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I’m sorry but the comments are taking me tf out I can’t-

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You don't understand, I love him your honor

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Steve Harrington on a bike. Eddie, Nancy & Robin are there too.

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steve breaking and not being able to hold back anymore over something so small with eddie. like seeing eddie holding a guitar pick in his mouth while he is hunched over his notebook writing lyrics to his newest song (it’s about steve) and steve just breaks. he like full body tackles eddie and kisses him. i’m talking breakback mountain almost breaking your nose kisses him. eddie has never been more flustered or turned on in his life.

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put your loving hand out, baby

Steve Harrington x Reader

wc: 1.7k

contents/warnings: dominant Steve / subby reader, fingering, oral (f recieveing), overstim and edging, denied orgasms, multiple orgasms to make up for that, a hint of dacryphilia and exhibitionism, use of ‘good girl’, teasing and some begging for good measure - this is the filthiest thing I’ve written, I’m blushing rn

note: just going to drop this one here and run away… enjoy! I used the prompts ‘perfume’ & ‘sticky’ from @stevenose ’s august writing challenge 

dividers by @saradika-graphics

The pillow beneath your cheek has lost its chill; the cool cotton and fine feathers have soaked up your moans and stifled pleas. 

Drenched with sweat, sticky and damp between your legs, you are too out of your head to even consider what the sheets look like in the morning light - something much more incriminating than simple summer sleep sweat. 

Steve’s name tumbles from your kiss-bitten mouth, a broken moan that is just loud enough to disobey. 

His fingers slow to a maddening pace that makes you want to weep. 

“Fuck,” you whimper, tears prickling your eyes. 

“Shhh, you’re going to wake everyone.” 

Steve’s voice drips like molasses, lips smiling against your shoulder, slightly slurred from how tightly wound he is from teasing you all night and how you keep begging him to fuck you so sweetly. You can feel how hard he is, how he has soaked through his boxers, and yet he has kept toying with you, his weak-limbed ragdoll. 

Your thighs clamp around his hand, a damp slap of skin on skin. His huffy little laugh, amused at your desperate expense, skates over your shoulder. He trails sweet kisses up your neck to your jaw, chasing the lingering notes of your perfume beyond the musk of sweat and sex. 

“You want them to hear you moaning like that? Like a slut?” he asks. His teeth nip the tender skin at your jaw, making you whimper, and he coaxes you to look at him when you answer.

Your head shakes a little, as much as you can muster. 

“I’ll have to stop if you can’t keep quiet. You don’t want that, do you, princess?” 

“Please. I’ll be good.” 

Near tears now, your hips roll against his still fingers, seeking out relief. 

“You’re always good, baby. You’re such a good girl,” he promises. 

Steve isn’t proud of how the sight of tears on your cheeks makes his cock pulse and weep in sympathy with you. He presses the sweetest of kisses to your mouth.

“I just need you to try to be a little quiet for me. You don’t want them knocking to check on you, do you?” 

You can hear the teasing edge to his voice, see the sly little curve of his lips blurred through your tears. 

“Or… Maybe you do?”

You almost bite right through your lip when he finally starts moving his fingers again, starting up that steady, punishing pace that has kept you on the edge. You aren’t quite sure what aches more, the pulled-tight coil in your gut that has been wound tight enough to snap over and over and over and denied every time just as you almost got there, or the over-sensitive sting that teeters on the pleasure-pain knife-edge. 

Your hips move minutely, as much as he will let you grind forward against his hand and back against the diamond-hard length nudging your ass. Your breath comes in quick, desperate little puffs.

“Stevie, please. I need it.” 

He can just about hear your quiet whisper, trying your very best to do as he asked. It makes him throb. 

“What do you need, baby?” 

He’s intoxicated by the clinging notes of vanilla and amber beneath your ear, and chases the scent with a wet trail of kisses. Steve is just about holding on to his self-control when he feels you gush around his fingers just a little more. 

Your head rests against him, seeking him out so he can see just how much you mean it, how you can ask nicely. Even with his pupils blown wide, darkened with desire, his eyes soften with adoration for you.

“I want to come.” You speak the words against the shadow of stubble on his jaw, just above a whisper. “Please let me. Please.”

You look ruined and so beautiful, glowing with sweat and tears on your cheeks. 

Any blood left in his brain rushes south, and Steve is fairly certain his boxers are unsalvagably stained now. Through some feat of strength, his rhythm remains unbroken.

“Yeah? M’sorry I’ve been so mean, sweetheart. Not letting my girl come when you need it so bad.” 

His apology comes with a kiss, though he isn’t sorry at all. Not really. He knows how much you like it, even if it makes you cry and curse him. It was your idea after all. 

“Let me kiss it better, okay? I know you liked that earlier, almost pulled my hair out.” 

His scalp throbs at the memory, but he smiles nonetheless. Denial number two had really got you riled up.

You almost headbutt him with how eagerly you nod. 

“Could fuck me.” Your words slur around a dopey smile.

His breathy little laugh makes you shiver, though you are fairly certain you are warmer than any fever you have had. 

“I will. But you want to come. You need to, remember?” 

He isn’t done playing with you yet.

“Mhm. Need you to fuck me too. Promised.”

