elfenbensord

[elfenbensord]

trust

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve confesses something deeply personal, your reaction only spurs him on with his newly found confidence

warnings: 18+ this contains smut, f oral receiving, body insecurity, scars, whiney steve, it's real sappy

a/n: this is long and half of it is filth, but it's sweet so it's fine!! steve is smitten and a lil pathetic, idk what else to say

series masterlist

Robin sat at her kitchen table in rumpled pajamas, hair slightly wild, nursing a mug of coffee that smelled dangerously bitter. She didn’t expect to be out of bed at this hour, but she had a rather pressing matter that demanded her attention.

Her best friend was perched across from her, vibrating with nerves. Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so frazzled before noon—especially on a Sunday.

“Are you gonna tell me why you’re here at eight in the morning, or am I supposed to guess?”

Straight to the point, huh? 

He raked a hand through his hair—he’d already done it so many times this morning that it stuck up at all angles. 

“...We went on another date.”

“Right. You and your mystery girl.” A smile pulled at Robin’s lips. “That’s great, Steve, really. Super happy for you. But you needed to wake me up just to tell me you went on a date?”

When she says it like that, it feels like the understatement of the year. 

“I think I blew it,” he said flatly, the words coming out in a rush.

She snorted into her coffee. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“No, I’m serious,” he insisted, shoulders sagging. There was a dullness in his eyes that told her this was more than his usual overreaction. “I’m telling you, I ruined it.”

“Okay, sure,” she put her mug down, leaning forward with a sigh. ”You’ve totally, completely ruined it. Wanna back up and give me some context here?”

He drew in a breath, gaze drifting to the wall as if he might see yesterday play out on its surface. 

“Okay, so I saw her again yesterday. Picked her up, had a great time—like, amazing. I’m talking, she’s laughing…” He trailed off, letting that memory blossom in his chest. He cleared his throat, pressing on. “Anyway, I drove her home, walked her to her door. Smooth, right?”

“Peak romance,” Robin deadpanned, eyes narrowed as she tried not to smirk.

Steve shot her a withering glare that only made her grin more. 

“Yeah, so then we… we kissed. Which is not new. Told you what happened in the classroom couple weeks back? God, that was—” He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling how your lips tasted that evening, reluctantly forcing himself back to the present. “I mean, you know, right?”

Robin took another sip. “Yes, I know. Please continue.”

“Okay. Sorry. So last night, we’re outside, and she’s leaning against the door. We’re both kinda… reeling, and then she looks at me—like, that look—and asks if I’d like to come inside.”

“Inside, huh?” Robin’s coffee froze halfway to her lips. 

“Yeah.” Steve nodded fervently. “And look, I’m not an idiot, okay? It was late. I know what inside means.”

“I’m… not following.”

A frustrated groan escaped him as he slumped forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands. 

He doesn’t want to say the next part—he can barely stand to close his eyes without seeing the look on your face. Disappointed. And knowing he was the reason why. It was so stupid. He could have said anything else, but of course, his brain chose to short-circuit instead.

“I said… ‘No, thank you.’”

Silence blanketed the room. Robin’s mouth hung open for a moment before she found her words. 

“You said what?”

He groaned again, louder this time. 

“I panicked, okay? Just… You should’ve seen her face. She looked so—God, embarrassed? And I… I just—I was stuck. Couldn’t think of anything else.”

“So you turned down an invitation inside after a date—”

“—and then I turned around and headed for my car,” he finished, miserably.

Robin cringed, setting her mug aside. “Oof.”

“I know,” he hissed. He lifted his head, eyes pained, as if replaying the moment in mind-numbing slow motion. The memory felt like a stone in his chest.

Her gaze softened as she took in her best friend's posture, how his fingers trembled around the rim of the coffee mug he hadn't even touched. 

She knew he’d had it rough—anyone who’d witnessed what he had would understand. But since he primarily talked to his therapist about this sort of thing, she often forgot just how deep those wounds really ran.

“Hey,” she said, voice gentler now, “it’s okay if you’re… not ready for all of that yet. It’s a big step.”

He lifted his head, eyes shadowed with worry. 

“I am ready,” he countered, a hint of desperation colouring his tone. “I want—I want to be ready for that.”

