shy away. And that same secret was costing him a lot.

Recently, he had experienced a spike in his hormones. He figured out it was due to his arachnid DNA and a traumatic experience which may have caused it. And it would’ve been fine in any case. He was learning how to handle the webs shooting out of him and the loud pangs.

However, he was struggling not to obsess over you. 

The spike in his hormones had led to him being needy, really needy. Almost so needy to the point he could not live without having you near him at all times, even if it meant keeping an eye on you when he shouldn’t be.

At first, it was the clinginess, always holding onto you wherever he could, your shoulder, your waist, or your arm. Then came the pangs of wanting to see you late at night, and it was the worst when he was fighting Scorpion yet all he could do was think about how pretty you looked in the blue top he picked out for you.

His teeth would clench in anger seeing you interact with other guys who only wanted one thing from you; he would later scare them using his Spider-Man suit into staying away.

Anything to keep you safe, right?

Your poor friend would hold in the urge to kiss the screen every time you sent a picture, the raspberry-flavoured lip gloss perfectly shining your lips like you had just made out with someone. He could only wish that it was him.

One night it became unbearable; he needed to see you.

Which led to you sitting in your chair staring at Spider-Man climb through your fire escape window, bewildered. The cinematic jaw drop you did was so priceless; Peter almost burst out into a laugh.

“Oh my god did I do something wrong—I swear I didn’t mean to smack the little kid. I was only trying to get my phone back!” You yell immediately, standing up and backing away.

Peter chuckles softly, gently taking off the mask while watching your shock turn into confusion, then excitement. “This isn’t something I should do, but I can’t—I need you.” He bubbles out, almost whispering towards the end of his sentence, his voice slightly cracking.

He walks towards you, placing his hands at your sides as he searches for acceptance, a sign that you don’t hate him for keeping this secret away from you for so long. Surprisingly, he is met with your ecstatic eyes.

You grin, laughing like a maniac as you try to piece everything together. It was awfully weird how happy you were about finding out your best friend is the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man. 

“Spider-Man…needs me?” You trail off, looking into his honey-dipped eyes, the frantic look making you giggle even more. “Peter, you need to learn how to stop overthinking things,” you reassure him with a wink.

Peter’s racing heart paces down, yet it isn’t enough. He needs to feel every inch of you, wants to have you to himself. And the only way he can is by expressing how much he cares.

His lips crash onto yours, pushing deeper chaotically. His tongue searches for yours in a rush as he roughens the kiss, hands cupping your plush cheek while rubbing the beauty spots.

Your eyes widen, taken aback by the sudden bravery and urge; however, you melt into the kiss shortly afterwards, arms resting at his waist as you let him guide you, your tongue colliding with his in a steady rhythm.

After what seems an eternity, you finally let go. Struggling to find the words to explain the adrenaline you just felt, the mask abandoned on the floor and the faint smell of blood on his suit all begin to register in your head.

“I want to be around you all the time. I want to be yours and—” You quickly shut him up with your finger on his lips, leaving you both in silence for a moment.

You let out a deep sigh, “If I’d known you felt this way, I could’ve reciprocated. I like you too, Peter, like like.” You mutter, hands sliding up to his cheek, placing a small peck on his lips.

He smiles in response, the weeks of obsessing over you finally simmering down. It was a start. He would still end up ‘keeping an eye’, but knowing this was the first step to having you was enough.

[rosieriesz]

𝐠𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐞 .ᐟ

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+, explicit sexual content — MDNI , graphic descriptions , excessive cum , kinda gentle to rough sex, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation , creampie, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), porn with little plot, needy peter parker , love confessions , touch starvation , college au , post nwh , smut , fem!reader , pussy drunk peter , first time together , confessions , the L word !!

𝐰𝐜: 4.9k (i think. might be more, might be less. idk.)

𝐚/𝐧: i may have gone overboard with this but it’s my first smut fic. LOL! no spoilers for brand new day! this is semi proofread, so sorry in advance for mistakes. enjoy!!

the thing about Peter Parker is that he doesn't realize how tactile he is.

or maybe he does now, after four years of forcing himself not to be.

you’re sprawled across his dorm room floor, textbooks and notes scattered around you like academic shrapnel. your Organic Chemistry problem set is due tomorrow, and Peter's trying to explain electron orbital hybridization for the third time while you're trying not to notice the way his hands move when he talks.

"okay, so—wait, are you even listening?" he glances up from the molecular model he's been gesturing at, catching you staring.

"yes," you lie. "orbitals. hybridization. very sexy stuff."

Peter's ears go pink. they always do. "it’s actually kind of cool if you think about it. like, the atoms are literally reshaping themselves to form stronger bonds—"

"Peter."

"—which is sort of romantic in a way? no? okay, yeah, I hear how that sounds."

you grin, nudging his knee with your foot. "you’re such a nerd."

the contact makes him freeze for just a second—so brief you almost miss it. but you've been Peter's best friend since freshman orientation, when you found him eating lunch alone in the dining hall, and you've gotten good at reading him. the way his breath catches. how his eyes track the movement of your leg as you pull it back.

"takes one to know one," he manages, but his voice is slightly rough.

you’ve been noticing things like this more lately. the way he leans into your touch when you grab his arm. how he finds excuses to be close—sitting next to you even when there's a whole empty couch, walking you home when your dorm is barely three buildings away. the looks that last a fraction too long.

at first, you thought you were imagining it. Peter Parker, who spent freshman year obviously pining after someone he wouldn't talk about, who kept a careful distance from everyone like he was afraid of breaking something. but somewhere between late-night study sessions and 2 AM bodega runs and him falling asleep on your shoulder during movie nights, something shifted.

now he's watching you chew on your pen cap, and there's heat in his gaze that makes your stomach flip.

"we should take a break," you suggest. "my brain is melting."

"yeah, okay." Peter runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up adorably. "i’ve got—uh, i think there's some leftover pizza? and definitely Red Bull, which is probably not great to mix with the coffee we already had, but—"

"Peter."

"hmm?"

you’re not sure what you were going to say. something about how he's rambling, maybe, or how cute he looks when he's nervous. but you're sitting close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, and the words dissolve on your tongue.

he swallows hard. "you’re looking at me weird."

"weird how?"

"i don't know! like..." he trails off, and you watch his gaze drop to your mouth before snapping back up. "never mind."

the air feels thick suddenly, charged with something that's been building for months. you think about all the almost-moments—hands brushing when passing coffee cups, the time he caught you when you slipped on ice and held on longer than necessary, the way he said your name last week, soft and wondering, like he was testing how it felt.

"Peter," you say again, and this time his name sounds different. heavier.

"yes?" it comes out barely above a whisper.

you lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away. he doesn't. instead, he tilts forward like you're gravity and he's been in orbit too long, and when your lips finally meet, the small sound he makes goes straight through you.

the kiss is soft for maybe two seconds before Peter's hand comes up to cup your face and it turns desperate. he kisses like he's starving, like you're air and he's been underwater for years. his other hand finds your waist, gripping tight enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers.

"sorry," he gasps against your mouth. "sorry, i just—"

"don’t apologize." you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently. the noise he makes is almost pained.

"i’ve wanted—" he breaks off, kissing you again, harder. "god, i’ve wanted this for so long."

you end up in his lap somehow, textbooks scattering as he pulls you closer. Peter's hands are everywhere—your hips, your back, sliding under the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin. when you roll your hips experimentally, he actually whimpers.

"fuck," he breathes. "fuck, you can't—i’m trying to—"

"trying to what?" you do it again, feeling him harden beneath you.

his head falls back against the bed frame. "be good. go slow. not just—" his hips buck up involuntarily. "not just maul you like some kind of—oh fuck, are you taking off your shirt?"

you are, in fact, pulling your shirt over your head. "is that okay?"

Peter's eyes go wide and dark. "is that—are you seriously asking if—yeah. yeah, it’s okay. are you kidding?" he reaches for you with shaking hands, then stops himself. "i need you to tell me this is real."

"it’s real." you guide his hands to your waist. "i’m real. touch me, Peter."

he surges up to kiss you, lifting you and gently laying you back against the bed, he follows you down—his weight pressing you into the mattress. he’s kissing the spot behind your ear now, your neck, your jawline, your collarbone, working his way down with single-minded focus. all he can think about is you. you, you you you you.

"you’re so soft," he murmurs against your skin. "so fucking soft, i can't get enough. so soft, and smooth.”

his hands shake as he reaches for your bra clasp. it takes him two tries, and he laughs breathlessly against your shoulder. "sorry, i’m—it's been a while.”

your heart clenches. you know Peter has secrets—everyone does—but sometimes he lets things slip that make you wonder what he's been through. "we can slow down if you want."

"no." it comes out fierce. "no, i don't want slow. i want—" he drags his hands down your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "i want to touch every part of you. want to taste you. want to—fuck, i want so many things."

he gets your bra off and just stares for a moment, reverent. when’s the last time he’s seen tits up close? then he's ducking his head to take your nipple in his mouth, and the feeling shoots straight between your legs. his tongue works in circles while his hand palms your other breast, and you arch into him with a gasp.

"Peter—"

he’s grinding against your thigh now, seemingly unconscious of it, completely focused on mapping your body with his mouth. when he kisses down your stomach, just above your navel, your muscles jump under his lips.

"can i?" his fingers are on the button of your shorts. "please. pleasepleaseplease."

"yes." you lift your hips to help him, and he drags your shorts and underwear down in one motion like he can't wait another second.

Peter sits back on his heels, just looking, and the expression on his face makes you feel like the most beautiful thing in the world. "holy shit," he breathes. "you’re so—i can't believe you're letting me—fuck.”

"Peter." you reach for him. "come here."

but he shakes his head, lowering himself between your thighs instead. "i need to taste you first. i’ve been thinking about this for months—i felt like a pervert but.. i just couldn’t stop thinking about you. shit, baby.”

the first broad lick of his tongue through your folds makes you both moan. Peter grips your thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading you open obscenely as he buries his face between your legs like a man starving. there’s no technique to it at first, just raw desperate hunger—he's licking and sucking messily, his tongue exploring every fold, every inch of you like he needs to memorize the taste.

"oh my god," you manage, watching him devour you. watching his messy curls between your legs. “Peter, that's—fuuuuck!”

he moans against your cunt, the vibration making your legs shake. his tongue finds your clit and circles it sloppily before dipping lower, the tip of his tongue pushing into your entrance. "fuck," he gasps, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin already shiny with your arousal. "jesus, you're so wet. you’re dripping—all for me?” he dives back in, licking into you deeper, his nose pressed against your clit as he tries to fuck you with his tongue.

you can feel how soaked you are, can hear the obscene wet sounds as he works you over. Peter's completely lost in it, grinding his hard cock against the mattress as he eats you out like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. because you are. if he knew, he would’ve confessed long ago.

"you taste so fucking good," he mumbles against your pussy, words muffled and desperate. "could do this forever. could just live between your legs—fuck, you're getting wetter. fuck, honey."

he slides two fingers into you without warning, and you cry out at the stretch. your walls clench around the intrusion, and Peter whimpers at the feeling. "oh god, you're so tight. so fucking tight and warm. holy fuck.” he curls his fingers, searching, and when he finds that spot inside you, your back arches off the bed.

“there!" you gasp. "right there, Peter, don't stop—"

"here?" he does it again, his fingers pumping in and out while his mouth seals around your clit. he sucks hard, tongue flicking rapidly, and the dual sensation has you climbing fast. you can see him grinding desperately against the mattress, seeking friction, his hips rolling in time with his fingers fucking into you.

"Peter, i’m gonna—"

"please," he begs against your clit, the word vibrating through you. "please cum for me, wanna feel your pussy squeeze my fingers, wanna taste you cumming on my tongue. please? will you cum for me, baby? please, i need it. i need you.”

his encouragements and the fullness combined with his mouth on your clit sends you over the edge. your orgasm crashes through you, and Peter moans like he's the one cumming as your walls clench rhythmically around his fingers. he works you through it, fingers still pumping, tongue still lapping at your clit until you're shaking and oversensitive and have to physically push his head away.

when he lifts his head, his face is a mess—lips swollen and shiny, chin glistening with your arousal, eyes absolutely blown black with lust. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “that was the hottest thing i’ve ever done," he says, voice completely wrecked. he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, moaning at the taste. "you’re the hottest thing i’ve ever seen. i can’t—i need to be inside you right now or i’m gonna lose my mind."

you reach for his shirt with shaking hands. "off. please."

he strips so fast he nearly falls over, hopping on one foot as he shoves his jeans and boxers down. it’s almost comical, if you weren’t so desperate right now. when he's finally naked, you take a moment to appreciate him—lean muscle, the cut of his hipbones, his cock hard and flushed, curving up toward his stomach. the head is already leaking precum, and as you watch, another bead forms at the tip.