He had promised you, murmured it right into your ear as you floated together in his pool with your friends just a few feet away, sun-bathing and sharing joints. 

Steve kisses you again and one more time, his fingers speed up just enough to make your brain go offline before stopping all too soon. You don’t have time to miss the feeling of his body behind you, but your mouth floods at the state of his boxers as he makes his way back between your legs. 

Through the haze of pleasure and want, you catch how Steve shifts his hips slightly against the mattress as he makes himself at home again.

“Poor baby,” he murmurs, seeing how swollen and puffy you are. He places a single sweet kiss on your mound before looking up at you. 

Your brow is furrowed with frustration, your fingers tangled in the sheets so you don’t do any more damage to his scalp.

“Look at me, pretty thing,” Steve says, adjusting the angle of your legs so that one is over his shoulder, the other pinned out to the side so you are spread nice and wide for him. 

He is haloed by the lamplight, far too angelic looking for a man who is torturing you with pleasure and the promise of fucking you into the mattress.

“There she is.” Steve rests his cheek against your thigh, unbothered by how sticky and sweat-slick you are; he wants to make sure he has not pushed you too far. “You’re so gorgeous, baby. My beautiful girl.”

The frown on your face melts away, letting go of the sheets to pet his head clumsily. 

“Your girl,” you agree. “Love you, Stevie.” 

“Love you.” He leans his head against your palm before leaning his head closer to your sex, eyes still locked on your face.

It is almost too much, watching him kiss and lick your cunt, feeling the firm press of his tongue and the way he suctions his lips around your swollen clit. Too much and not enough all at once, it makes you writhe against the sheets.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, bringing your free hand over your mouth to muffle yourself. “Steve, fuck.” Your fingers dig into the sun-pinkened skin of his shoulder, nails biting between his freckles.

He hums, like he is answering you, making your hips jolt up toward his mouth. That band of pleasure in your gut pulls tighter again, bowing your back in such a pretty arch for him.

You can’t think anymore, only feel; tears on your cheeks and the press of two thick fingers alongside his wicked tongue. You feel higher than you have ever been, fuck-drunk on Steve Harrington.

“I’m g’na… Steve, please.” 

Between your thighs, Steve’s jaw is aching, and his cock has never been harder. Your broken-voiced pleas almost push him over an embarrassing edge, but he pulls himself back. His fingers speed up, curling just right to make you moan a little too loud, but you are both too lightheaded and lust-drunk to care anymore. He adds a third, knowing you can take it, knowing you need it.

Full-up and driven to breaking point, his name falls from your mouth like a precious vase smashing.

Steve relishes the sting of your nails on his shoulder and scalp as you press up hard against his mouth, fuck yourself against his face and his fingers as you come with a silent scream. All he can hear is the wet gush of your pussy and the quick thud of his own heartbeat as your thighs clamp around his ears. He does not stop, ignoring the jaw-ache and the cramp in his wrist.

Stars dance behind your eyelids as your orgasm crashes over you. It is a sweet relief, an intense and unstoppable pleasure as he works you through it. It does not end, another swell of white-hot bliss sweeps you up just as the first began to subside. It is agony and it is everything you wanted, everything you begged for and more. 

When your eyes open again, heavy-lidded and your lashes soaked with tears, Steve looks down at you with a relieved little smile.

“Hi, pretty. I thought I broke you there for a sec.”

“Mm, think you did.” Smiling, you reach up to stroke his handsome face, guide him to you for a kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue. 

Steve sighs into your mouth, nudges your nose with his. “You did so good for me.”

Your chest feels fuzzy-warm, something different from the boiling heat of a few moments ago. 

“You gon’ta fuck me now?” you ask, peering up at him starry-eyed. 

He laughs, kissing you again. He brushes your hair back, watches how you rest your flushed-hot cheek in his palm. 

“You’re insatiable, huh?” 

The tiny scowl and pout makes his heart ache with adoration. 

“You promised.”

His tongue presses against his cheek, weighing up whether he wants to challenge that brattiness.

As he considers it, you roll onto your front and press yourself up on an unsteady approximation of all fours. You are both a little bit impressed with your coordination, given how jelly-limbed you are.

“C’mon, Stevie. I’ll try to be quiet.” The coy little smile is hidden in the bunched-up pillow beneath your head.

Steve smiles and pushes at his waistband, peeling the ruined fabric off.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

hey... heyyy... how y'all doin'? 👀 I'd love to know what you think! comments are adored and reblogs/likes are so very appreciated ♥️

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18+ Steve Harrington x f! reader, established relationship, piss kink, implied PIV, implied shower sex WC: 1.2K Summary: An early morning trip to the bathroom leads to you and Steve sharing the little space in a whole new kind of way.

A/N: First time dipping my toes in this particular kink pool. Enjoy!

The creak of a nearby floorboard alerts you to his presence, another yawn slipping out from between your lips as you try to blink away the fog from your eyes.

“Did I wake you?”, you ask Steve as he gently pushes open the door you’d left ajar to join you in the bathroom, the hinges letting out a quiet squeak as he steps in.

The seat has been warmed under your butt so you sit comfortably on it but you notice Steve must be feeling the early morning chill without the t-shirt he lets you sleep in, the hair on his forearms and bare chest the first to prickle up with a wash of goosebumps that stretches all over.