And he did. He wanted it so badly, his body ached with the image of your skin against his, even if the touches had never gone beyond heated kisses and tentative caresses. 

For the last few years, his mind had been stuck in survival mode—always scanning for threats, flinching at sudden noises, bracing for the worst. But now, when he closed his eyes at night, instead of feeling dread burrow into his bones, he found himself imagining the curve of your lips, the softness of your laugh. 

He wondered how you’d sound if he whispered filthy compliments against your ear, what your breathy giggle might feel like against his neck if his fingertips trailed down your sides… between your thighs. 

Sometimes he even caught himself shivering from the sheer longing to feel you. 

All of you.

But wanting that also meant baring more than just his heart. The idea of letting you see every inch of him—scars that told stories he wasn’t ready to retell, the ridges and marks that still woke him in cold sweats—terrified him. 

What if you asked about them? What if you stared too long? Worse, would you be disgusted? He imagined your wide eyes taking him in and feeling pity, revulsion. The thought was enough to make his stomach twist, to conjure that old, familiar panic.

He swallowed thickly, struggling to force the words out. Robin slid her coffee across and leaned forward, reaching out as if to anchor him to the present. 

“You can talk to me,” she urged. “You know that, right?”

Steve pressed his lips together, trying and failing to steady the whirlwind of fear in his chest. Finally, he looked at her, voice barely above a whisper. 

“What if…” He inhales deeply, “what if she doesn’t... like what she sees?”

It took a while for it to click, but when it did, her chest caved. 

Her eyes flickered with regret as realisation sank in, remembering the countless times she’d watched her friend hurl himself into danger so that she and the others could walk away unscathed. Always the martyr, always the hero, always the one with the innate urge to rush in and save those he held close to him. 

It was such a rare gift, but it was one that left the worst as a result. The physical reminders—souvenirs he never asked for. 

“Steve,” she said quietly, “everyone has scars.”

He let out a soft, humourless laugh. 

“Not like mine.”

Her heart broke for him, but her resolve was far stronger. 

“Hey,” she spoke, tone turning firm, “we’re not doing that.” She locked eyes with him, showing him the truth behind her statement. “Do you seriously think this girl would judge you for something that’s basically the reason you’re still alive?”

That we’re all alive.

His gaze darted away, thoughts churning. 

Robin was always like this—blunt, even when she was trying to be comforting. A stark contrast to Dr. Avery, but sometimes he preferred it. At least it meant honesty.

“Well… people are—”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” she cut him off, levelling him with a look. “I’m asking if you think, with absolute certainty, that this would cause her to stop seeing you.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, and racked his brain for any moment he’d ever heard you speak ill of someone without good reason. He couldn’t recall a single instance—except for that one time you’d jokingly insulted his father after hearing the reaction to Steve’s profession, but that was more than warranted. Otherwise, you never had a negative word for anyone. Even when you probably should. 

He couldn’t picture you reacting with disgust. 

It just didn’t… fit.

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, though his voice wavered with uncertainty.

“I hate to say it, but it kind of is.” Robin pursed her lips. “She’s clearly into you, right?”

He hesitated. “Well—”

“Shh, yes she is,” she declared, waving a dismissive hand. “She wouldn’t be seeing you if she wasn’t. And if anything, that’s a bigger compliment, yeah? She wants you for you.”

“What if there are questions?” He gave a reluctant shrug, tension still rolling off him in waves. 

“Then be honest.”

He shot her a look. “Are you serious right now?”

“No, not that kind of honest.” Robin snorted. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said quickly, the mere thought making dread coil in his gut. That was the last thing he wanted to bring up in your presence. 

“There you go.” She lifted her eyebrows pointedly. “Tell her it’s hard for you to talk about. You’re not lying, you’re just… setting a boundary.”

“I’m not sure…” he admitted, leaning back in his chair.

“For God’s sake, Steve.” Robin sighed, exasperated but affectionate all the same. “I’m telling you this as your friend—you can’t let this hold you back forever.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

“You don’t know unless you try,” she pressed. “Do you trust her?”

“Yes,” he blurted, the word escaping before he even had time to think. You had never given him a single reason not to, the only thing you treated him with was unrelenting kindness. 