"come here," you say, and he practically lunges back onto the bed.

the first touch of skin on skin makes him shudder violently. "oh shit," he breathes, his cock sliding against your wet pussy. "ah fuck, you feel so good. jesus. your skin. fuckfuckfuck.”

your wrap your hand around him, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily, fucking into your fist. he’s hot and hard and silky in your palm, and when you stroke him once, experimentally, precum leaks over your fingers. the sound he makes is almost pained. he bites his lip so hard, you’re afraid he’ll break skin.

"i’m not gonna last," he warns, voice breaking. "i’m already so close, i’ve been so close just from tasting you, from feeling you cum on my face.”

"it’s okay." you guide him to your entrance, notching the head of his cock against your opening. you’re so wet that he slides through your folds easily. "i want you inside me. want to feel you cum inside me.”

Peter’s hand shakes as he reaches between you, gripping his cock to line himself up properly. "i don't—do you have a—"

"pill," you manage. "i’m on the pill. clean. are you—

"of course i am. i—i mean. yes.”

you’d normally never do this raw. but right now, all you care about is the way he's looking at you like you're everything, as he slowly pushes inside.

the stretch is intense—he's thick and the angle is deep and you're so sensitive from your first orgasm that every inch feels like too much and not enough all at once. you both groan as he sinks in, and you can feel your walls fluttering around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion.

"oh my god," Peter gasps, his whole body trembling. "oh my god, you're so tight, i can feel—fuck, i can feel everything—" his arms are shaking with the effort of going slow, his face buried in your neck. "you’re squeezing me so tight, oh, fuuuuck.”

when he's fully seated, buried to the hilt inside you, he stops, breathing hard against your skin. you can feel him pulsing inside you, can feel how close he already is. "need a second," he pants. "just need a second or i’m gonna cum right now.”

you run your hands down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he's holding himself perfectly still. "it’s okay. take your time."

"don’t want it to be over." he lifts his head to look at you, and his eyes are almost desperate, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left. "feels too good. you feel too good. like—like you were made for me, like your pussy was made to take my cock.”

you rock your hips slightly, and his eyes nearly roll back. "Peter, you can move. please move. i need you to fuck me."

he does, pulling out slowly—agonizingly slowly—and you can feel everything. every ridge, every vein, the way his cock drags against your walls, the way you're stretched around him. the sensation is so intense it makes your toes curl, makes you whimper at the loss of fullness.

"oh, fuck," Peter breathes, watching where you're joined, watching himself slide out of you. "you look so good taking my cock. so fucking good.”

then he slides back in, just as slowly, and you both moan at the same time. the sound he makes is broken, almost pained, like it feels too good to bear. his whole body shudders as he bottoms out again, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. he does it again, pulling out painfully slow—before sliding back in. the feeling is so perfect. yet, your body craves more. he sets a rhythm that's deep and steady, but you can feel him holding back, trying to maintain control, his jaw clenched with the effort.

"can’t—" he gasps. "can’t believe how good you feel. so tight and wet and warm. how are you so tight, baby? god.”

he sets a rhythm that's deep and steady, his cock plunging deep inside of your pussy, over and over. each thrust is deliberate, controlled, like he's trying to memorize every sensation. but you can see the effort it's taking him—his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping, his arms trembling where they're braced on either side of you, sweat already beading on his forehead.

"ah—yes!" you encourage, running your hands up his back. "you feel so good inside me."

his hips stutter slightly at your words, the rhythm faltering for just a second before he regains control. "yeah? you like feeling me fuck you?"

"yes, pete! love it! love feeling you stretch me open—!”

"fuck—" his next thrust is slightly harder, slightly faster, and he immediately tries to slow down again. "sorry, sorry, i’m trying to—trying to go slow but you feel so fucking good.”

"let go," you tell him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "i want to feel you lose control. want you to fuck me like you've been dreaming about."

he groans as he feels your walls clench around him. “i’m sorry, honey. m’sorry. i’m too rough, aren’t i? m’so sorry.”

"don’t apologize." you roll your hips to meet his next thrust, and the angle makes him hit deeper. "want to feel you."

the pleasure is building steadily, a warm coil tightening in your belly with each stroke. Peter's breathing is getting heavier, his control visibly slipping. his thrusts are getting incrementally faster, harder, like his body is moving on instinct despite his attempts to hold back.

"you’re so—ah!—perfect," he pants against your neck, his hips snapping forward a little harder. "so fucking perfect, taking my cock so well—" another thrust, faster this time. "been dreaming about this, about being inside you, about feeling you on my cock.”

his rhythm is getting less controlled now, more erratic. you can feel him starting to lose it, his careful restraint crumbling with each thrust. he’s sweating more, his skin slick against yours, his breathing ragged and desperate.

"Peter—" you dig your nails into his back. "more. need more."

he shakes his head. “can’t—if i go harder i won't be able to stop—" but even as he says it, his hips are moving faster, driving into you with more force. "what are you doing to me? fuuuck, i can't—i’m trying to be gentle but you feel too good.”

“then don't be gentle." you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "want you to fuck me harder."

he makes a sound that's almost a whimper, his hips stuttering before he slams into you harder than before. "like that? you want it like that?"

"yes!—fuck, yes—"

his control is slipping faster now. each thrust is harder, faster, more desperate. he tries to slow down, you can feel him trying, but his body won't listen. his hips keep moving, keep driving into you with increasing intensity.

"can’t stop," he gasps, his voice breaking. "can’t fucking stop, you feel too good, your pussy is so tight—" he’s babbling now, his face pressed into the curve of your neck. "want to fuck you so hard, want to make you feel so good, want to hear you scream my name.”

"m’trying to—trying to hold back—" but his hips are moving faster, pounding into you with a force that makes the bed shake. "don’t want to hurt you—"

"you won't. please, Peter, i need it.”

his next thrust makes you both cry out. he’s completely losing it now, his rhythm getting faster and more erratic, his body taking over despite his attempts at control. you can feel him shaking, trembling with the effort of holding himself back even as his hips betray him.

"i’ll hurt you—i’m stronger than i look—“

"shut up, Peter." you pull him deeper with your legs, and the angle makes you both gasp. "stop—fucking—ah!, stop apologizing. i want all of you. want you to use me, fuck me as hard as you need.”

his eyes roll back at the depth and his fragile restraint snaps. he eyes go dark and feral, and suddenly he's pounding into you, his hips snapping against yours with force that would probably hurt if you weren't so turned on. the bed frame slams against the wall with each thrust, and Peter's completely gone, his filter destroyed.

"fuckfuck, shit, your pussy feels so good," he babbles against your neck, his voice broken and desperate. he reaches up, his hand palming your breast, squeezing the weight in his hand. his thumb circling over your nipple as he moans into your neck. "so tight and wet and perfect—can't believe i get to have this, have you. been wanting to fuck you for so long..” he changes the angle slightly and hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "there? can you feel me there? can you feel how deep i am?"

"yes!" you’re clinging to him, nails digging into his back. "Peter, oh my god!”

"shit—! wanted to bend you over the library table," he confesses, words tumbling out in a rush as he fucks into you relentlessly. "wanted to pull you into the bathroom at that party last month and fuck you against the sink. wanted to wake up with my face between your legs, wanted to fall asleep with my cock still inside you—" he’s rambling now, completely unfiltered, telling you every desperate fantasy as his hips piston. "used to jerk off thinking about this, about how you'd feel, how you'd sound, what your pussy would look like stretched around my cock.”

the world outside his dorm room falls away, all you can feel is his cock pumping in and out of you. you can barely think, he’s barely giving you time to think. all you can hear is his moans, your own desperate cries and the wet slap! of his skin against yours.

you can feel another orgasm building, the angle hitting perfectly with every brutal thrust. your walls are fluttering around him, and you know he can feel it because he moans and somehow speeds up even more. like he’s superhuman.

"Peter, i’m close—"

"i know, sweet girl. i can feel it." he reaches between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit. the touch is almost too much on your oversensitive flesh, but then he's rubbing tight circles and you're flying. "cum on my cock. please baby, need to feel it, need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock. just like you did on my fingers.”

tne combination of his thumb and the relentless thrust of his hips and his desperate words sends you over the edge. your second orgasm hits even harder than the first, your whole body seizing as pleasure whites out your vision. you clench around him rhythmically, and Peter makes a sound like he's been punched, his rhythm faltering.

“oh shit, shitshitshit, you're squeezing me so tight, i can't—i’m gonna cum—where? tell me where. please.”

"inside," you gasp, still riding the waves. "cum inside me, Peter, want to feel it.”

he buries himself as deep as possible and comes with a broken moan of your name.

you can feel it immediately—the first hot pulse of cum flooding into you, but it doesn't stop. it keeps coming, wave after wave, his cock jerking violently inside you as he empties himself. there’s so much—more than should be possible—each pulse filling you fuller, the warmth spreading deep inside as he shakes apart above you.

"oh god, oh god.” his voice is completely destroyed, words slurring together as another massive wave hits him. "i’m sorry, baby. i know it’s a lot—fuuuuck. imsorryimsorryimsorry.”

another pulse, his hips jerking involuntarily, grinding deeper like he's trying to fuck his cum even further inside you.

his arms are shaking so badly he can barely hold himself up. you can see tears gathering at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming intensity, his face twisted in almost painful pleasure.

when his orgasm finally, finally starts to subside, he collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress because he literally cannot hold himself up anymore. he’s shaking like a leaf, gasping against your neck, and you can feel the obscene amount of cum leaking out of you.

"holy shit," he finally says, voice absolutely destroyed. "that was—i mean, i knew it would be good, but that was—i think i saw the heavens. god, i feel like i’m gonna pass out.”

"that was so hot," you manage, because words are hard right now and your limbs feel like jelly.

he lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is soft and wondering and a little hungry. "i love you," he says. "i know that's probably too soon to say, and we should probably talk about what this means, but i love you. i’ve been in love with you for months, maybe longer, and i thought i’d never get over—someone else—but then you smiled at me in the dining hall freshman year and i just.. i don’t know. you definitely don’t have to say it back, because i sound insane, but i just want you to know that—“

you kiss him, cutting off the ramble. "i know. i think i love you too.”

his answering smile is bright enough to power the sun. "yeah?"

"yeah.”

he kisses you again, soft and sweet this time, and you can feel him starting to harden inside you again, his cock thickening and lengthening where it's still buried in your pussy.

"Peter," you say, mock-stern even as your body responds.

he grins, sheepish and hungry all at once, and rolls his hips experimentally. the slide is easy, slick with cum and arousal. "i have months to make up for. hope you didn't have plans tomorrow."

you definitely don't have plans. and when he starts moving again—slow and deep and perfect, his cum making obscene wet sounds as he fucks it back into you—you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be than here, in his messy dorm room, with the boy who's been touch-starved for too long finally letting himself feel everything.

the Organic Chemistry homework can wait.

authors note: whewww.. hi guys… yes.. yes.. i’ve been gone for a few weeks but IM HERE NOW! and here with a smut.. wooo!! baby’s first smutfic yum yum. i saw bnd on the 29th and holy fan service.. any who i have a love hate relationship with this. i’m SCARED to post this and i will delete if it doesn’t do well (kidding). i just get embarrassed writing smut so.. hope you love it.. and if you do, i might make more !! bye loves <3

[joekeerysbicep69]

Nobody even talk to me I’m so serious

[plainemmanem]

the stylistic choices made to make this steve’s slutty little pose, thank you god

[keeryhours]

Joe Keery tho is fine asffff like come put them kids in me

YEAHHHHHHH

[keeryhours]

goodbye.

[buckysbarnes]

(insp)

[hellfire--cult]

If he looked at me as the 6th gif, I would crumble so fucking hard.

[djo]

EDDIE MUNSON Chapter Six: The Dive

[hellfire--cult]

if i had steve harrington as my boyfriend i would make damn sure to count every single freckle in his body with a kiss

[hellfire--cult]

i still stand by this

[hellfire--cult]

eddie munson would see you butt naked, laying on your belly because of the heat and get his credit card and just go "cha-ching" on the crack of your ass.