“Gotta piss”, he mumbles out.

It’s nearly 4AM, his eyes just as sleep heavy as your own and adjusting to the light after stepping out of the darkness of your bedroom, rubbing a knuckle against the corner of his left eye before he repeats the process on his right.

“Just wait a minute, okay? I’m not done yet”, you tell him, panties drawn down by your knees and the trickling sound of your pee flowing down into the water continues.

His eyes narrow into a little squint at that, one hand raised to scratch at the little hint of stubble that grows by his jaw because he’d missed it when he shaved the day before.

“Just spread em”, he grunts out. Short and blunt.

Your lips push out into a pout just like they always do when he asks this of you. Well, tell you is more like it. Never waiting for your permission. Always impatient.

“Babe, please just one more minute” you try to deny him but it’s too late. He’s already nudging your feet apart and though you scoot all the way back on the toilet seat it’s no use.

You watch helplessly as he slips one hand below the waistband of his pajama pants, fishing out his heavy cock and aiming the tip between your legs.

Hung like a horse and he pisses like one too.

The stream comes out strong as it shoots down between your thighs, nothing you can do but widen your legs as much as possible, stretching out your cotton panties around your ankles and wait for him to be done. Though you don’t mind it when his free hand comes to rest on the side of your face, thumb stroking over your cheekbone fondly. Enough to make your stomach swoop and flutter despite the circumstances.

“Y’ look pretty even when you’re on the shitter”

It’s so easy for you to roll your eyes at his little attempt at being charming but the corner of your mouth twitches up into a half smile anyway. You can’t help it.

“Hurry up and finish before you crack the bowl”, you snipe playfully.

When his stream starts to thin you feel some relief though it’s short lived when Steve then angles his cock, aiming higher until the hot splash rains down on your clit.

You yelp and groan, nowhere to go, no other option but to sit there and take it.

“Steve, not again”

You say it like you mean it. You say it like it bothers you. But you both know how you really feel about it. The way your face twists with feigned disgust always gets him going. He can see right through that paper thin mask of yours as clearly as crystal. Like he can see exactly where to reach in and uproot the truth right out of you, painting your face with all its kaleidoscopic colors where you can no longer hide your emotions from him.

You’ve lost count of how many times he’s done this to you, though you suppose you only have yourself to blame for it. You’re the one who planted this particular seed and made it grow and ripen.

You’re the one who followed him into the bathroom some weeks back, your arms wrapped around his bicep. He’d assumed you were only being needy, expecting you to turn back and leave him to do his business alone but you didn’t, staying firmly planted by his side.

“Babe, this isn’t really a two-person job”

“I know”

“So then?”

“I just... Can I hold it?”

“What, now?”

“Yeah. I just wanna see. Is that okay?”

Steve didn’t know how to react at first. It wasn’t something he’d ever considered himself but seeing you all eager with your big pleading eyes and your lip between your teeth, he folded in seconds.

“Yeah, alright”

The first time you did it you had your pelvis right up against his hip, undoing his belt and zipper and tucked your hand into his boxers. You dared to tease him a little bit too, running your palm up and down the short grainy hairs above his cock and lightly cupping his balls. When he whines out a hushed ‘that’s not fair’ you relent with a smile, pulling his cock out, doing your best to aim with a little help from Steve.

“Little higher…to the left…yeah, there you go”

What was strangest was how right it all felt. You expected it to be a little weird, maybe a little awkward even but despite anticipating some feelings of those kind, they never bubbled up or rumbled in your belly like they usually did.

Both of you watched very closely as your pulse beat strong in your neck and loud in your ears. He’d only had the one beer so far after cuddling on the couch to watch a movie so it was over a little sooner than you would have liked, his stream tapering into nothing. Carefully you shake two dewy drops free from where they clung on his tip, slowly letting his girth slip from your fingers.

“That was…interesting”, he decides, pulling his dick back into his boxers and rebuttoning his jeans before the feeling of an oncoming boner can sprout.

“Did you like it?”, you ask the important question, a little nervous.

“I did. Did you like it?”

“Yeah. A lot”

“So, you’re gonna tail me every time I go to the bathroom?” he teases you with a smile

“Only if you let me”, you smile back.

You didn’t know where the idea had come from, only that it’d made its home in a vacant corner in your mind. It'd only gotten stronger since he let you wrap your fingers around his veiny girth and held it while he relieved himself.

You’re yet to still understand this new urge and even if you never do, you were okay with that. All that mattered is that you liked it, Steve too.

So, your toes curl, your poor clit made to feel so good in such a filthy way while Steve rains down on it, his stream beginning to lessen. Some of his piss catches on your bush in droplets and your thighs shiver and tremble.

Neither of you will be going back to sleep just yet. Not when you’ve only just finished your foreplay.

And when he’s done, nothing is said as Steve turns the shower on, pulling himself free from his pj bottoms while you step out of your panties and sleep shirt, both stripping nude.

“After you”, he holds the door open for you and you get in, water warm on your skin so he can clean you up, spurting shower gel into his palm which he uses to lather you between your legs, the hair on your mound thick with soapy cherry blossom bubbles.

“Ready for the real mess?” he hums, fingers drawing lazy circles around your swelling clit while his erection hardens against your hip.