Robin’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “Well, there’s your answer.”

A beat of silence passed before he nodded, finally letting some measure of acceptance settle in his eyes. Robin grinned back, pushing herself to her feet, feeling proud that they had reached a solution. 

“Have you eaten?”

“No.” He shook his head. He came straight here as soon as he woke up. Barely slept the night before, too. 

“Pancakes, then.” She arched an eyebrow, making her way over to the stove. “You’re gonna need the energy for when you go talk to her later.”

“Later?” Steve spun in his chair, panic creeping back in.

“Yeah, it’s Sunday,” Robin rolled her eyes as she pulled out a frying pan. “No time like the present, right?”

Steve spent the rest of the morning holed up at Robin’s place, grateful for her presence and the easy way they could slip back into normal best-friend banter. It helped calm the churning in his gut, the lingering phantom of your expression—slightly crestfallen—when he’d refused your invitation the previous night.

By the afternoon, he felt marginally more composed. Maybe it was the pancakes, or maybe it was the way she all but shoved him out the door with the gentle instruction to ‘fix it’ and ‘try not to overthink.’

Easier said than done.

Either way, he found himself stopping by a local florist before driving to your shop. The tiny bell above the florist’s door tinkled as he stepped in, and he spent a solid ten minutes agonising over which bouquet to get, recalling Robin’s reassurance. 

“No girl’s ever upset by flowers.”

Eventually, he left with a bundle of soft-petaled blooms—light pinks and whites and a hint of greenery—and the distinct feeling that his heart might pound its way right out of his chest.

Your shop front, normally inviting, appeared closed from the outside—lights off, sign flipped to “Closed.” He knew you rarely opened on Sundays, which was exactly why he was hoping you’d be here catching up on inventory, or maybe just tinkering with whatever behind the scenes stuff you did. The street was quiet, the afternoon light softer than usual, and he paused at the door, bouquet in hand, taking a quick breath to steel himself.

He knocked gently, three times.

At first, nothing. Then, after a second, he saw movement through the side window: a glimpse of you rounding the corner, curiosity evident on your face—until your gaze landed on him. Even at a distance, he saw your expression flicker between shock and uncertainty. His heart plummeted at the thought that maybe he was the last person you wanted to see right now.

Still, you came over, unbolted the lock, and eased the door open. 

“Hey, Steve,” you said quietly, voice uncertain yet polite. “I… wasn’t expecting you.”

His tongue felt like lead. 

“Yeah, well, um…” He awkwardly tapped the toe of his shoe on the pavement before glancing down at the flowers. His head spun with everything he wanted to say. “Can I come in?”

Your eyes flicked from the bouquet back to him, and then you stepped aside, nodding. 

“Sure.”

As you closed the door behind him, he took in a calming breath. The shop was dim, lit mostly by the fading light filtering through the front windows. It smelled of you in a comforting, barely-there way: a hint of vanilla, maybe a touch of something floral tied with old paper.

“Um,” he started, holding out the flowers. “I picked these up for you.”

You glanced at them, your features melting into something softer. The corners of your lips tilted up in the faintest smile. 

“They’re beautiful,” you murmured, reaching for them. He could see the tension easing in your shoulders, though it didn’t vanish entirely.

When you sighed, he braced for the worst—but your voice was gentle. The words leaving you not at all what he expected. 

“Listen, Steve, I want to tell you I’m… really sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have been so forward, and if I made you uncomfortable—”

“Hey—” The words rushed out of him before he could stop them. “No, don’t—I’m the one who should be apologising.”

Are you seriously the one taking the blame right now?

“There’s really no need,” you insisted, although your gaze slid away as though you couldn’t quite banish the awkwardness in the air.

He inhaled through his nose, summoning courage. 

Here goes nothing. 

“I, um,” he said softly, stepping a little closer. “I—I haven’t been—”

He tried recalling every single word Robin had told him—her reminders that you liked him, that a small truth wouldn’t change that. He tried to remember all the pointers his therapist had ever offered about vulnerability and the importance of speaking up, but the moment he lifted his gaze and locked eyes with you, every carefully rehearsed line vanished.

It was just you. Standing there, holding the flowers he���d given you in your gentle grip, your expression open and patient and just the slightest bit worried. The shop’s quiet seemed to magnify the pounding of his heart.