[graywrenhart]

hello my darling <3

if i may :’) i would like a hazelnut latte please :) extra hot, with a dash of the prompt: “the desperate scramble to get closer when there is no closer to get”

love @keer-y on main 🤍

𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐔𝐏! - DESPERATE

gator gets home from a long work trip to find you desperate for him.

tags: [smut, MDNI] [established relationship] [husband!gator] 560 words.

It’s sometime past midnight when you finally hear the front door open. 

You launch out of bed, where you were unsuccessfully attempting to sleep while waiting for your husband to finally get home, and fly down the stairs. 

The door has barely shut behind Gator before you’re on him. 

He grunts, stumbling backwards as you throw your arms around his neck and breathe him in. He smells like the cold air outside, and gun oil, but beneath it all…that familiar musk that has heat pooling between your legs. And all of a sudden you’re ravenous—licking his neck, kissing his face, grinding your hips into his. 

“Shit, mama,” Gator huffs, “can’t even get inside before you’re—”

You finally find his mouth with yours, and his words dissipate like mist at the first taste of you. 

It’s been three weeks since you’ve seen Gator. 

Three. Weeks. A case took him away across the country, so it’s been twenty-one excruciating days without your husband in your bed.

And that’ll do things to a girl. 

“Upstairs,” you breathe between kisses. “Need you.”

He snorts and pulls back to smirk down at you, his brown eyes flashing in the dark entryway, but when you start to move towards the stairs, his hands lock down on your hips. Hard.

“Too far,” he says, and then he’s kissing you again, pressing you backwards into your living room. Your eyes flutter shut as you surrender to his maneuvering, his broad shoulders shifting under your hands, and the next thing you know, he’s guiding you down onto the couch. 

Well, more so, tossing you onto the fabric cushions, before following you down.

You sigh into his mouth as his weight settles on top of you. This feels right. It’s so right, it’s almost like your bones were too light before in comparison. But then his hands dive under your shirt, pinching your hard nipples, and your sigh turns into a deep moan.

“There ya are,” he hums before finding your mouth with his again. “S’my girl.”

It’s dark in here, since you turned all the lights off before going to bed, but you don’t need light to see each other. 

Not like this. 

The gun still holstered on his thigh digs into your leg as you press yourself even closer, and when he reaches down to make sure the safety is on, something deep and aching snags in your chest. 

You’re both panting now, desperation for each other turning you into frantic writhing messes, and you could let your body to the talking, but for some reason, you feel the need to say it, too. 

“M-missed you so—” you start, but his hand finally breaches your sleep shorts and finds your soaked folds, so all you can muster is a torn whimper.

Gator curses. “You’re soakin’ me. I need t’leave town more often, huh?” 

You scoff and slap his arm beneath his jacket, but there’s no heat behind it because you’re starving for him, and all your blood rushes to your core as he sinks a finger into you, stroking your slick walls firmly before pulling back.

“Missed ya too,” he whispers against your throat, and when he sits up to unbuckle his belt, his broad frame rises over you—a sinful silhouette. “Ass up, babygirl. Let me show ya how much.”

gator masterlist | divider by @saradika-graphics | visit gray's 4k cafe!

[glitterinmycoochie]

Bulking season. . .

𑁤 boyfriend peter parker/spiderman x reader, smut 18+, gain muscles, peter can shoot organic webs, improper use of organic webs, vaginal fingering, hair pulling, oral sex (male reciving), cumming, unprotected sex, pet name (baby, sweetheart), dirty talk, reader is obsessed with Peter's back, don’t be picky please . . .

You didn't know what had happened to your boyfriend, you really didn't have the faintest idea.

But you definitely loved it.

You and Peter had been together for two years, even though you had known each other for at least four years and Peter had always been in a certain shape. From the time you first saw him until a couple of months ago, he always had abs and fairly big biceps, maybe not exactly a gym rat or only muscle but you could definitely tell he worked out.

Unlike him, you weren't a gym person at all. Sure, you had plenty of passions but the gym just wasn't your thing and above all your boyfriend was advantaged -i mean, he was Spider-Man, he’d spend his time swinging from one skyscraper to another like Tarzan.

And that was exactly why you didn't understand what was happening to your boyfriend, you didn't understand anything about the gym world so consequently you didn't understand anything about what was going on.

Peter had gone from being a guy who was visibly working out to a guy people thought trained like a monster.

And that completely threw your self-control out the window, when you woke up the next morning in his bed and saw him shirtless at his desk -broad shoulders and muscular back fully exposed, you were practically drooling, not to mention his biceps -you could see just how massive they were with the slightest movement, all those veins pumping, or those sculpted pecs that made you want to bury your face right in them.

In short, the situation had become truly dangerous, because even when he made a slight movement -like, I don't know, just breathing and you saw his muscular chest rise and fall, it made you clench your thighs and sent a pulse throbbing through your core.

You practically couldn't see your boyfriend without being horny as hell and it made you feel like a serial pervert, the kind who ends up in rehab.

It had all become too much -especially in that day.

There was literally no fucking reason for your boyfriend to be that hot -none at all. He was sitting at his desk working on his costume, as usual, but you had an incredible view in front of you, his broad shoulders were completely bare, you could see the muscles in his back and the way his hands moved over the equipment in front of him, making those bulging biceps -the ones that drove you crazy, stand out, the visible veins pulsing across them and his moving hands.

"Have you been trying something different at the gym?" you asked, sounding almost innocent as you sat on the bed behind him.

Peter let a soft, surprised laugh escape his lips, "Why? Did you notice something different?" he asked, turning his chair toward you -distracting you with his exposed chest, well-defined collarbones, toned abs and that knowing little smile playing on his lips, because he knew perfectly well that something had changed.

"You're like, huge now," you said without thinking twice, "I mean, not that way -I just mean you're more muscular because... well, you know," you said awkwardly, already feeling yourself getting too embarrassed.

With that satisfied smile, he rose from his chair and positioned himself directly in front of you, you were practically at the level of his sweatpants' crotch and it would have taken very little time to pull them off, "More muscular baby?" he whispered, repeating your words as his veiny hands touched your hair and tucked it behind your neck.

"You know perfectly well that you are," you said, gazing at him enchanted as his hand moved to your cheek and his fingertip traced your rosy lips, "I know perfectly well sweetheart, but hearing you say it is three times better."

It took him just a moment to lower his trousers, leaving you practically face to face with his half-hard cock. Wasting no time, you rested your hand on his toned thigh and began to planting kisses on the pink, glistening tip, then shifting your hand from his thigh to the base of his cock, you ran your tongue upward along the length and as soon as you reached the tip you took it straight into your mouth, knowing his impatience. With his now full hard cock almost entirely inside you throat, you began moving your head back and forth, whenever you had nearly the whole length in your mouth you always tried to take even more, quickly finding a rhythm that let him explore the depths of your throat.

While you were working hard, Peter was completely lost, soft moans of pleasure and barely audible whispers escaped his red lips, the more you took into your mouth, the louder his voice became, "You're so good for me, baby -you take so much of it in your mouth" he whispered, gripping your hair firmly in his palm, he knew how much it turned you on having your hair pulled gently during sex, so he did it at every opportunity.

Then, as you kept up your rhythm, he pulled you away from his cock without a word, "Peter" you murmured softly as he laid you down on the bed, you were wearing only one of his oversized t-shirts that it didn't even reach mid of your thigh.

He climbed on top of you, his erection still glistening with your saliva and his pre-cum and placed his hand on your exposed thigh, sliding it closer and closer to your most intimate area, he kissed you with passion and with his till parted lips, he planted kisses on your sensitive spot behind your ear "Now I’m going to stretch you out a little, baby" he whispered, sending shivers down your spine, completely impatient, you nodded in response.

He slid your panties off your legs and keeping two fingers pressed together, he slipped them inside you without a second thought. You moaned at the immediate contact, feeling your tight walls stretch around his thick fingers.

He began scissoring his fingers to stretch your hole open, then pressed his palm flat against your skin, driving his fingers deep, but between movements, you felt a thick, sticky substance entering your hole.

"Peter, what the fuck was that?" you asked, letting out a soft moan from your lips, "Fuck..." your boyfriend cursed, lowering himself slightly to get a better look at your hole, "Shit, sweetheart I… I accidentally shot some webs inside you, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to..." he said, your cheeks instantly flushed hot as you felt that fluid still inside you, you felt like a pervert for reacting that way to something he was apologizing for but you snapped him out of his thoughts and back to reality.

"Peter, please, just get inside me" you ordered him immediately, "Baby but I just shot webs inside you..." he replied, pulling his fingers out, "And what? You don’t want to get inside me anymore?" you asked, your tone almost sensual, knowing exactly how he’d react.

He aligned his wet tip with your equally wet and sticky opening, "You're absolutely mind-blowing, sweetheart" he said before thrusting deep inside you in one go, you could feel his cock practically touching your lungs and your walls full of his cock and his organic webs.

He began driving into you with slow, sharp and deep thrusts but as the minutes passed, the strokes remained deep but picking up speed, moving in and out to a rhythmic beat.

With his free hand, he lifted your shirt and cupped your breast, running his fingertip over your hardened nipple. "Fuck Peter" you moaned, filled with pleasure.

His increasingly deep thrusts and almost superhuman speed -brutally sliding in and out, made you feel like you were being split in two with his big cock, you moaned his name like a crazy woman while he let out such sweet sounds.

You could feel an orgasm building deep inside you and Peter could sense it too -feeling the way your walls tightened around him, making him feel made only for your hot, tight hole.

He reached and grabbed your ankle with his free hand behind him -without even turning around, lifting it up and driving his cock deeper inside you, he rested your leg on his muscular shoulder -your ankle only highlighting the breadth of his shoulders as he thrust in and out, his skin slick with a light sheen of sweat from all the movement.

Needless to say that, that angle sent you straight into an orgasm and feeling you come around his cock -which was still buried deep inside you, made Peter couldn't hold back either and came inside you.

And fuck, having sex like that was a total release, especially with Peter.

Still breathless, with your chest rising and falling, Peter looked at you and planted a kiss on your lips. Your forehead was slightly damp with sweat and your hands were still gripping the mattress beside you.

"Round two?" your boyfriend suggested with a dazzling smile, "I'll shoot webs inside you again -I've figured out that turns you on, little pervert" he said in a low voice, making your flushed cheeks turn even redder beneath him. "Shut up and fuck me again."

//Idk if I like this😭

The next one is bucky🤤

[liliesonthego]

Peter Parker / We don't have to be lonely ── 18+ (MDNI)

Summary ⟅After Spiderman saves you yet again on one of your dangerous investigative journaling missions, you find yourself connecting with him in a way neither of you expected.

Peter Parker x Journalist!reader /  ⟣ SMUT / 5.5k ⟢

Warnings: No spoilers! BND!Peter, slight angst (they are both lonely again), enemies to one night stand, big cock!peter, switch!Peter (but he's mostly subby), porn with plot, sensory deprivation (reader wears a blindfold), reader kisses him mask on 😵‍💫, switch!reader but leaning dom, blowjob, praise, throat fucking, more dry humping, fingering (fem receiving), peter whines and whimpers duh, penetration, riding, machinery, creampie, cockwarming, that must be everything....

Lily's note — 🪷 mind you this was supposed to be 2k words max... yeah okay🫩 anyway i'm lowkey proud of the dialogue in this i feel like it's very peter-like... if u enjoyed don't be afraid to like, reblog, or drop a comment to fuel me :D

"We have got to stop meeting like this!" you shouted into Spiderman's ear, clinging onto him tighter as he shot out another web, swinging you between the high-rise buildings.

"’Ya think?" he sneered back, his New York accent thickening with annoyance.

You yelped and closed your eyes in fear when he swung a sharp left. A moment later you exhaled a sigh of relief when you felt his feet connecting with the ground.

You opened your eyes to take in the familiar sight of your apartment building's rooftop, quickly detaching yourself from the masked hero to plant your own feet on the ground beside him.

"Thank god. I seriously don't think I will ever get used to that,” you muttered out, doubling over with your hands on your knees to try and force the nausea spell away. 

“Yeah, well I hope you won't have to.”

You glanced up at him with a raised brow at his annoyance, slowly rising to stand straight, your hands settling on your hips. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“That means,” he began, chuckling without an ounce of humor in his voice. “You can't keep putting yourself in danger like this.”