“Always”

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take a pic of the damn group richie

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worked on the designs of spicy six for my Night School steddie AU! 👀

here’s them separately!

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You need to move off of Google Docs!

I know some people have seen the news recently and may be doubtful of it. To the uninformed, Google Docs has started using AI to find "inappropriate" and "problematic" content, scraping your documents and deleting it. I know some people are unsure if this is real or think this is not going to affect them.

I regret to inform you that this is real.

As I was on a call with some writers and we were moving our documents as a precautionary measure, one person discovered entire pages missing that they did not delete themselves. This is happening to us, it's not a hoax or a rumor, it's happening right now. You need to move everything if you want to preserve it.

If you're a writer with writer mutuals, please reblog this so they know. I rarely write on Google Docs anymore, but I started my fanfics on there, and I would be devastated if I lost works more than ten years old because people decided marketing appeal is more important than creative freedom.

EDIT READ THIS: https://www.tumblr.com/bravehyde/790422701153157120/hi-can-we-have-any-sort-of-source-about-the

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someone on twt wanted to see steve in a letterman jacket so i edited him in one. was a lot of work, but i think it looks pretty neat?? anywho, figured i'd share it on here as well :))

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How it started vrs How its going Stranger Things, S01E01 vrs S5 Teaser

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In which Steve is bordering on legally blind yet he's more blinded by the highschool social hierarchy

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happy valentines day 💘 steve got excited and put on his little outfit before eddie even woke up 💐

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lil spagheds

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“You’re seriously going to let him act like this?”

“I was-“

“He was SO MUCH worse when Whitney died!” Muffled anguish came from the face pressed into the couch cushions.

Steve continued rubbing his husbands back with one hand and ordering cookies for delivery with the other. The priority fees were worth it when he thought of the memorabilia that the treats would keep out of the eBay cart.

Robin stood in the kitchen, deeply regretting her offer of company.

“You got to see him play three times, a lot of people aren’t that lucky,” Steve reminded Eddie.

“Only twice,” he lifted his head a little now to get some air and let Steve brush the hair off of his forehead. Eddie planted his cheek on the pillow and looked up at Steve with the sadness pooling in his eyes.

“Do you want me to find old seasons of The Osbourne’s on streaming?” Robin finally gave a little, hoping to avoid seeing a grown man cry.

“That could be okay,” Eddie gave a hard sniff and she tried her best not to roll her eyes as she joined them in their living room.

“Don’t leave without teaching me how to put this on,” Steve said. She almost offered to show him how to pull up YouTube and search for music videos and live performances, but that was a battle for another day.

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Ok lets

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(fem!reader, soft smut, 18+)

Steve Harrington brings home an old mirror and asks you to watch yourself, but what you see isn’t just your reflection. It’s the way he looks at you, the way he loves you, the way he wants you.

You look at him through the glass, but he looks at you like a man witnessing a miracle; the birth of a star in a cradle of darkness or the moment a seed cracks open to become a mighty tree.

You don’t know what you look like to him. You never have. You’ve never dared to believe you're anything but ordinary. Never beyond, never special. But to him, you are a wonder. You're what the word beautiful means.

Hair mussed from your shower, skin glistening in the low light, that look in your eyes; curious, a little suspicious, loaded with fondness. 

To him, it’s your curiosity that’s part of the miracle. How it slips past locks no one else can touch, opening secret gardens where new worlds grow. Worlds born from the way your eyes rest on the small and the strange, and how your mind slips into every crevice, just to feel what’s there.

That spark in you, soft and relentless, draws him in every time. It’s why he wants to hold you close. To watch you discover yourself and the world, again and again. To be the one you trust with every secret trail, to walk the well-worn paths beside you, to bear the beauty of your soul in every light.

Your curiosity is a kind of magic, wild and tender and utterly unstoppable.

The mirror’s almost clean. A few streaks are left in the corners, but he doesn’t wipe them away.

He turns the cloth in his hands, fingers flexing. Not from effort, but from desire. Not frantic or desperate. It’s patient, it’s closer to devotion. It builds in his chest like a slow, golden tide.

Because when he saw you in the window’s reflection last night, really saw you, moving beneath him in the dark, with unruly hands gripping the flesh of his sides, parted lips, and eyes that watched only him...it broke something wide open in him. 

Pistons of passion shattered the valve holding back something animalistic within him, and Steve had no interest in caging his beast.

There was something about the way you moved, so unguarded and instinctual, like you belonged to him without even thinking about it. It wasn’t just arousal; it was a revelation of sorts - a sudden clarity of just how deeply you belonged with him, not because you said so, but because your every movement whispered it. The way your back arched. The tilt of your head. The quiet sounds you made, the trust in your body. All those domestic rhythms you both drift through; half-asleep kisses, your hand reaching for his under the covers, the way you hum when you fold the laundry - they all settled into that image. Seeing it reflected back, distant and dreamlike, like a scene from someone else’s life, it knocked the wind out of him.

Because you didn’t know you were being seen, and yet you moved like you were his. Entirely.

He wants to see that again. Clearly. Wants to witness it, not through bleariness and darkened glass, not as something passing, but in a mirror he can return to. A frame for something sacred. A frame for you.