“Listen,” he began, voice trembling despite his best effort. “I… I like you.” Heat rose to his cheeks immediately; God, he sounded like a flustered high school kid. “And I know that’s not—I mean, maybe it’s not what anyone wants to hear. Probably think it’s bull, but I haven’t felt this way in a… in a while.” He swallowed. “Longer than a while, actually. And I—I just don’t want you to be…” He let out a rough breath, tongue tripping over the words. “I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” You tilted your head, brow creasing. 

It was a single word, but it reached right in and squeezed his heart. 

He wet his lips. This was the moment—no turning back. He could almost hear Robin’s voice in his head telling him to trust you. 

So he did.

“Yeah,” he managed, letting out a humourless chuckle. “I…” His pulse roared in his ears as he extended his arm, tugging at the sleeve of his sweater. 

It felt like every second stretched and stretched, infinitely slow, while he carefully eased the fabric up. He revealed the pale, uneven skin on the back of his left forearm.

There, a gnarled mark ran angry and taut, though it had healed better than it once was. It was still jarring against the rest of his skin, as if it didn’t quite belong on his body. 

He had half a mind to yank the sleeve back down, to hide it all again. Every nerve in him screamed to do so.

You stepped closer instead, a soft, careful movement that sent warmth fluttering in his gut. he forced a small, shaky smile, even as his voice trembled. 

“It, uh, looks worse than it is.” A lie, but he couldn’t bring himself to fully admit the pain buried there. “I just wanted you to know… in case we ever… in case you wanted to…”

He trailed off, heart hammering. The jumble of words in his head was impossible to untangle, so he let them die on his tongue.

Your gaze flicked from the scar to his eyes, and a stillness enveloped the space for a moment. You could see how hard this was for him, and you were doing everything in your power to keep this conversation tender. 

“There are more?”

There was no judgment in your tone—just gentle curiosity. He could’ve laughed at how badly he’d feared that question. 

“Yeah,” he answered, a quiet, wry chuckle escaping his throat. “Unfortunately.”

You nodded. Your expression was so compassionate it nearly knocked the breath right out of him. There was nothing unfortunate except the pain he had once been in. 

“Is this why you said no?”

He felt the tension in his shoulders tighten. 

“I—yeah.” In a rush, he continued, “I just wanted you to know what you were getting into. Wanted to… to give you the chance back out.” He swallowed, voice dropping.

Even he could hear the raw, unfiltered insecurity there—every fear he’d harboured for years, twisted into one desperate confession. 

He didn’t want you to leave. But if you had to, do it before he fell any harder. 

And then you smiled at him—so softly, so gently, it felt like a sunrise breaking through storm clouds. When you spoke, your tone was certain. 

You had never been more sure of a decision.

“There is nothing that could make me want you any less, Steve Harrington.”

He felt his chest constrict, tears threatening at the back of his eyes. Every flutter of panic from before turned into a wild, dizzy sense of relief. You—the person who made his heart race just by being—were standing here in front of him, telling him that not even the physical parts of his past could drive you away.

And that was enough to make him break. His eyes burned, blinking back tears before they could spill. He bit the inside of his cheek to hold them back.

You didn’t look repulsed or the littlest bit shocked. You just looked at him the way you always did, like he mattered. Like his fears and his uncertainties weren’t hurdles, just parts of him that you could hold with the same gentleness you held everything else.

You're a fucking dream.

For a few moments, the floral bouquet resting lightly in your arms, his tears barely contained. You tilt your chin up, eyes still carrying that same warmth that makes his knees feel suspiciously unsteady. 

“So…” You pause, letting the word hang in the air like a gentle invitation. “Are you busy for the rest of the day?”

He blinks, the question startling him out of his reverie. “Uh…”

There’s that teasing gleam again. You roll your eyes, but it’s playful, a faint smile tugging at your lips. 

“Not for that.”

A sharp, nervous laugh escapes him before he can stop it, his cheeks flushing.

“Right,” he breathes. “No—Yeah, I can be free today.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling that slight scratchiness of the sweater he still hasn’t rolled back down, and a wave of awkward self-consciousness washes through him. “Why?”