“Look spider-boy, danger finds me,” you said defensively, ignoring his weak “It’s Spiderman.” “And I never asked you to keep saving me.”

“If I don't you’ll get hurt. You almost got killed back there! Don't you get it?” 

“Oh, are you starting to care about me, Spiderman. What happened to hating me?” you cooed with a flirty tilt of your head.

“I-I never hated you…” he paused, his breath hitching when you stepped close enough for him to reach a hand out and touch you. You leered at him expectantly, waiting for him to say what he was really thinking.

“...I only disliked you. Mildly.”

“There it is!”

“Well what would you do if someone wrote a smear campaign against you?” He retorted, leaning in to try and intimidate you, his plan failing when you met him head on.

“You’re still on that? I already apologized to you and took back my article,” you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest protectively.

Yes, it was true that you did write an article detailing how you didn't think Spiderman should be praised for “saving the city,” when he contestantly left it in a state of destruction, leaving regular civilians to pay the price for his damages. 

Yes, it did garner enough public attention to have a lot of New Yorker’s turn their backs on him, but after he saved you the first time (and all but practically forced you to listen to his defenses), you were able to admit that you were speaking from a place of rage fueled bias, since your apartment was destroyed when he flung a car into it. 

But you apologized. So all should’ve been well.

He backed down from your stare off, raising a hand to awkwardly scratch the top of his head. “You’re right I’m sorry…”

“Look,” you started, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry you have to keep saving me, but if it's so much of a hassle you can stop… It's fine.”

“Wha—no!” he blurted, rushing to grab your arm to stop you from turning away. “No! It’s not that I just… What if I’m not there one day and you—”

“Get killed?” You cut him off sharply. “So be it then.”

Peter froze in place, his grip on your arm loosening slightly as your words settled uncomfortably in the air between you. His hand slowly slipped off until it hovered awkwardly, his eyes boring into yours through the suit. 

“Kidding!” you interjected before the moment could grow too serious, despite meaning your words. 

“Gosh, Spidey. Lighten up. I’m alive, you’re alive. All is well in the world,” you quipped sarcastically while making your way to the stairwell. 

You turned around when you didn't hear his footsteps following, waving your hand to urge him forward. “Come on, so I can thank you properly. You must be hungry.” 

He hesitated, debating the idea in his head. It had been almost a year since he first saved you on one of your investigative journaling missions, and this was the first time you ever actually invited him down to your apartment instead of parting ways with him on the roof like usual. 

He was fully intending to reject your offer, seeing no point in spending any extra time with you than necessary, but then the sight of his bleak apartment rushed through his mind, along with another lonely night of testing his tech and wallowing in his misery. 

Or maybe it was the faint look of hope he saw in your eyes that convinced him, your hand resting on the door handle, waiting for his reply. 

The response fell from his lips unconsciously.

“Sure.”

Sat at your small round kitchen dining table, he stared down at the plate in front of him, the sad slice of pizza steaming from where you’d heated it up in the microwave.

The eyes of his suit narrowed, glancing from the plate up to where you were already halfway finished with your own.

“This is my thanks?”

“Mhm,” you hummed through your chewing, jerking your head up at him. “You don’t like leftover pizza?”

This situation was so absurd, he couldn’t help but let out a breathy chuckle. He lifted the mask above his lips, carefully trying to obscure as much of his exposed face as he could, and took a bite of the pizza, lowering the mask back down to chew.

You watched him with a bewildered stare, your chuckles escaping you in short bursts before you let the laugh fully escape free. You raised a hand to your mouth to try and conceal the sound, but the sight was just too ridiculous for you to do so.

“W-What? What’s so funny?”

His confusion only made it worse, your laugh transforming to a full body giggled as you struggled to breathe. 

He stared at you like you were crazy, your laughs eventually dying down enough for you to speak. “Do you seriously eat like that?”

That’s what you were giggling about?

“What? No, no I—obviously when I eat at home I don’t wear the mask.”

“I mean in public.”

“I don’t usually eat out as Spiderman… You know, too busy saving lives, fighting crime.”

You nodded at him, the last of your chuckles dying down as you considered his words. It was easy to forget that there was a person beneath it all. Your curiosity brewed as you tried to imagine who it was behind the mask, who the city’s masked vigilante really was. 

You didn’t realize you were staring until he cleared his throat. You tore your eyes away, taking another bite of your soggy pizza.

You finished your food in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable despite your histories, and when he finished swallowing his final bite, an unexpected pit settled in your stomach. 

Peter pushed his plate forward, slowly standing from his chair. “Well, uh, thank you for the food. I should go now, don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

You picked at your cuticles without looking up at him, contemplating why the thought of him leaving made you feel so disappointed. It was the same feeling you had on the roof when you thought he was going to reject your invitation.

You would never admit it out loud, but something about his presence was comforting. You weren’t sure if it was because he was always saving you from harm’s way, or if it was because he was the only sense of consistency in your life, the only person you’d formed a relationship with—albeit it being dysfunctional—within the past year. 

Whatever it was, it had you saying, “Stay.”

His suit eyes widened in surprise, your picking halting when you realized what you just said.

The comfortable silence was replaced by a thick tension as you glanced up at him. “Stay,” you repeated.

“Why?” he asked suspiciously. 

“Why not? It’s not like you have anywhere else to be.”

Peter’s brows furrowed beneath the suit, trying to gauge what you were playing at. “How would you know that?”

“Am I wrong,” you shrugged, giving him space to correct you, then continuing when he didn’t. ”You don’t seem like you have any friends, maybe a girlfriend? I don’t think so. You just seem pretty… lonely.”

He gripped the top of his chair, the memories of MJ and Ned painfully resurfacing after he’d successfully blocked them out for the last few hours while caught in the whirlwind of saving you. 

“How would you know? You don’t know anything about me,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a low, careful tone.

“Because you remind me of me,” you murmured, rising from your chair, rounding the table to stand in front of him. “And I’m pretty lonely, Spiderman.”

His grip on the chair tightened as he breathed in a shaky breath at your proximity. “I-I’m sorry to hear that. It sounds tough.”

“You understand how it feels? Don’t you?” You take a step forward as he takes one back, then another, until his back is pressed against the wall. “I can only imagine how it must feel, having to keep this secret. Being the world's hero, admired by millions, then having no one to share that burden with.” 

His chest rose and fell with frantic breaths. You were right, you read him like an open book. He should have denied it, denied you, but he couldn’t. 

“What do you want?” he whispered, the words coming out strained.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” you whispered back, your voice a soft counterpoint to his.

He tried to force the words out, but he was never a good liar. Your hand rested on his chest, feeling the fabric of the suit beneath your fingertips, and the wild beat of his heart. You moved it up, testing the waters, feeling the sculpted muscle until your fingers found the base of his neck.

“We don’t have to be lonely,” you mumbled, your thumb stroking below his jaw. “At least… not tonight.”

He swallowed the thick lump in his throat, shaking his head. “I-I can’t. I’m sorry.”

A flicker of hurt flashed over your eyes that you tried to mask by looking down. “Why? Is there someone else? Or… do you just not want me to know who you are?”

“I-I…” his voice trailed off as the guilt flooded his stomach like an expanding black hole. MJ. MJ. MJ. Her name lived like a ghost in his brain, a phantom pain in his chest. To do this—reveal himself to you—somehow felt like letting her go in a way, the final cut across the already frayed thread holding him to her. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to do that.

“I can keep a secret,” you said with a bitter chuckle. “I have no one to tell.”

He stood with your words, trying to make sense of them when he realized, that’s why. That’s why on the roof you were so casual about the prospect of death reaching you. You had no one in your life to mourn you. It was startling, how you reflected him like a mirror. 

His heart hammered harder against his sternum when your hands slid to cup his cheeks through the mask. 

“Is this okay?”

Words were beyond him. He could only give a singular nod so subtle, you almost missed it.

You smiled, so tender and full of care and unlike the rough around the edges journalist he was so used to encountering in the streets of New York. You gave him every chance to pull away as you slowly leaned in.

He stood frozen, letting you carry out your experiment, his eyes slipping shut when you placed your lips over where his would be on the fabric. 

The kiss was chaste and over within a second. You opened your eyes, searching the white lenses of his mask before kissing him again, a little firmer, a little longer.

Your warmth managed to seep into the thick layer of fabric, reaching and flooding his body. Loneliness reached for loneliness, desperation seeking solace, he didn’t stop you when your fingers found the bottom of his mask. 

With a careful tug, you pulled it up just enough to reveal his pale skin, his lips pink and shiny from where he’d ran his tongue over them. Without wasting another moment, you leaned in again, pressing your mouth to his.

The kiss was hesitant at first, your lips simply touching, until his parted with a sharp inhale, his body jumping back to life under your touch. He kissed you back, a little clumsy and hungry, the urgency fueled by a year’s worth of banter and his craving for human connection. You tugged him harder against you, his hands finally leaving the wall to settle on your hips.

Drunk on the sensation, you nudged the fabric higher, intending to pull it fully off when his hands shot up to encase yours, stopping you dead in your tracks.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, breaking the kiss, his breath brushing your cheek. “I… I just can’t.”

Your blood ran cold, the disappointment returning, though you understood. Of course you did. You were a journalist and only within recent months were you cordial with each other. Of course he couldn’t trust you. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

You nodded, your hands going limp in his grip. 

The guilt laced through him again at the resignation in your eyes. A part of him begged himself to let go, just let go, but the better part had already decided that he wasn’t ready. Even after four years. 

He began to pull the mask back down, his movements signaling an ending you weren’t ready for. “I should—”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, cutting him off. Your hand gripped his wrist, tugging gently. “Follow me.”

He let you guide him, the yearning part of his soul willingly going along, until you were both standing in your bedroom. You released his hand to rummage in your closet, emerging with a sleek black tie you pulled from one of your suits.

You stood before him, smoothing the fabric in your hands as he watched, unsure of what was about to happen.

“What are you doing?” he questioned, his voice raspier than it was in the kitchen.

You answered him by raising it to eye level, securely tying it around your head, engulfing your vision in darkness. “This way,” you reassured, “I won’t be able to see you. Your secret’s safe.”

A breath he didn’t know he was holding escaped him. Just like that, the panic in his stomach began to dissipate, replaced by a heat, simmering low and insistent in his belly.

“You’re serious?” he asked, still slightly in disbelief by the display.

You nodded, lacing your fingers behind your back, offering yourself wholly to him. “You can leave now and we can forget this ever happened. Or…”

“...We can not be lonely for the night?” Peter finished.

You nodded, and waited.

The silence stretched as your pulse roared in your ears. You waited with a bated breath as the dread began creeping in. You were convinced he’d left and were seconds away from tugging the makeshift blindfold off when you felt the air shift in front of you. 

His hands brushed your cheeks. You held your breath when he cupped your face, his palms holding you steady to connect your lips once more.

You sighed into the kiss, an exhale of pure relief and surrender as you let him take the lead, his mouth learning yours with a newfound confidence. He tilted your head, slipping his tongue in to deepen the kiss. 

You moaned softly into his mouth, your hands releasing their grip to hold him at his waist.

You tugged at the textured fabric, allowing your hands to roam, sliding over his shoulders, down his back in search of a zipper, or anything to release him.

Your lips, in their distracted state, stilled on his. He broke the kiss, breathless. “What’s wrong?”

“How do you take this damn thing off?”

You missed the fond smile that touched his lips at your frustration. He kissed you again, a quick, hard press, before you heard a distinctive whoosh of air followed by the sound of the fabric falling to the floor.

You cautiously placed your hands back on his chest, your fingers meeting warm, soft skin.

You spread your palms over the muscle, mapping the planes of his chest while trying to visualize him in your head. You moved up over the column of his neck, holding his jawline in your grasp. You traced his features—his lips, still damp from your kisses, over the bridge of his nose, his brows.

He struggled to hold back his moan as you explored him with your touch, something about the careful caress feeling even more intimate than being seen.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tangling in the curls as you carded them down to gently fist the strands at the base of his neck, giving a tentative tug.

He whimpered as goosebumps brushed up his arms, any remaining restraint shattering. 

He dove back in, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, all tongue and heat and desperation while you tried to keep up. He explored your body freely, his hands landing on your waist to pull you flush against him, erasing every last inch of lonely space between you.