The cheval isn’t perfect. It wobbles a little on its stand, the frame bowed, the glass spotted in places like old silver. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s what makes it right. Because when you see yourself in it, you won’t look polished or posed. You’ll look real. Like someone who lives here. Like someone loved. Maybe you’ll feel at home in that reflection - in something flawed, familiar, and full of admiration.

He swallows. The cloth slips from his fingers, forgotten on the dresser. His eyes find you again, not in the mirror now, but directly. Somehow you’re more devastating in reflection. 

Not because you’re distant, but because you don’t know.

You don’t know how you look when your hands are on him. When you whisper his name like it’s old and hallowed. When your thighs part without fear, when your eyes soften, when your voice hitches on love.

He wants to show you. Wants to stand behind you and let you see your face in the moment where everything else falls away.

He wants to say, “Look at yourself. Look at the woman I love.” Wants to say it like a prayer. Like gospel. He wants to tell you all the ways he worships you, he sees you; ​​the way your fingers twitch when you’re trying not to argue, like the words live there first. The tiny, crooked scar on your ankle from something you never told him about, but that he knows by touch. The way your hand lingers on a doorknob before you leave, like part of you is always considering staying.

Steve wants to murmur it like liturgy: You are holy. You are mine. You are the only thing I’ve ever truly believed in.

But there’s another part of him too, the part that wants to confess something naughtier.

All the thoughts he has when he watches you like this, soft and curious and entirely unaware. The ones that catch in his throat and leave his own hands unruly.

He wants to spill them like sins, like secrets. He wants to say, You don’t know what you do to me. God, you don’t know. Wants to say, I’d spend the rest of my life on my knees if it meant I got to touch you like this. Hear you like this. Watch you come undone and still trust me to hold you.

But he doesn’t say that. Not yet. 

His throat is thick with the kind of desire that doesn’t yell, but the kind that kneels. So instead, all he says, quietly, like he’s afraid of spooking the thing that’s budding between you, is, "Come here."

You do. There’s a smile ghosting at the edge of your mouth - mischievous and unknowing. Like you’ve caught the scent of something sweet in the air but haven’t quite placed it just yet. Like maybe you don’t fully understand what he sees in you tonight, but you’re curious enough to try.

Bare feet rustle against the rug, your shadow gliding toward him in the low lamplight, and something in his chest tightens; hot, aching, and fierce. You stop just behind him, so close he can feel your warmth before he feels your touch.

In the mirror, there it is again. You.

You, in reflection. You, in reach. You, looking at him like you’re still trying to figure out what this is, what he’s done, why this old thing matters so much to him. 

“It’s nice,” You say, almost mercifully, stepping closer. “I like it.”

Reaching out from behind him, your fingers brush the edge of the frame, tracing the worn wood, smooth from years of hands and time. You adjust the angle, and the carved ribbon-like swirls along the crest appear to float, caught between stillness and motion, reaching for something just beyond the glass.

For a moment, your gaze lingers on your own face, cool and critical, like a stranger you don’t really recognize. Then you meet his eyes, and your expression shifts - softening, glowing with a tenderness reserved just for him.

“It’s for you.” He says sheepishly.

He watches you, breath caught, as glee brushes over your face. The way your lashes flutter, your lips parting just a fraction, and the faint crease between your brows easing into surprise.

“Thank you,” You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to hold down the shaky swell of gratitude that catches in your throat. You lean in and press a kiss to his shoulder - slow, warm, deliberate, then another to the back of his neck. “Any reason you put it there? You had to move the laundry-chair to get that spot.”

He flushes. Not deeply, but enough for you to see it rush along his cheekbones, the tips of his ears. A guilty little flicker, a devilish flame.

Then he steps behind you.

One hand settles on your hip, fingertips resting, not pulling. The other lifts to the strap of your camisole, twisting the thin fabric once around his calloused finger.

“Yeah, I have a reason.” He murmurs, voice warm at the edges. You feel the curve of his smile before you see it. Sly, almost boyish, and tucked beneath his breath.

He leans in and presses a gentle nip to the curve of your neck, careful and teasing. He doesn’t press his body to yours. He holds back, because if he let himself, if he gave in even an inch, then you’d know exactly what he’s up to, what he wants.

He watches the mirror like it’s a window into something older than time. Something rib-born. God-taken. Flesh given shape so he wouldn’t have to be lonely anymore.

Without a word, you tilt your head just slightly. Barely more than a breath, but it’s enough. Enough to give him more of your neck. Enough to make space for his mouth. Enough to undo him.

The gesture is innocent, maybe even unconscious, but it sends a ripple through him all the same. Need unfurls in his chest; deep, low, and ravenous. It’s hungry. For more of this. The offering. The trust. The way you yield without fear, without question.

He presses his mouth there again, a little deeper now. Still soft. Still slow, but with purpose.

"You’re mine," He thinks, but doesn’t say. Not yet. It’s not the right time. Or maybe it’s too much. 

The thought feels hot and heavy - sharp with want, barbed with guilt. It makes him feel like a king, all golden and starved, standing on the edge of some lush, impossible land he didn’t earn but still wants to claim. He wants to lay his hands on every inch of it. Of you. Not to conquer, but to keep, to tend, to make a home of it.

Even that, especially that, feels selfish.