Your fingers flex around the stems of the bouquet as you look up at him, so much affection in your expression that he wonders if his heart can handle it. 

“Because I want to spend time with you… if you’re up for it.”

A warmth flutters through his chest, soft and giddy, making him feel as though he’s standing on the edge of something hopeful. He wets his lips, nodding. 

“I—I’d love that.”

He followed you up the narrow staircase, heart thumping with excitement at being welcomed into your space. It felt surreal, having spent so many days imagining what your home might look like—wondering if it would match the warmth you exuded—and now he was here, taking it all in with wide, fascinated eyes. Almost like the kids in his class. 

The flat upstairs was an eclectic oasis of mismatched pillows and faded rugs, vintage trinkets and framed prints. Everything seemed handpicked with care, though there was no strict colour scheme or aesthetic; it was simply you. 

Immediately, he found himself smiling. It was like walking into a technicolour daydream, a comforting patchwork of old and new. A soft blanket half-draped over an armchair, a scattering of books on the coffee table, and a hint of something sweet in the air—maybe a candle you’d recently burned.

He was acutely aware that he wanted to brush his fingers across everything, to learn more about you from the objects that made this space yours. Instead, he hovered in the middle of the living area, trying to keep his nosiness in check. 

He’d told himself a thousand times not to be weird, but his eyes kept drifting to the shelves crammed with random curios, or the cosy throws that didn’t quite match in colour but somehow still belonged together.

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” You turned to him, a gentle smile lighting your features as you placed the bouquet down. 

“Yeah,” he answered quickly—too quickly, but he couldn’t help it. The idea of sharing an evening with you, in your home, felt overwhelmingly domestic. “Absolutely,” he added, more composed this time.

“Good.” Your entire face brightened in response, clapping your hands together with an almost mischievous air. Without further ado, you strolled over to the small open-plan kitchen. “That means you get to be my sous chef.”

He walked toward you, leaning against the counter. “Seriously?”

“Oh, absolutely. You don’t eat for free in my house,” you teased, trying to adopt an air of authority. “You gotta work for it.”

Even though you were clearly joking, his chest flooded with warmth. 

“Yes, Chef,” 

You snorted a laugh at that, pulling open the fridge door and glancing inside. 

“Okay… I went shopping recently, so I’ve got a lot of stuff. Definitely vegetables, so maybe we can do something with pasta, or a ratatouille.” You kept talking, your voice lilting with easy excitement. “Are you fussy? I think I have some meat in here if you’d prefer that, or we could make soup—although it was kind of hot today, so maybe soup isn’t ideal. Or we could—”

Your words came out in a single breath, a rapid-fire list of possibilities. It was adorable, watching you in your element: your hair shifting slightly as you leaned into the fridge, rummaging for ideas, lost in your own thoughts. His stomach tightened at how earnest you sounded, so eager to accommodate him.

He stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, feeling the softness of your sweater beneath his palm. 

“Pasta’s fine,” he said softly, gently drawing you out of your rambling.

You glanced over your shoulder, cheeks warming just a bit, as though you’d just realised how fast you were talking. 

“Yeah,” you agreed, shutting the fridge partway, “okay—pasta. Pasta is safe. Hard to mess up.”

“Hey, you’d be surprised.” He slid over to rest his hip on the counter, tilting his head and letting himself enjoy the way you flushed. “When I was younger, I didn’t realise you had to… y’know, put the pasta in water.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Yep. Didn’t occur to me.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Threw it straight in the pan.”

“Are you seriously telling me you burnt raw pasta?”

“Look,” he huffed, hands raised in mock surrender, “I am a lot better now, alright?”

“I should hope so,” you teased, a burst of laughter escaping you, brightening the entire flat. 

Reaching into the fridge again, you pulled out a bag of fresh vegetables, a small block of cheese, and a carton of cream—handing them off to him. Then you shut the fridge, leaving the two of you close in the small space.

That’s when Steve’s eyes landed on something pinned to the fridge door. A piece of paper, slightly worn at the edges, the pencil lines smudged but still recognisable. 

The sketch of you he’d drawn back in his classroom.