You pushed him back, hoping you were on track for your bed. When you felt him fall down to the mattress, you sank to your knees on the floor between his parted legs. You bit your lip at his needy little pants while you ran your hands along his thighs, trailing higher until you felt the elastic of his underwear.

You hooked your finger beneath it, tugging to pull them down when he stopped you, panicked and fidgety. His hand in yours was fever-hot.

“What?” You asked.

“Nothing I just…” he stammered.

Your lips curved into a sly smile. “Has no one done this for you before?”

“What? Haha, no, of course I just—”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

He was glad you couldn't see the hot flush that painted his chest, rising up his neck. His hands fell away from yours, surrendering, almost regretting it when he saw your smug expression.

“Lift your hips for me.”

His heart did a little flip as he obeyed your order, his lips falling open when you freed his aching cock from the tight restraint. 

He held his breath as you reached out, his cock pulsing at the agonizing wait until finally, your fingers wrapped around his tip.

A broken whimper escaped him, unrestrained and full of need, his hips bucking involuntarily up into the tight ring you created. 

“O-Oh f-fuck…” he gasped, fisting the sheets on either side of him until his knuckles turned white. You began stroking, small little movements that explored lower and lower, feeling him twitch in your grip. 

“Spiderman—” you cut yourself off with a chuckle, not being able to take the name serious in a moment like this. “Sorry, it’s funny calling you that right now.”

Peter could barely hear you over his distracted state, all of his senses zeroed in on your soft hand gripping his cock so perfectly. 

“Hey,” you called to get his attention. “I can't see you. The only way I can tell you’re feeling good is by hearing you. Okay?”

He nodded, forgetting that you couldn't see him, letting out a choked mix of a hum and whine. You smiled, satisfied with his response, and leaned forward till your breath brushed over his tip. 

“Let me hear you, then.” You parted your lips and took him into your mouth.

You wished you could have preserved the sound he made, a loud, punched out whimper that had you pressing your thighs tighter together, trying to give attention to your throbbing, neglected clit.

His back arched when you circled your tongue around his slit, tasting the thick beads of salty precum. You sucked gently, drawing out a litany of oh god, oh fuck from him.

Struggling to accommodate his thickness, you hallowed your cheeks, pushing further down his length until he was poking the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex.

“Fuuuuck—” he cried, his hand shooting to rest on your head, his fingers tangling in the strands. 

You pulled off with a soft pop, heaving in a deep breath. His hips thrusted to chase the warmth of your mouth, his eyes scrunching shut at the sudden absence of pressure.

They shot back open when you placed a delicate, open-mouth kiss over the tip. “I can tell you’re holding back.” Another kiss, his fingers gripped your hair tighter. “It’s okay… you can fuck my throat if you want…”

His face scrunched in pleasure, a high, wanton whine leaving him at the sound of your offer alone. 

You wrapped your lips back around him, taking him all the way in, relaxing your throat around his size. 

Forgetting his own strength, he pressed you down to take his cock deeper, forcing his length down your throat, his eyes rolling back when it contracted around the intrusion. 

Below the blindfold your eyes watered as you coughed, but you fought through it, determined to take everything he gave you.

“Oh my fucking—mngh!” he choked out.

You focused on relaxing your muscles as he began bobbing you on his cock, setting a frantic, desperate rhythm.

He took a deep breath, taking in the smell of your intoxicating arousal with his heightened senses, the strain of your throat, the sloppy sounds, overwhelming in the best way.

He steadied a hand behind him on the bed, bracing himself to snap his hips up into your mouth with shallow thrusts.

“‘S so good,” he chanted, “God your mouth—o-oh fuu-ah!”

His moan tapered off into a silent shriek, his stomach clenching as the pressure built, threatening to snap.

With a pained groan he pulled you off. You sputtered out a series of coughs as you sat back on your heels, saliva coating your chin. His eyes widened as you brought a hand to rub over your throat.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I don't know what—”

“Why’d you pull me off?” You interjected. 

“W-Why? Um, I uh… ‘Cause I was gonna come….” he said shyly, his bravado disappearing.

“Okay…” you started with a small smile spreading on your lips. “That’s the point.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah, well I didn't want to before… you…” he trailed off, cringing, unable to finish the sentence.

“Wow, even during sex you’re annoyingly sweet.”

He tilted his head back with a groan. “Shut up.” But he was smiling too now, bright and bashful.

He watched you rise to your feet, unbutton your jeans, and pull them down. Next you tugged off your shirt, carefully pulling it over your head to not move the blindfold. 

The small, mindful act sent a jolt of tenderness to his heart amidst the lust. His eyes widened at the sight of you in nothing but your undergarments as you held a hand out for him, silently asking to lead you to him.

He took your hand in his, his grip firm as he pulled you forward until your legs were bumping his. You pushed him further back on the bed, following along to straddle his waist and settle back on his cock, pressing him against the damp fabric over your heat. 

You sighed at the contact, his hands gripping your thighs, fingers digging deep into the flesh as his eyes screwed shut from the pressure on his cock.

You leaned down to kiss him, while subtly grinding down, making him moan through the kiss. You reached back to unclip your bra, separating from him to let it fall away.

He stared, mesmerized, at the newly exposed skin as you sat back, looking down at him with a challenging look, the same one you’d used on him countless times before.

Maybe he hadn’t misread the tension between you?

He sat up urgently, gripping your body to pull it back against his, kissing you messily while he flipped you over. He laid you down gently beneath him, kissing down your neck to your collarbone, until he reached your chest. 

He glanced up to make eye contact with you, his expression falling when he forgot you couldn't see him. He shook his head, pushing the thought to the back of his mind, and kissed over the swell of each breast, his tongue darting out to lick one of your nipples to a stiff peak before fully taking it in his mouth.

“Mmm, fuck…” you moaned, arching into him as he flicked and sucked, releasing it with a wet sound to give attention to the other. “You’re good at this,” you breathed, your fingers curling into his hair.

He smiled against your skin, delighted by the praise.

“Thank you,” he said gently.

A smile bloomed on your lips at how adorable he was, thank you with a proud earnestness that made your heart swell with affection.

He trailed a hand down your stomach, settling it over your clothed mound, reaching lower to rub a single finger over your soaked slit. He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling your scent as he slipped his hand into your panties, his finger dipping into your arousal. He parted your folds, slipping through them to collect your slick only to rub it over your swollen clit, tracing it with soft circles.

“Shit—Spider—,” you cut yourself off with another breathless laugh.

He hesitated for a second, whispering, “Peter,” before he could think twice.

Your surprise was interrupted when he pressed a finger into your entrance, curling his fingers to draw a moan out. “P-Peter?” you gasped.

His fingers stilled in you when he realized what he let slip. He’d given his name to you, willingly. He swallowed down the nerves clawing up his throat, reassuring himself that there were hundreds of Peters in the city. It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. He kissed you to convince himself that it was okay, mumbling “Peter” against your lips again as he slipped in another finger.

“P-Peter!” you cried out, the melody of your voice calling his name an angelic symphony to his ears. He whimpered in response, pumping his fingers deeper into your tight entrance.

“Sound so pretty, feel so… mnghh—” Peter whined, his forehead dropping to yours when your cunt gripped his fingers.

“F-Feels so good, Peter.” A shudder ran through you as the pressure in your stomach built, your clit aching to be touched. The second his thumb ran across it, you were grabbing his wrist, pulling his fingers out and away from your dripping cunt.

“Look who’s stopping who now,” he said cockily with a teasing smirk.

You scoffed and shoved him off. He laughed, free and unbothered, the sound sending your heart soaring with joy as he fell back against the bed. You tugged your underwear off and sat back over him, taking his wrists and pinning them above his head. His cock twitched against your thigh at the dominating display.

You slid your pussy over his cock, nestling him between your folds, rolling your hips and shuddering as the head nudged your sensitive clit with each pass. He cursed, his head thrashing side to side as your silky skin hugged his length. 

“P-Please… can’t… I n-need more—”

You crossed his wrists, holding them with one hand. The other fell to his throat, holding him there and cutting off his train of thought. Your fingers curled, holding him tighter, his eyes fluttering shut with a helpless whimper. 

“Yeah, you like that?” You smiled.

His skin burned hotter. He pushed against your hand at his wrist, a weak attempt at a warning despite both of you knowing he could overpower you in a second. But he didn’t, and the thought made a warm, fuzzy feeling expand in your chest.

You released his wrists to grip his cock, rising on your knees to position him at your entrance. You sank down slowly, your pained moans coming in tandem when the head of his cock slipped in. You paused there, trying to adjust to the uncomfortable stretch.

“Just give me a second,” you panted, lowering yourself slowly. You could feel how much he was holding back, his hands returning to grip at your thighs. “Fuck, Peter, you’re so big.”

He whined, his hands shifting to your hips, squeezing hard as he ignored every instinct to fuck you dumb.

You grinned at his obvious restraint. “Good boy,” you cooed.

“Fuck, you’re gonna kill me,” he gasped, his head digging into the mattress when you took him halfway.

“You think so, Spiderman?” you taunted. He bit his lip at the way you said the name like an endearment, his cock twitching insistently inside you. You sank all the way down, taking him fully in your cunt. His hand reached to rest over yours braced on his stomach, needing the comfort to keep him grounded to earth as he felt himself slipping away, his brain going fuzzy. 

“I knew you’d be this big,” you murmured, “The suit really does you justice.”

“H-Huh—”

Before he could question you, you were pulling out until only the tip remained inside, then sinking back down in one slide.

A choked string of whimpers left him as his eyes glazed over. You steadied both hands on his abs, using him as leverage to ride his cock, rocking your hips earnestly to feel every inch of him press into your velvety walls. You looked like a vision above him, your breasts bouncing with every thrust, your mouth hanging open in pleasure.

“Yes,” he gasped, guiding you harder over his cock. “Just like that, o-oh fuck—you feel incredible.”

His eyes threatened to close when your walls fluttered around him, but he forced them open, determined to watch you come undone. Your nails dug into his muscle, leaving red angry scratches on his skin, the slight pain combining perfectly with the pleasure.

He could feel the pressure building, faster and deeper in his gut than the first time. “P-Please, please—” 

God, he needed more. He flipped you over once more, slipping between your legs the second your back hit the mattress. He started thrusting into you with a pace you couldn’t fathom, raw and primal, each drive of his hips reaching a new depth as pure need took over.

You gripped his shoulders, your mouth falling open in a silent cry as the head of his cock slammed repeatedly into that spongy spot inside over and over again. Your world and thoughts narrowed down to him and the dizzying, coiling pressure dangling over the precipice.

“You’re c-cunt—fucking perfect,” he whimpered a desperate little cry into your ear, driving in harder with his enhanced strength, pushing you off the edge.

Your orgasm exploded with a violent, blinding force. You bowed off the bed, a fucked-out scream tearing from your chest as your cunt spasmed around him, the final trigger for his own release.

“Gonna come—f-fuck ‘m so close—I—”

He buried himself to the hilt, his whole body tightening as his release cut through him. “Coming! I-I’m coming!’

Thick ropes of cum shot deep inside your cunt, your releases mixing as your body shook with aftershocks of pleasure, his cock prolonging your orgasm. 

His hips bucked lazily into you to milk out every drop of cum from his cock until there was nothing remaining. 

He collapsed on top of you, panting with exhaustion, his weight barely braced on his forearm by your head. He looked down at your swollen lips, your blindfold still in place, and kissed you again without another thought, soft and languid.

Right as he moved to pull out, you stopped him with a hand on the small of his back. “Wait,’ you whispered, your voice spent and hoarse. “‘S-Stay?”

His eyes softened as he looked down at you, sensing your vulnerability in the question. You tried to find the words to explain, but you didn’t have to. He understood without explanation; you weren’t ready to let go of the temporary bliss of being this close to another person, and neither was he.

He moved gently with a pained moan, his over sensitive cock twitching inside you, still half hard. 

He turned you onto your side to slide in behind you, tugging you back snug into his chest. When your breaths finally settled, he carefully tugged the knot of the blindfold free, pushing it off. You were facing away from him, anyway, he told himself.

Your eyes widened at the loss of the barrier, but he just pulled you in closer, burying his face into your hair, his arm secured around your waist, silencing any lingering thoughts. 

Your mind was already drifting to the next morning when you’d wake up and inevitably find him gone. The hero would have slipped back into the night, leaving only the warm bed and his scent in your sheets as a reminder.

You closed your eyes anyway, deciding to pretend all was well for a little while longer.