Because who is he to think that way about someone so soft and self-made? Someone who allows him to trace the shatterable line between strength and softness in them.

If you’re his, it’s because you want to be. No demands, no obligations, just trust and love.

But his hand spreads wide across your belly, thumb pressing gently at the space just above your navel. His touch says it anyway. "Mine." Not as a warning, not even a promise. Just a knowing, because you’re here. You stay.

You squirm slightly beneath him, the tension thick enough to taste, like honey and spice on your tongue. In almost a squeak, you ask, “What’s the reason?”

His hand drops just a little lower, fingers tracing a path that makes you pause. He watches you watch him - eyes alive with wonder, maybe a gleam of something more daring and bold.

The upper half of your body leans back into his chest, firm and soothing. Your hips push forward just enough, an unspoken invitation, pulling him closer, drawing him deeper.

His fingers dip just beneath the band of your pajama shorts, resting over the fabric of your underwear. It’s a slow, deliberate touch. One that takes everything he has not to move faster, not to lose himself in the moment. He promised himself he’d go slow tonight, ​​like a painter tracing the first careful strokes on a blank canvas, knowing the masterpiece depends on patience.

Your eyes flutter closed, suddenly catching the meaning behind his movement. 

Just as you give in, he pulls back, the sudden absence of warmth making your eyes snap open. You start to turn, pupils dilated - confusion and craving woven tight in your expression, like a clockwork motor winding down but still holding just enough tension to spring back at any moment.

His hands press gently but firmly to your hips, stopping you. “You have to watch,” He says, low and heady. “Otherwise, I can’t tell you why.”

Your breath stutters, and your thighs press together, instinctive and useless, like you’re trying to trap the heat he left behind. Your body begs for his hands again, not caring where, just needing them back.

He leans in, rubbing his cheek against the side of your head, slow and affectionate, like a cat scent-marking something it already considers his.

You huff out something between a laugh and a groan. “You’re being difficult.”

He chuckles under his breath, all warm breath and satisfaction, and presses a kiss to the side of your head.

Then, he sinks to his knees behind you.

You feel his hands first, broad and reverent, sliding up the backs of your thighs in a slow, unbroken pass. From the bend of your knees to just beneath the swell of your butt, his palms drag upward with purpose, coaxing goosebumps in their wake.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to the soft skin at the back of one thigh, then the other - mouth moving like it’s memorizing, like he’s trying to write a love letter without words. It’d read; If I could stay here, just here, I'd never ask for anything more. I would memorize you a thousand times and still find something new to love.

"Now you know how I feel. You’re always so determined." He whispers teasingly into your skin, voice so close and quiet it moves through you more than you hear it.

You weren’t meant to, but did anyway. You scoffed, twisting just enough to glance down at him behind you. “What do you mean by that?” You ask, eyes narrowing slightly, waiting, challenging him to explain.

His lips don’t leave the back of your thigh as he looks up at you, a slow smile spreading - half secret, half satisfied.

“Nothin’,” He murmurs, voice low and warm, like a promise folded into a sigh. “You’re perfect. That’s all I meant.”

You bite your lip, impatience flickering behind your eyes. “Steve,” You warn, though your voice is vitrified with something closer to greed. 

Heat pools low in your belly, spreading fast, and every touch of his mouth sends sparks through your skin like wildfire. You shift slightly, aching for more, for answers, for him, for anything.

“That’s the way I like to hear it,” He mumbles, voice rough with something deeper. The sharpness of your voice flows like a current through his veins - cold and shocking, but thrilling enough to wake every part of him. His hands clamp firmly just above your knees, holding you in place like a silent command you can’t, and don’t want to, resist. “My sweet girl.” He says, softer. “Letting me take my time, letting me love on you like this.” His eyes search yours, earnest and reverent. 

His fingers slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, knuckles brushing skin made warmer by eagerness. He doesn’t rush. He eases them down, inch by inch, until the fabric puddles around your feet.

“Look,” He murmurs, like velvet soaked in salt. “In the mirror.”

Your gaze rises from him slowly, shy at first, catching on the frame, the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your waist. And then…

His hand.

Steve’s hand sweeps across the curve of your hip and lower, over the cotton that now feels impossibly thin. Your panties are purple. You only realize it now, because his hand makes you look, makes you notice something you’d never bother to remember.

His palm fits there like it’s found where it’s meant to rest, like your body was built to answer it.

“Watch my face.” He says as his fingertips press lightly against the gentle swell at your sides, then begin to slide the fabric down with deliberate ease. 

The barest clench of his jaw loosens then tightens again, as if holding back a low groan that threatens to spill free. The muscles in his forearms bunch and flex. That’s from nothing but watching your panties flow down your body.

When your underwear joins your shorts at your feet, his gaze lifts. Not rushed, but with the patience of a man savoring his favorite sin.

He drags his eyes up the backs of your legs, pausing at the shape of your thighs, the soft dip where they meet. His nostrils flare slightly. A slow flush creeps up his throat, just under the collarbone.

His eyes catch on the curve of your butt, and for a moment he looks wrecked by it, like the sight undoes something inside him. You feel it in the shift of his breath, see the tension that bursts in his shoulders.

Then he looks into the mirror. Right there, between your legs.