He froze, gaze locked on it. The memory flooded back—heart drumming in his chest, trying to capture your likeness with hidden, trembling hands. He hadn’t expected you to care that much about it, let alone display it so proudly.

When you noticed him staring, your expression turned a little bashful, a soft laugh slipping from your lips. 

“I… figured it deserved a place of honour,” you teased, brushing a fingertip against one corner of the paper. He could hear the truth behind the joke.

He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, his voice characteristically gentle. 

“You kept it?”

“Course I did.” You replied, echoing something you’d once said to him. “Told you I always wanted my portrait done.” 

A flush crept up his neck, and he rubbed it awkwardly. 

“Yeah, but…” He paused, unsure how to convey the weight of this small gesture. You’d taken a simple drawing—something he hadn’t even considered that good—and made it into a keepsake.

Before he could figure out what to say, you cut in, a casual shrug that did nothing to hide the fondness in your eyes. 

“I wanted to put it somewhere I could see it...”

Emotion welled in his chest, warm and insistent. He didn’t say anything right away. All he managed was a small, lopsided smile that hopefully conveyed some fraction of the tenderness he felt. 

You felt slightly awkward under his gaze, clearing your throat as you handed him the knife and pointed to the chopping board. Confirming to him you trusted him enough not to butcher your vegetables—or your kitchen.

He lays everything out in front of him, reaching to roll up his sleeves. He hesitates—just for a moment—before deciding to go through with it. There’s no point in hiding now that it’s all out in the open, but the brush of air against his marks still feels foreign.

When he glances at you, you’re not even looking. Not staring, not reacting, not bothered in the slightest. And something about that settles him. He wonders if this is what it could always be like—if, someday, this could be routine. If your space could become a place where he doesn’t have to hide. A place where he can just exist.

He set about dicing an onion, practicing the technique Robin had drilled into him: fingers tucked in, careful horizontal and vertical cuts. It wasn’t Michelin-worthy, but he liked to think he’d developed some culinary skills.

You, meanwhile, grabbed a block of cheese from the fridge and started grating. 

“So, I’m guessing you know how to cook a little now, huh?” you asked casually, taking in the even slices of onion gathering on the board.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. 

“Yeah, I do,” he said, scraping the chopped onion into a neat pile. “Kinda like it, actually.”

“Oh?” you prompted, quirking a brow as though intrigued by this domestic side of him.

“Robin—I’ve mentioned her, right?” When you nodded, he continued, “Well, after she saw what a disaster I was in the kitchen firsthand, basically forced me to learn.”

You laughed gently, the sound like warm honey. “I feel sorry for her.”

“Ouch,” Steve shot you a mock-offended look, then shrugged. “To be fair, she was super patient—more than I deserved sometimes.”

You nodded and he went quiet for a moment, focusing on the task in front of him as memories crowded his mind. He could see Robin’s exasperated grin as she dangled a spatula in front of him, telling him if he didn’t at least stir the sauce, she’d let it burn. 

He remembered the nights he couldn’t get out of bed—nights where his own mind weighed him down like lead—and how she would simply appear, commandeer his kitchen, and coax him into joining her.

At first, it had been embarrassing. He hated the thought of needing someone to guide him through the simplest tasks, hated the idea that he was helpless. But Robin had this uncanny knack of turning it into fun—into a moment of victory, however small. 

If he managed to perfectly chop a pepper or make a sauce without scalding it, she’d give him a triumphant little fist bump, like he’d just won a gold medal. 

Over time, cooking became a small but tangible source of confidence for him—proof that he could create something from nothing, sustain himself with his own two hands.

He cleared his throat, blinking back into the present. 

“She didn’t let me off that easy. Dragged me into the kitchen most days—but you know, she actually helped a lot.” He went on, sliding the diced onion into a bowl you’d handed him. “Once she and I got busier, we stopped doing it as much, but…” He gestured around your cluttered kitchen, eyes travelling from the mismatched mugs on your shelf to the bright potholders hanging on the wall. “It’s nice.”

He didn’t say the rest out loud, but you could deduce what he meant. He liked making something, building something. He liked feeling safe. 

“You know,” you say softly, glancing up from the cheese you’d just finished grating, “she sounds amazing. I’d love to meet her someday.”