Comment or message to be added to the spiderman taglist <3

@hyacinthusflowernymph @moviedoll @rouw2 @nobodywhoisknown @melxdiq-luv @luv7uan @chick3nnoodlesoup @theweirdonextdoor24 @marshmelloyellow02 @stars4star @atiny-dime-p1ece @missnightingale1971 @sporadicprincessinfluencer @idkwhatimdoing27 @ghostlingxdoodles @vanilla--ish @whoismonse @madelineblackwell

[spacejjunk]

love & despair

pairing: steve harrington x reader

w/c: 7.7k+

summary: you knew that the final battle would be gruesome- everyone knew that. you just didnt know how much youd lose in the process- or how much youd gain after. requested by anon

warnings/tags: angst, almost dying, coma, protective sad boy steve harrington, smut (oral f receiving, unprotected sex, making loooove), happy ending

masterlist // join the taglist

The old Creel house feels exactly like you thought it would. The Upside Down didn't just exasperate the heaviness that oozed from the walls— it made you feel like you were choking on it. The horrific memories of the house live inside like ghosts.

You’re pressed against the far wall beside Steve, sawed off shotgun heavy in your hands, while Nancy reloads with shaking fingers and Robin keeps watch on the stairs.

Nancy’s voice is tight. “He should be right up here.”

The lights flicker. The temperature drops so fast your breath fogs. Then the veins on the walls start to pulse—like something huge is breathing on the other side of the plaster.

You didn't hear the bats coming until they’re already there.

A black wave explodes through the broken window, wings and teeth and wet, clicking shrieks. Eddie and Dustin’s voices crackle faintly over the walkie—safe. They did their part of the plan and that should be the end of it. It isn’t.

Of course it isn't.

The swarm turns on you four and locks in.

Steve shoves you behind him on instinct. You shove right back, because there’s no time for that.

“Go!” you shout, already moving. “Get to Vecna—I’ll hold them!”

Nancy hesitates half a second. Robin doesn’t. They bolt for the door while Steve curses your name and tries to drag you with him. You plant your feet, raise the shotgun, and fire into the mass of leathery bodies. The first blast buys three seconds of space. The second buys two. Then the bats are on you.

Claws rake across your shoulder, tearing through jacket and skin in one wet drag. Pain blooms white-hot. You stagger, fire again, feel teeth sink into your forearm and wrench. Blood hits the floorboards in thick drops. A wing clips your temple hard enough that the room tilts.

Steve is still there, swinging his nail-bat, yelling your name over the shrieking. You catch his eyes for one fractured second—wide, terrified, furious—and shove him toward the others with everything you have left.

“Steve, go!”

He doesn’t want to. You see it. But the plan is bigger than either of you, and the bats are already closing ranks again. They need him. In order for the plan to work and for Vecna to die he needs to be there and he knows it. He stumbles after Nancy and Robin, looking back every other step like he’s leaving pieces of himself behind.

You’re alone with the swarm.

They hit you like a living wall. Weight and teeth and the wet slap of wings. You go down hard on one knee, then both. The shotgun skitters away across the floor. Something sharp punches through your side just under your ribs and drags. Your vision tunnels. Blood is warm down your side, sticky between your fingers when you press them there without thinking.

You still try. You grab whatever is closest—splintered wood—and swing until your arms feel like they’re filled with sand. One bat latches onto your thigh and tears at the muscle like it’s trying to break it free. Another finds the back of your neck. The pain is everywhere now, overlapping, drowning out thought.

Somewhere past the noise you hear Steve’s voice again—distant, cracking, calling your name like it’s the only word he has left.

You open your mouth to answer.

Nothing comes out but a wet, broken sound.

The attic tilts harder. The bats keep coming.

Steve’s ears are still ringing from the last shotgun blast when Nancy empties another round into Vecna’s chest. He finally staggers. Steve fires up the makeshift flame thrower. Robin doesn’t wait. Molotov cocktails leave her hands in a perfect arch— the two of them setting Vecna ablaze.

He collapses.

The lights stop flickering. The air stops pulsing. For half a second the Creel attic is just an attic again—dust and blood and the wet, twitching bodies of bats scattered across the floorboards.

Steve doesn’t look at the corpse.

He’s already moving.

You’re still where he left you—half-curled against the far wall, one hand pressed uselessly to the gash under your ribs, the other limp in a dark pool that’s spreading too fast. Bats are still twitching near your legs. One of them has its teeth locked in the meat of your thigh even in death.

“Hey—hey, look at me.” Steve drops hard onto his knees, hands already on you, shaking. “Baby, open your eyes. Come on.”

Your eyelids flutter. That’s all.

He makes a sound he’s never heard come out of his own throat before—high, cracked, animal. He yanks the dead bat off your leg and throws it so hard it hits the opposite wall with a wet thunk. Then he’s gathering you up, arms under your shoulders and knees, hauling you against his chest like the weight of you is the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Nancy!” he barks. His voice breaks on the second syllable. “Robin—we’re leaving. Now. Now.”

They don’t argue. Nancy is already kicking the attic door open. Robin is scrambling after her. Steve doesn’t wait for them. He’s half-running, half-stumbling down the stairs with you clutched to him, blood soaking through both your jackets and into his shirt. Every step jostles a fresh wet sound from your side and he feels it like it’s happening to him.

“Stay with me,” he keeps saying, over and over, voice raw. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just stay awake. Please—please, just look at me.”

You’re trying. He can feel the shallow, wet pulls of your breath against his neck. That’s all you’ve got left.

The gate is still open in the living room, that swirling red wound in the air. Steve doesn’t hesitate. He steps through with you back onto solid ground.

He hears Lucas yelling from upstairs.

He doesn’t care.

He keeps moving, arms locked so tight around you that his muscles burn. Nancy and Robin are right behind him, shouting something about Max, about where the hell Eddie and Dustin are—but Steve can only hear the too-slow thud of your heartbeat against his chest.

“Don’t you fucking do this,” he chokes out, forehead pressed to your temple as he half-falls down the front steps into the overgrown yard. Tears are already cutting clean tracks through the dirt and blood on his face. “You don’t get to leave me. You hear me? I can’t—I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

Your head lolls against his shoulder. A soft, broken sound leaves your mouth.

Steve makes a wounded noise and clutches you tighter, almost running now, lungs burning, vision blurred.

All that matters is the fading heat of your body against his and the desperate, endless litany pouring out of him between sobs.

“Please. Please, baby. Stay. Just stay with me. I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you—"

Steve doesn’t leave.

Not when the paramedics load you into the ambulance. Not when the ER doors slam shut in his face and a nurse tries to steer him toward a waiting room. He follows the gurney until someone physically blocks him, and even then he just stands there with your blood drying stiff on his clothes, staring at the double doors like he can will them open again.

They put you under almost immediately. Medically induced coma. The words land like a bomb in his chest. Your body needs time—ribs, organs, the torn muscle in your thigh, the infection risk from Upside Down filth. Three months, they say, if you’re lucky. Maybe longer.

Steve hears “lucky” and almost laughs. It comes out as a sob instead.

He takes the chair beside your bed and doesn’t get up. The first night he still has blood under his fingernails. By the third day someone brings him a change of clothes and a toothbrush. He uses the toothbrush. He doesn’t change the clothes until the nurses start looking at him like he’s going to pass out.

Time turns soft and wrong.

He talks to you constantly. Quiet at first, then not quiet at all when the nights get long and the monitors keep beeping the same steady lie that you’re still here. He tells you about Dustin’s latest antics. About Robin almost setting the video store on fire again. About how Nancy checks in every other day even though she pretends she’s just “in the neighborhood.” He tells you he loves you more times than he can count. Sometimes the words come out clear. Sometimes they’re wrecked, dragged through tears he can’t seem to stop.

He cries a lot.

In the beginning it’s loud—ugly, gasping things that leave his throat raw. Later it gets quieter. Just silent tears tracking down his face while he holds your hand and stares at the slow rise and fall of your chest under the thin hospital blanket. He presses his forehead to your knuckles for hours. He kisses the inside of your wrist like the pulse there might answer him if he’s careful enough.

The nurses stop trying to make him leave after the first week. One of them starts leaving an extra sandwich on the tray table. Another brings him a blanket that smells too clean for how he felt.

Three months.

Ninety-three days of fluorescent lights and the soft mechanical hiss of the ventilator. Ninety-three days of Steve Harrington living in a plastic chair, hair growing too long, eyes permanently red-rimmed, existing only for you.

Then one afternoon in early summer the numbers on the monitor change.

Steve is half-asleep with his head on the mattress beside your hip when your fingers twitch against his. Just once. A tiny, useless little movement.

He freezes.

Your eyelids flutter. Once. Twice. The third time they stay open a fraction, unfocused and glassy under the bright lights.

Steve makes a sound like something inside him is breaking open in the best possible way. He’s on his feet so fast the chair skids backward. Both hands cup your face, thumbs trembling against your cheekbones.

“Hey—hey, baby, it’s me. It’s Steve. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Your eyes find him slowly. Recognition filters in like light through water. Your lips part. No sound comes out at first, just a dry little breath.

Steve is already crying again—happy this time, wrecked and shining and endless. He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, careful of the tubes and the healing scars, and his voice cracks wide open.

“There you are,” he whispers. “There you fucking are. I’ve been waiting. God, I’ve been waiting so long.”

He doesn’t let go of your face. He doesn’t look away. He just stays there, crying quietly against your skin, breathing you in like oxygen he hasn’t had in three whole months.

“Welcome back,” he says, soft and breaking. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve lies on his side in the dark of his childhood bedroom, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of your chest under the covers.

You’re home.

Not the hospital. Not the sterile white room that still lives behind his eyelids every time he blinks too long. Home. His house. The big empty Harrington place that stopped feeling like anyone’s house years ago. The sheets still smell faintly of the detergent he used three times in a row the day before they discharged you, like if he washed everything enough times he could scrub the last three months out of the fabric.

Your hair is longer now. Softer against the pillow. There’s a thin, raised scar just visible above the collar of one of his old basketball tees—he still can’t look at it without his throat tightening—but you’re breathing on your own. You’re warm. You’re here.

He reaches out carefully and lets his fingers rest against the inside of your wrist, just over the pulse. Still there. Still real.

And just like that, the memory slides in like it always did during nights like this.

Junior year. Late October. The kind of cold that made your bones hurt.

You were sitting on the sidewalk in the school parking lot after practice, knees pulled up under one of Nancy’s old cardigans, looking like you were trying to disappear into the fabric. Nancy had already gone home. Steve had stayed behind to talk to Coach about something he already knew didn’t matter. When he came out, you were still there.

He almost kept walking. Almost got in the car and left you to whatever quiet storm you were sitting in. Instead he leaned against the driver’s side door and said, “You look like somebody just told you Santa isn’t real.”

You didn’t smile. You just stared at the dark stretch of road leading out to Hawkins and said, very quietly, “My parents are in Switzerland. Again. For the third time this year. They sent a postcard. It has a mountain on it.”

Steve had laughed once, short and humorless. “Mine are in Cabo. Or maybe Bali. The postcards stopped coming last year. Now it’s just the housekeeper telling me which credit card to use.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. Like you were seeing past the hair and the letterman jacket and the carefully practiced smirk for the first time.

“Nancy says you’re an asshole,” you said.

“Nancy’s usually right.”

"You two dated."

"Briefly."

“She’s my best friend.”

“I know.”

"You're not a secret serial killer are you?"

"Wouldn't be much of a secret if I told you."

You laughed. Genuinely laughed. It was the best sound he'd heard all day.

Something settled between you in that moment. Not romance. Not yet. Just the quiet, ugly recognition of two people who had been left in the same shape of empty house with the same set of impossible expectations. Be perfect. Be impressive. Be anything except needy.

You started sitting with him at lunch after that. Not every day. Just enough that Nancy raised an eyebrow the first time and then never mentioned it again. You helped him with English papers he would’ve half-assed. He drove you home when your own car was in the shop and never once tried anything. It stayed easy. Almost painfully careful.

He told himself it was because you belonged to Nancy’s world more than his. That crossing that line would be selfish. Messy. Unfair to the one friendship that had never asked him to be better than he was.

He fell for you anyway.

Slow. Inevitable. The way water finds the lowest place and just stays.