You catch the glint in his eyes, dilated and glittering with heat, staring like the reflection’s giving him permission to dream out loud. His throat bobs with a thick swallow, and his tongue flicks across the inside of his cheek like he’s tasting the thought of you.

There’s nothing coy in it. Nothing performative.

Just Steve, on his knees, looking at the center of you like he’s found the place he wants to worship and starve for in equal measure.

He’s still staring at your heat as he says, “Tell me what you saw.” 

Every sentence you try to form breaks apart, drowning in the flood he’s stirring. Your legs squeeze together, a reflex you can’t control, while your eyes hold his, silently begging and resisting all at once. 

“You,” You barely speak, your hands busy picking at the fragile skin around your nails. “You looked like you…I don’t know, liked it?”

Steve lets out a sound - faint but wrecked, the shadow of a laugh snags on the edge of a groan. It rakes through his chest like he’s just been told a beautiful lie, like he can’t believe you still don’t see what he sees.

Not cruel. Never cruel. Just undone. "You think I just liked it?" The words come hoarse, colored with want and disbelief. 

You carry your beauty like a rebellion, something fiery and undeniable that refuses to bow to anyone’s definitions. He can only watch in awe, wanting you to discover your own strength behind the veil of doubt.

His hand glides until it slips between your thighs, honoring the power roaring just beneath your skin.

You part for him without thinking, like your body recognizes the question before your mind does. The reaction is purely instinctual, devotional, and needy.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, not playful, not proud. Full, like his chest can’t hold what he feels, like the sight of you opening yourself for him makes his insides buzz like a hive disturbed.

His knuckle brushes your center, barely a touch, just a flicker of pressure, but it lights something, pulls a gasp from you like a thread from your chest.

His eyes flick to your mouth. "Sweetheart," His voice wraps around you, measured and heavy-lidded. “You’re underselling how much I want you.” He leans in, mouth just shy of your skin, eyes burning. "I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything more in my life."

Your mouth presses closed, biting your lip as heat radiates low and dense through your body. Through the mirror, your eyes flick to the box fan lying silent in the corner, like a sentinel holding back the relief you long for. That cool rush feels just out of reach, unable to drown the fire curling in your belly. The beat of your heart pounds like hooves on dry earth, rattling the tension held just beneath your skin.

With a nervous laugh, an uneven voice, one that tries to mask the hunger thrumming beneath your ribs, you say, “Don’t forget about your Cavalier. I’m pretty sure you wanted that way more.”

He smiles softly, amusement and tenderness flashing in his eyes. “Not true.” 

Slowly, Steve rises, his arousal pressing firm against the curve of your backside - proof that leaves no room for doubt.

You spin toward him before he could stop you, arms winding like vines around his neck, but the tremor of your nerves steals the kiss, leaving only a brush at the corner of his mouth; bumbling, yet electric.

Pulling back just enough to meet your eyes, he grins. You squint through a lopsided smile and say, “At least I didn’t completely miss.”

He laughs, amber-rich and fervent, as if that confession is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard.

Without a word, he dips in and presses a kiss to the same spot you’d missed, right at the corner of your mouth, like he’s sealing the moment, making it mutual.

His nose brushes yours, slow and loving, a tether in the space between heartbeats. “Kiss me wherever, I don’t mind.”

His hands find the hem of your shirt and slip beneath it, palms gliding up your stomach, mapping the slope of your ribs, the curve beneath your breasts. He moves like he’s chasing something he’s missed, every pass of his hands is a confirmation: you’re here, you’re real, you’re his.

Then they dip back down, tugging lightly at the fabric where it falls around your waist.

You tilt your head, teasing, “I can’t believe you left my shirt on.”

He grins, already gathering the shirt in his hands. “Patience,” He drawls, the word feathering warm against your throat as he lifts the fabric inch by inch, “I’m savoring.”

Quick but careful, he peels the camisole off, revealing skin that feels almost too bare under his stare. The flutter of your lashes feels loud in the quiet as he leans back to take in your figure. 

You murmur softly, the vulnerability in your tone tipping the balance of stillness, “You’ve seen me like this before. A lot, actually.” 

Your words hang in the air, trying to be playful but hit a little off-target.

For a brief moment, Steve’s eyes carry the weight of a thousand memories -  a dim, private gallery where the shapes of you live between light and dark, a devoutness for the way your body moves and breathes, the soft architecture of your curves, and the intimate spaces only he has ever truly seen. 

“I know,” He utters, “I’m just lucky - no, wait. I mean, I’m lucky, yes, but I’m thankful.”

His eyes drift to your lips first, and for a beat he’s no longer here. He’s back in every stolen second, every time he kissed you like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies, drinking you in with tongue and teeth and open-mouthed reverence.

He lowers his gaze to the column of your neck, where all your sweetness lives before spilling out. Each I love you shaped here, each I’m yours stitched into the air.

His focus moves to the valley between your breasts, the hollow he knows well, and then shifts just left, to the steady beat of your heart, the wellspring of every tenderness you’ve ever offered, a place from which he’s eagerly drank, grateful for every drop.

He lets his eyes wander down to your stomach, where the sound of your unfiltered laughter rises, ringing pure and free like a melody. 

When his gaze reaches between your thighs, a low, unguarded groan slips free, carrying the weight of every time you’ve connected - body and soul intertwined in wordless communion.