He sets down the knife he was holding, taking a moment to wipe his hands on a dish towel. The genuine excitement lighting his face is almost boyish. 

“Yeah, she’d… she’d really like that, actually.” There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes—like he can’t wait to show you off, show Robin that he’s managed to find someone this wonderful, someone who sees him. “She already mentioned wanting to meet you, so we’ll, uh—” He swallows, looking delighted at the prospect. “We’ll plan something. Once we’re, y’know, all free.”

“Hmm,” you give a thoughtful nod, a small smirk tugging at your lips, “so you’ve been talking about me?”

“Uh, yeah?” He immediately flushes, cheeks warming under your gaze. “‘Course I have. Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrug, your eyes dipping away for a half-second before meeting his again. 

“It’s just… it’s good to know you’re, I don’t know, serious.”

“Did I make you think I wasn’t?” He asks, a hint of genuine concern threading through his voice. He can feel his heart rate pick up—he doesn’t want there to be any room for doubt.

“No!” You shake your head, flustered. “No—not at all. I just mean—”

He steps closer, determined to chase away any lingering uncertainty in your eyes. He doesn’t know what comes over him—maybe it’s the weight of everything that’s happened today, or maybe it’s the way your voice falters, just slightly, sending a surge of confidence through him.

He feels safe here. Your reassurance settles something in him, makes him bold. And now, he wants to test it. To push just a little further, to see how far this newfound feeling can take him. 

To prove—to himself more than anyone—that he hasn’t lost it.

“Because last night,” he says, voice dropping a little lower, feeling how the teasing tone feels on his tongue, “you wanna know what I did?” 

He leans in, invading your personal space in that deliberate way that makes your breath catch. Your reply gets stuck in your throat, and you simply blink at him, gaze darting from his mouth to his eyes, waiting.

Gotcha.

He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he confesses.

“I spent the whole night alone in bed, thinking about what it would’ve been like to have you there with me.”

Your eyes widen, and for a moment, you draw in a quiet, shaky breath.

Christ—confidence looks good on him. The way he’s looking at you, like a man starved, like he’s been holding this back. And now you’re left wondering—has he always felt this way?

With your expression emboldening him, he dips his head to press his mouth to yours. The kiss starts slow, a gentle lingering of lips, but it deepens as he grips your waist. He wants—needs—you to know how fervently he means every word. 

He pours it all into the press of his mouth: the latent hunger that’s been building since the first moment he realised how important you were becoming, the searing need to prove that last night was never about not wanting you. 

When you make a soft, breathy sound that vibrates against his mouth, his entire body goes warm. His heartbeat pounds so fiercely it’s almost dizzying, and in that moment he’s sure he’s a goner, absolutely done for—you’ve got him.

He tugs back just enough to look at you properly. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes gleaming in the low light of the kitchen, and the sight of you nearly undoes him. You tilt your head, a hesitant little smile ghosting your lips. 

“Hey,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, “we don’t have to do anything if you’re not—”

“I am,” he says, voice rough with need. “Fuck—I am.” His hand cradles your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek in a way that makes your lashes flutter. “Do you trust me?”

Your gaze flicks to his, warm and steady. “Yeah. But… dinner—”

He can’t help the bark of laughter that escapes him. Dinner? Only you would be so concerned about practicalities when he’s two seconds from combusting. 

Still, he recognises the gentle out you’re giving him, a final check-in to see if he really wants this. 

And, oh, he does. 

“It can wait,” he promises, dropping his voice to that intimate purr that already makes your stomach flutter. “Please just—please, let me do this for you.” 

Let him show you. Let him take care of you. 

You meet his eyes, taking in the flush staining his cheeks, the raw want practically radiating off him. You manage a nod, hardly able to get the word yes out before he’s on you again—his mouth against yours with a heat that has you spinning.

It starts hungry, and only grows more desperate when your hands slide up over his shoulders, fingers curling into the short hair at the nape of his neck. A low groan escapes him, his body thrumming with adrenaline and desire. 

He forgot how good it could feel, how right it could be, to have someone he wants this badly—someone who wants him just as fiercely.

He crowds in close, big hands gripping your hips firmly, and in one swift motion he lifts you onto the counter. A startled gasp leaves you, and you toss a quick glance around as though you can’t quite believe the two of you are about to do this. 