It happened in the smallest moments—watching you argue with the librarian about overdue books, the way you always saved him the last fry without asking, the night you fell asleep against his shoulder during a movie marathon at the Wheeler house and Nancy just quietly draped a blanket over both of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Nancy never made it weird.

That was the part that still undid him a little. She could have. God knows she had every right. Instead she just looked at the two of you one afternoon in senior year, when Steve finally stopped pretending he wasn’t completely gone on you, and said, “Took you long enough,” like she’d been waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

Steve blinks hard in the present dark, the memory dissolving like smoke.

You’re still asleep beside him, one hand curled loosely near his chest like even unconscious you know he’s there. He shifts closer—carefully, always carefully now—and presses his lips to the top of your head. Breathes you in.

“Should’ve known,” he murmurs to the quiet room, to the girl who somehow became the only thing in this house that ever felt like home. “Even back then. Should’ve known it was always gonna be you.”

He settles closer, careful of the healing places, and lets his eyes close. The memory stays with him like a second heartbeat—warm, steady, and finally, finally safe.

Steve doesn’t let you out of arm’s reach for weeks.

It’s not dramatic. It’s quieter than that. He just… follows. If you move to the kitchen for water, he’s already there, hip braced against the counter, fingers finding the hem of your shirt like it’s automatic. If you sit on the couch, he sits first and tugs you down until you’re half in his lap, face buried against the side of his neck. At night he sleeps wrapped around you so tightly the blankets barely move—one arm locked under your ribs, the other curved over your waist, palm flat against your stomach like he’s still counting the rise and fall.

Touch-starved doesn’t cover it.

Three months of nothing but sterile hospital air and the wrong kind of quiet had hollowed something out of him. Now that you’re here—warm, breathing, his—he can’t stop taking. He needs the weight of your leg thrown over his. The press of your fingers against the back of his neck when you’re half-asleep. The way you sometimes turn your face into his chest and just breathe him in like you’re making up for lost time too.

You let him.

More than that—you lean into it. Every time his hand finds yours under the table, every time he crowds you against the bathroom sink just to rest his forehead against yours for thirty seconds, every time he wakes up at 3 a.m. and pulls you tighter like the alternative is watching you disappear again, you answer. You curl closer. You press your mouth to the underside of his jaw and stay there until his breathing evens out.

The government locked Hawkins down tight after the gates tore open. No leaving. No outsiders. Just the same cracked streets and the same people who all knew too much and couldn’t talk about any of it. So you made do. You and Steve turned the big empty Harrington house into something that almost felt lived-in. Robin came over most days. Dustin claimed the basement for campaign nights. Nancy and Jonathan dropped by with groceries and updates on the rebuilding.

And when Halloween rolled around, Steve simply decided everyone was coming to him.

The house is warm when the first knock hits the door.

Steve answers with you tucked under his arm, his hand settled low on your hip like it’s the only place it belongs. He’s wearing an old Hawkins High basketball jersey over a long-sleeve shirt—half-assed costume like always—and the second Dustin sees the two of you he makes a gagging noise so dramatic it nearly knocks him backward off the porch.

“Oh my god,” Dustin groans, pushing past them. “Are you two glued together now? Are you being held hostage? Should I call Hopper?”

Steve doesn’t even look away from you. He just tightens his arm and snaps back, “Shut up, Henderson.”

Robin appears next, arms full of cheap plastic spiders for some reason. She takes one look at the way Steve’s thumb is stroking absent circles against your side and her face softens even as she rolls her eyes.

“Disgusting,” she declares, shouldering inside. “Absolutely vile. I love it. Move, I need the kitchen.”

Nancy and Jonathan arrive next, quieter, carrying a couple of six-packs and the kind of tired that only your group knows. Nancy’s eyes flick over the two of you—Steve’s hand still possessive on your hip, the way you lean into him without thinking—and she just smiles, small and real.

“Looks good on you,” she tells Steve under her breath as she passes. Then, louder, to you, “Both of you.”

Eddie arrives later, guitar case slung over one shoulder like he might need it for emotional support. He’s wearing a ridiculous black cape that looks stolen from a thrift store Halloween bin and a grin that splits his face the second he sees the two of you tangled together near the door.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, sweeping the cape theatrically. “If it isn’t Hawkins’ favorite codependent couple. Harrington, you look better. And you—” he points at you with a dramatic flourish, “—you look like you’ve been keeping him on a very short leash. Good. He needs it.”

Steve’s arm tightens around your waist. “Munson. You’re already talking too much.”

“It’s a gift,” Eddie says, and then he’s pulling both of you into a one-armed hug that smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne before bounding off toward the stereo.

Lucas and Max come in next. Lucas takes one look at the way Steve’s hand is splayed possessively across your hip and immediately grimaces.

“Dude,” he says. “You’re like… surgically attached. Is this permanent now?”

Steve doesn’t even blink. “Yup.”

Max snorts. “Leave them alone. They’re allowed to be gross. They earned it.”

Mike and Will show up a few minutes later with Eleven between them. El is quieter than the others, dark hair still a little uneven from the last time someone took scissors to it, but she’s wearing a soft oversized sweater with a giant pumpkin on it and looking around the decorated house with wide, careful eyes. Will hangs close to her side, already half-smiling at the string lights.

Mike, of course, opens his big mouth first.

“This is so weird,” he announces, surveying the living room. “Steve Harrington throwing a Halloween party and not even trying to make it cool. You invited us. You know that right?”

“Maybe I finally like you Wheeler,” Steve shoots back. “Even if you talk too much.”

Eleven tilts her head, studying the two of you. Her gaze lingers on the way Steve’s thumb keeps stroking slow circles against your side, the way you lean into him without thinking. Then she nods once, decisive.

“You are… stuck,” she says simply. “Like Velcro.”

Robin cackles from the kitchen. “El gets it.”

Steve’s expression softens almost immediately. He glances down at you, voice dropping just enough that only you catch the quiet edge of it. “Yeah. We are.”

The night unfolds in overlapping conversations and easy chaos.

Eddie has claimed the boom box and is currently arguing with Dustin over whether The Exorcist theme or the Halloween theme is better for background music. Dustin is standing on the coffee table for emphasis. Lucas is trying to referee. Max is eating candy corn with the detached focus of someone who has survived worse than sugar— El staring at her with wonder in her eyes.

“I’m telling you,” Eddie insists, cape flaring as he gestures, “John Carpenter understood dread. That piano? That’s pure psychological warfare. Your little demon choir is just loud.”

“It’s iconic,” Dustin fires back. “You’re just mad because you can’t do a Gregorian chant.”

Across the room Nancy is leaning against the kitchen counter with Jonathan, both of them watching the chaos with the quiet amusement of people who no longer have the energy to be surprised by anything. Robin is still failing to carve a pumpkin and has now enlisted Eleven for assistance. El is holding the butter knife with intense concentration while Robin tries to teach her how to do it.

“Okay, so the eyes need to be triangle-ish but not too triangle-ish or it’ll look like it’s judging us. Which, honestly, fair. It probably is. ”

Mike drifts over to Steve and you at one point, hands in his pockets, trying to look cool and casual.

“So… you’re good?” he asks, glancing between the two of you. “Like, actually good? After everything?”

Steve’s answer is immediate. He shifts so you’re tucked more firmly against his side, chin resting briefly against your temple. “We’re getting there.”

Mike nods, something complicated and young and relieved passing over his face. “Cool. That’s… cool.”

Later, when the music has softened and most of the candy has been raided, the group ends up sprawled across the living room in various states of sugar-crash. Lucas and Max are bickering softly over the last of the Reese’s. Eddie has abandoned the cape and is now lying on the floor with his head near Dustin’s feet, spinning a wild story about a cursed guitar that may or may not be based on real events.

Steve stays on the couch with you settled between his legs, your back to his chest, his arms locked loosely around your waist. Every so often his mouth brushes the shell of your ear or the hinge of your jaw—small, absent-minded kisses like he still can’t quite believe you’re solid and warm and here.

Robin catches his eye from her spot on the floor and mouths disgusting again, but she’s smiling.

Eddie props himself up on one elbow and points at the two of you with a piece of candy corn.

“For the record,” he says, loud enough for the whole room, “if either of you ever decides to un-Velcro, I call dibs on Harrington.”

Steve doesn’t bother answering. He just presses another quiet kiss to the side of your neck and holds you tighter.

By the time the first snow dusted Hawkins in early December, the frustration sat under your skin like a second pulse. You needed him. Needed the weight of him, the heat, the proof that you were both still here and whole. Touch-starved didn’t even begin to cover what the three months had done to either of you. And Steve—Steve was the worst of the two of you. He couldn’t go ten minutes without finding some excuse to touch you, but he still wouldn’t cross that last line.

Steve had been so careful with you since the hospital.

Too careful.

Every time his hands slid under your shirt in the dark, every time you arched into him and made that soft, needy sound against his mouth, he would freeze. Pull back just enough. Press his forehead to yours and whisper, “Not yet, baby. You’re still healing. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You loved him for it. You hated him for it a little too.

Then Christmas crept closer, and he started acting weird.

Cagey. Quiet in a way that didn’t suit him. He’d disappear into the sunroom for a long time and come back with those creases between his brows like he'd been thinking too hard. He’d start sentences and abandon them halfway. He’d look at you sometimes like the words were right there on his tongue and then they'd dissipate.

You lasted exactly four days of it before you snapped.

It was late. The house was quiet, Christmas lights glowing soft and multicolored along the banister downstairs. You were already in bed in one of his old sweatshirts, legs tangled in the sheets, when he finally came upstairs. He hovered in the doorway for a second too long, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was trying to talk himself into something.

You sat up.

“Okay,” you said, voice flat. “Spit it out.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been weird. I don't like it. So either tell me what’s going on or I’m going to start inventing worst-case scenarios and I promise you won’t like any of them.”

He let out a short, breathless laugh that didn’t sound amused at all. “Christ. You never let me get away with anything, do you?”

“Never have. Not starting now.” You tipped your head, watching him.

"I'm okay baby."

"You're a big liar Harrington."

"Harrington?"

"You heard me. Do you… do you not want me anymore?"

"Jesus Christ honey…"

He stayed in the doorway looking at you. Then he crossed the room, sat on the edge of the mattress like his legs weren’t entirely steady, and took both of your hands in his. His palms were warm. A little damp.

“I almost lost you,” he said quietly. “In that hell house. And then again for three months while you just… laid there and I couldn’t do anything but sit and wait and beg whatever was listening to give you back. I kept thinking about all the things I never said. All the time I wasted being scared of wanting too much.”

Your throat tightened. This is not where you thought his head was at. “Steve—”

“Let me finish.” He squeezed your fingers. “I’ve loved you since we were stupid kids sitting on the hood of my car complaining about our lives. I loved you when you were Nancy’s best friend and I thought I wasn’t allowed to look at you that way. I loved you when the world was ending and you still shoved me toward the others to finish what was started. And I love you now—so much it scares the hell out of me sometimes.”

He let go of one of your hands only long enough to dig into the pocket of his sweatpants. When his fingers came back, they were curled around something small.

A simple silver band. Thin. A small, sparkling diamond in the center. The kind of ring that looked like it had been chosen by someone who knew you would never want anything flashy.

Steve’s voice cracked on the next breath.

“I know we’re still figuring everything out. I know the world is still kind of a mess and Hawkins is still locked down and neither of us has parents who give a damn enough to throw a party or pretend to be happy for us. But I don’t care about any of that. I just care about you. About waking up next to you. About getting to keep you for the rest of my life if you’ll let me.”

He slid off the bed and onto one knee like it was the most natural thing in the world, still holding your hand, ring pinched carefully between his fingers.

“Marry me,” he said, eyes shining and completely unguarded. “Please. Be my wife. Let me spend every single day making sure you never have to wonder how much I love you. I’ve already wasted too much time being careful. I don’t want careful anymore. I just want you.”

The silence that followed was thick and bright and full of everything you've ever wanted.

You stared at him—at the way his hair fell into his eyes, at the faint tremor in the hand holding the ring, at the raw, open hope on his face—and felt something in your chest finally unclench.

“You’re an idiot,” you whispered, voice breaking on a wet laugh. “You’ve been walking around like a ghost for a week because you were nervous about this?”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “A little bit, yeah.”

You tugged on his hand until he rose back onto the bed, then cupped his face in both of yours and kissed him hard enough that he made a soft, startled sound against your lips.

“Yes,” you said between kisses. “Yes. Of course yes. I’ve been yours since high school, Harrington.”