Finally, his eyes settle on your feet, where your toes wiggle as if in silent greeting, and a smile pulls at his lips as he remembers the many nights you’ve tucked your cold feet beneath his thighs, seeking his warmth.

His gaze lingers a moment longer, caught between memory and the present, before your words cut through his reverie.

“Stand in front of the mirror.”

His eyes snap up, wide and a little dazed. “What?” He asks, voice hoarse and uncertain.

Without a word, you slide to his side, then gently step behind him, your hands pressing lightly on his shoulders as you guide him forward, nudging him toward the cheval glass.

Cloaked behind his solid form, you draw from the safety, letting your confidence rise unchecked. 

“You’re not the only one who’s under a spell.” You say, voice thick with something like pride and longing. “Look at you,” Your assertion glides down his spine like a comet’s tail; bright and impossible to ignore. “I think about you all the time,” You say, fingers tracing the edge of his tee. “I picture us; our house somewhere nice, hopefully with a backyard. Watching each other get a little slower, a little forgetful, but still being there, taking care of each other.” You slide the shirt higher, skin meeting skin beneath your touch. “And I brag, you know. I brag that I’m yours and that you’re mine. Forever, if you’d want that.”

There’s a soft whoosh as his shirt falls behind you. Your lips find the warmth of his upper back, peppering kisses that scatter like raindrops, each one a small confession of their own.

When he shifts, opening his mouth to speak, you murmur against his skin, “No talking. Just watch.” 

You skate your hands down, fingers clutching the fabric at his hips, tugging his joggers just enough to start pulling them down. They slip to his knees, but before you can finish, he kicks them off completely. A lighthearted tut slips from your lips, amused by how openly his excitement shows.

Your lips trail along his spine as your hand ventures back to the last barrier, thumb slipping between the edge of his boxers and heated skin. When you reach his front, his length peeks boldly above the waistband.

The moment your fingers brush against him, he jolts sharply, biting his tongue hard enough for you to see the tension ripple through his jaw.

You pause for just a second, but a second too long. 

Steve turns his head slightly, voice low and unsteady, “Where’d that nerve go?” 

Meeting the challenge without flinching, your fingers slip beneath the waistband and pull his boxers down in one smooth motion.

“You’re an awful listener,” You murmur, almost too softly to be a reprimand. Almost.

He kicks his boxers away, breathes shallow, muscles pulled tight like a live wire. When his gaze finds your face through the mirror again, your eyes are fixed on his length. 

Always the flame begging for your oxygen, he starts to palm himself slowly, eyes locked on yours, like he’s daring you to look away. “I watched just like you told me to.”

Your heartbeat drums a frantic rhythm, reverberating through your chest and up into your skull. “You’re talking.” 

“Kiss me then,” He says, smirking, but his brows are knit. “Shut me up, or else I’m going to start making promises you’ll hold me to every night.”

You roll your shoulders fitfully, each joint moving with the mechanical grace of a ball-jointed doll, dispersing the sharp rays of nerves shooting beneath your skin like tiny sparks of electricity. 

Steve watches you through the mirror, and something wild coils inside him, something antsy and near-feral. It’s the way you look at him, like every slow drag of his palm is yours to control. The way your gaze snaps to his mouth the moment a groan slips out, low and guttural, like you need to know what sounds he’ll make next.

No longer touching him, he can feel the absence like a phantom limb. Only the faintest brush of your nipples against his back gives you away, those soft peaks grazing his skin like an afterthought, like a provocation. 

But you’re still behind him. Quiet. Watching. He can’t tell if you’re waiting - for the promises he threatened to make, or if you’re caught in some internal war, nerves and hunger battling it out behind your eyes.

That makes it worse. That makes him ache more and more.

Because if you asked for anything, anything at all, he’d give it. Kneeling, whispering every vow into your skin like they were always meant to live there.

For now, he just watches you watch him - free, breathless, and holding back nothing.

“Tell me one,” You breathe, but what you mean is tell me all of them, make me believe them, make them mine.

He breathes sharply through his nose, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, as if trying to ground himself before the gravity of you swallows him whole. “I’ll rub your back when you fall asleep weird on the couch.” He manages, voice ragged and rushed. 

You huff, some of the tension drifting out with the warm air. Steve is nothing if not consistent, governed by the laws of loyalty and momentum, his wit orbiting everything like a small moon.

“That’s less…” You pause, tilting your head slightly, lips tightening on one side as you weighed the thought. 

“Less what?” 

His smugness hits you like a backdraft, and the words come out in a rush, scalding your tongue on the way, “Less sexy than I thought.” 

You press your front into the hard planes of his back, the gentle weight of your chest against the muscles beneath his shoulder blades, your thighs resting on the backs of his. Your hands trail softly over his forearms, fingertips grazing with tender intent. 

He feels it all, like fire caught in a nest of feathers. His grip tightens around himself, he goes a little faster. 

“The mirror,” He moans, “Look at it. Look what you do to me. I wish you could see what I see. How beautiful you are when you’re like this. How beautiful you are all the time. How much I need you.” He looks at you through a haze of lowered lashes, grin crooked and slow, like he’s dreaming with his eyes open. “Get on the bed and let me show you.”

divider source: cafekitsune