Steve laughed—wet and shaky—and slid the ring onto your finger with fingers that wouldn’t quite stop trembling. Then he pulled you into his lap, buried his face in your neck, and held on like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your skin. “God, I love you so much it makes me stupid.”

You carded your fingers through his hair and closed your eyes, the silver band warm and new against your skin.

“Good,” you whispered back, kissing him softly. “Stay stupid with me forever.”

Steve’s mouth is gentle at first—careful presses of lips against yours, like he’s afraid you might bruise if he pushes too hard. His hands stay light on your waist, thumbs stroking slow arcs over the soft skin just above the waistband of your sleep shorts. You can feel the restraint in every line of him, the way he’s holding himself back even now, even with the ring still warm and new on your finger.

You don’t want careful.

You fist both hands in the front of his shirt and drag him closer, deepening the kiss until it’s open and wet and desperate. A soft sound slips out of you when his tongue slides against yours. Steve makes a low, broken noise in answer and follows you down when you tip backward onto the pillows, his body covering yours without quite putting his full weight on you.

“Baby—” he starts, voice rough.

You cut him off with another kiss, harder this time, teeth catching his lower lip. Your legs shift restlessly beneath him. “I need you,” you breathe against his mouth. “Steve, please. I’ve needed you for months. Don’t make me wait anymore.”

He goes still for half a second, searching your face. Whatever he finds there makes his eyes go dark.

He nods once.

Then his mouth is on yours again—hungrier now, less controlled—and the kisses start trailing lower. Along your jaw. Down the side of your throat. He mouths at the spot just beneath your ear until your breath stutters, then keeps going, pushing the collar of his borrowed sweatshirt aside so he can press open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone, the soft slope of your shoulder, the upper swell of your chest.

You arch into him when he finally shoves the sweatshirt up and off, leaving you bare from the waist up. His hands shake a little as they settle over your ribs, careful of the places that still carry scars, but his mouth is less careful. He kisses down the center of your sternum, then lower, dragging his lips over the soft skin of your stomach, tongue flicking out to taste you.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, voice already wrecked. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How many times I almost—”

He cuts himself off, nuzzling lower, and you feel the warm drag of his breath right above the waistband of your sleep shorts. Your hips lift without thinking. Steve’s hands settle on your thighs, thumbs stroking the insides, and then he’s hooking his fingers into the fabric and pulling.

The shorts slide down your legs easily. He tosses them somewhere behind him without looking and settles fully between your thighs, shoulders spreading you open. For a long moment he just stares, breathing hard, eyes fixed on the place where you’re already soaked for him.

“Christ,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

Then he leans in.

His mouth finds you in one slow, deliberate press of lips and tongue, and the sound that leaves you is high and helpless. Steve groans like the taste of you is something he’s been starving for. He stays gentle at first—soft licks, careful suction—but when your fingers fist in his hair and your hips roll up against his mouth, the careful edges start to fray.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, voice thick and filthy. “Take what you need. I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”

His tongue works deeper, flatter, then pointed and focused right where you need it most. One of his hands slides up to pin your hip when you start to writhe too hard; the other stays splayed across your lower stomach, grounding you while he eats you like he’s been thinking about nothing else since you got home.

You can already feel the heat coiling tight and low.

Steve doesn’t rush. He just stays right there between your legs, mouth working you open with devastating patience and filthy, wet sounds, every so often lifting his eyes to watch your face while he does it—like he still can’t quite believe you’re real and his and finally letting him have this again.

You come with a broken, high sound that tears out of your throat, thighs clamping hard around Steve’s head as the pleasure rips through you in long, shaking waves. He doesn’t pull away. He stays right there, mouth gentle but relentless, licking you through every aftershock until your legs are trembling and your fingers have gone loose in his hair.

Steve sits up on his knees between your spread thighs, chest heaving, mouth shiny. He wipes the back of his hand across his lips and just looks at you for a second—wrecked and soft and completely gone on you—before he reaches over his shoulder and yanks his shirt off in one motion. The rest of his clothes follow fast. Sweatpants shoved down, boxers kicked away, until he’s bare and painfully hard, the head of his cock flushed dark against his stomach.

He crawls back over you carefully, settling his weight between your thighs, and the first press of his bare skin against yours makes both of you suck in a sharp breath. His forehead drops to yours. One of his hands finds yours and laces your fingers together tight, pinning your joined hands to the pillow beside your head.

“Hi,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

You tip your chin up and kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He kisses you back like he’s drowning in it.

When he finally reaches down and guides himself to you, he does it slow—pressing in inch by careful inch, eyes locked on yours the whole time. You feel every stretch, every thick slide of him filling you after so many months of nothing. A soft, punched-out sound leaves him when he’s finally seated all the way inside.

“Fuck—baby—” His free hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You feel… God, you feel perfect. Missed this. Missed you.”

He starts to move.

It’s not rushed. It’s deep and rolling and devastatingly tender, every stroke deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the way you take him. Your joined hands stay locked together against the pillow, his grip almost desperate. Every time he bottoms out he grinds a little, chasing the soft broken noises you make, and his mouth never stops moving against your skin—cheek, temple, the corner of your mouth.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I love you so fucking much. Thought about this too many times to count. Thought about getting to hold you again. Getting to be inside you. Getting to keep you.”

His hips roll deeper. The wet sound of him moving in and out of you fills the quiet room. You can feel the fine tremor in his thighs, the way he’s still holding back just enough not to hurt you even while he’s falling apart.

“Was so scared,” he breathes against your mouth, forehead pressed hard to yours. “Every day. Every single day I sat there and watched those machines and I kept thinking—what if you never woke up? What if I never got to tell you again how much you mean to me? What if I lost the only person who’s ever felt like home?”

You squeeze his hand tighter. He answers by driving into you a little harder, a little deeper, the rhythm turning more urgent without ever losing that aching tenderness.

“You’re here,” he keeps whispering, almost like a prayer. “You’re here and you’re mine and I’m never letting go again. Never. I love you. I love you. I love you—”

The words spill out of him in a continuous, broken stream as he makes love to you—slow and deep—holding your hand the entire time like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Your free hand slips between your bodies.

Steve’s eyes flick down the second he feels your fingers working between you, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he’s still buried deep. The sound he makes is wrecked—half groan, half broken laugh—and his hips stutter hard.

“Yeah—fuck, just like that,” he rasps, forehead dropping to yours again. “I want to feel you come on me.”

His thrusts lose the last of their careful restraint. They turn deeper, more desperate, the wet slap of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room as he chases the way your fingers move. Every time he drives in, your knuckles brush the base of him and he shudders like it hurts in the best way. His grip on your joined hands tightens until it almost aches, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go even for a second.

“Missed you,” he chokes out, voice cracking open. “Missed this. Missed being inside you. Missed the way you look at me when you’re close—fuck, baby, you’re close, aren’t you?”

You are. The pressure is coiling fast and mean, every roll of his hips and every frantic circle of your fingers pushing you higher. Steve can feel it. He starts fucking into you harder, messier, the headboard knocking softly against the wall as he loses the last of his control.

“Come with me,” he begs against your mouth. “Please—come with me. I need it. Need to feel you—”

The orgasm hits you first, sharp and overwhelming, your body clamping down around him in pulsing waves. Steve follows with a broken, almost sobbed sound, burying himself as deep as he can go and spilling inside you in long, shuddering pulses. His hips keep moving through it in small, helpless rolls, like he can’t stand the thought of separating even for a second.

Tears slip out of the corners of your eyes without permission. When you blink them away you realize Steve’s are wet too—shiny tracks cutting down his cheeks as he stares at you like you’re the only real thing left in the world.

He doesn’t pull out. He just stays inside you, still half-hard and twitching with aftershocks, and brings your joined hands up so he can press trembling kisses to your knuckles.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice ruined. “I love you so much it scares me. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it sometimes.”

You free your other hand only long enough to cup the side of his face, thumb brushing away one of the tears. He leans into the touch like it’s oxygen.

“I love you too,” you breathe. “So much. Forever.”

Steve makes a soft, broken sound and kisses you again—slow and deep and full of everything the last months carved into both of you—while the two of you stay tangled together in the dark, still joined, still shaking, still holding on like you’ll never let go again.

The Wheelers’ living room looks like Christmas threw up on it in the best possible way.

Tinsel everywhere. A tree that leans slightly to the left under the weight of too many ornaments. The smell of pine and Karen Wheeler’s famous cinnamon rolls thick in the air. Someone— probably Holly— has hung mismatched stockings along the mantel.

You’re tucked under Steve’s arm the second you step through the door. He hasn’t stopped touching you since the night he put the ring on your finger—palm at the small of your back, fingers laced with yours, the occasional brush of his mouth against your temple like he still needs the reminder that you’re real.

Everyone is already here.

Dustin is arguing with Eddie over the correct way to hang lights. Lucas and Max are on the couch fighting over the last of the eggnog. Mike and Will are trying to teach Eleven how to play some complicated card game. Robin is perched on the arm of Nancy’s chair, gesturing wildly while Jonathan takes quiet photos from the corner. Joyce and Hop were here too— Hopper standing near the kitchen with a mug of something that definitely isn’t hot chocolate, looking gruffly pleased to be included.

You’re helping Karen pass out plates of cookies when Max’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Uh. Hold up.”

The room doesn’t go silent all at once, but it gets quieter. Max is staring at your left hand where it rests against Steve’s chest.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Steve goes still beside you. You feel the way his arm tightens almost protectively.

Max leans forward. “Steve Harrington. Did you put a ring on her?”

The reaction is instantaneous.

Dustin’s voice cracks so hard it jumps an octave. “HE DID WHAT?!”

Eddie whoops so loudly Holly covers her ears. Robin nearly falls off the arm of the chair. Lucas starts laughing so hard he has to set his cup down. Mike looks personally offended that no one told him first. Eleven just tilts her head, studying the silver band with quiet interest before declaring, “It is pretty.”

Nancy is the first to actually move. She crosses the room in three strides, grabs your hand, and examines the ring with the same sharp focus she used to use on conspiracy boards.

“Oh my god,” she says, and then she’s laughing. “You actually did it. You absolute idiot. You actually asked her.”

Steve’s ears go pink, but he’s grinning, soft and helpless. “Yeah. I did."

“When?” Robin demands, already bouncing on her toes. “How? Please tell me he cried. I need the details.”

“He definitely cried,” you say, and Steve makes a wounded noise of protest that no one believes for a second.

The next twenty minutes are pure chaos and joy.

Eddie demands to be best man and immediately starts arguing with Dustin about who has seniority. Max keeps turning your hand this way and that under the Christmas lights, muttering, “Not bad, Harrington. Not bad at all.” Eleven quietly asks if she is allowed to help pick flowers. Even Hopper claps Steve on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger and rumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “About damn time.”

Eventually the noise settles into something softer—carols playing low, people scattered across the living room with cookies and cider, the kind of easy warmth that only comes after surviving the end of the world together more than once.

Steve tugs you into the quiet hallway just outside the living room, away from the worst of the noise. The Christmas lights from the tree throw soft colors across his face as he cups your jaw in both hands.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low. “That was… a lot.”

You smile and lean into his touch. “I’m perfect.”

He searches your face for another second, then softens completely. His thumbs stroke over your cheekbones.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna marry you. And then I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making sure you're always good.

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[cyber333angel]

all i can think about are peter’s juicy thighs… laying between his legs with his bulge against your cheek as you feel the warmth and weight of his thighs around your head… his face getting all rosy as you squish the soft muscle of his hamstrings and place kisses all over his lower belly and the bruises on his thighs 😖 need that so bad omggg

mmmm 🤤

crawling under his desk while he’s working and kissing the inside of his thighs, and he giggles soo cutely when he asks what you’re doing! he thinks you’re playing around until you hike up his shirt and run your hand over his abs, coming up from his legs to offer light kisses to his tummy and his breath hitches, knowing what you want now..

you drop back to your knees to ask so sweetly if you can suck on him as he works, seeing him wince slightly when you rest your head on his bruised thigh and look at him with a pout. and peter will stutter out an approving “y-yeah..”, as he opens his legs to let you slide his shorts down, you are so excited and amused seeing him like this and he’s already getting so hard :(( and the whole time you’re sucking him off peters legs are trembling, just threatening to close around your head every time you fit another inch of him down your throat.. poor boy can’t focus on his work at all and he’s a whiney blushing mess above you!