“Here?” you ask, voice breathy with surprise.

“Yeah,” a cocky half-grin tips the corner of his mouth. “Right here.”

Any way he can have you. 

Every nerve in his body screams for more contact, more of you—he needs to taste, needs to feel.

He slots himself between your thighs, leaning in again to reclaim your lips. The tension in your muscles loosens as his hands drift beneath your shirt, sliding across the warm plane of your sides. The soft curves and dips of your skin drag a ragged breath out of him, especially when your hips roll against his.

You can’t help the little whimper that bubbles up, and the sound propels him deeper into the kiss. His entire body tingles with awareness of you, from the slight shiver that courses through you at his touch to the way your nails lightly scrape at his scalp.

When your fingers thread into his hair, a deep, full-throated groan vibrates from his chest—he’s powerless to stop it.

That breathy chuckle you give in response makes him shiver. You angle his head, your palm cupping the back of his neck. 

“You like that, huh?” you tease, eyes glinting with mischief.

His head falls back slightly as he exhales.

“Fuck—yeah—yes.” He’s beyond self-conscious at this point, need flooding through every cell. He rests his forehead against yours, breathing in the faint scent of your shampoo, before trailing his hand down to the waistband of your jeans.

“Gonna need you to do that again for me,” he murmurs, voice filled with confidence and trembling want.

You blink, momentarily puzzled, until he starts to tug at your jeans, his fingers hooking into both denim and underwear. Then you realise exactly what he means—and you waste no time in helping him rid you of the final barriers standing between his hands and your bare skin.

He tugs the denim down, heart thundering as he sinks to his knees between your thighs. He’s wound so tight he can practically hear his pulse in his ears. 

From his vantage point below, he takes in the sight of you, drawn to every curve and line. There’s something indescribably beautiful about seeing you like this, so undone, so ready.

He slides his hands over your legs, fingertips grazing soft skin and eliciting a shiver that makes his chest swell with pride. It’s been so long since he’s done this—too long. The anxious flutter in his stomach almost rivals the heat pooling in his lower body. 

But he wants to do this right. Needs to.

When he glances up again, you’re watching him through half-lidded eyes, a flush creeping up your neck. The way you part your lips as you inhale, the anticipation evident in your features—it all spurs him on. He lets out a shaky breath, leaning in to brush his mouth over your inner thigh first, planting a series of teasing, barely-there kisses as he makes his way closer.

Your hand tangles in his hair, fingers curling in a firm but not painful grip. It’s a silent command,  a reminder that you’re right there, in this with him. 

He shudders at the rush of arousal that flares through him. 

“Stop teasing,” you finally mutter, voice edged with impatience.

He flushes hot at your tone—low, wanting, confident. 

“Sorry, angel,” he murmurs, the endearment rolling off his tongue like a promise. “Gonna make it up to you, all right?”

For both yesterday, and right now.

You give a quick nod, and he takes that as all the permission he needs. Gently, he lifts one of your legs to rest over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin just above your knee. Then he settles in, leaning forward until he’s exactly where he needs to be.

The first flick of his tongue draws a throaty moan from you, and his own breath stumbles at the sheer erotic charge of the moment. He’s nearly lightheaded with how good you taste, how you respond to every shift of his lips, every press of his mouth. 

It’s intoxicating, fueling him to explore every sensitive spot he can find.

“Should’ve done this last night,” in a husky, almost delirious voice. He hates that he ran from you, from this, even for a second. But it’s fueling him now, pushing him to worship every inch of you until he’s certain you’ll never doubt how badly he wants you. “Should’ve had you then,” he breathes, “So fucking stupid.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging him closer, and he lets out a muffled groan. You’re already trembling under his touch, each quiet whimper echoing in the small kitchen. The tile beneath his knees is hard, but he barely registers any discomfort—he’s too lost in you. The lust is overshadowed by a tenderness, a desire not just to please you, but to prove something to himself. 

That he can still be this person. 

Then you gasp, hips shifting forward in search of more, and your free hand flies out to grab at his arm. The moment your palm lands on the rough, uneven skin, his stomach lurches.

He half-expects to feel you flinch. But instead, you grip him tighter, holding on as though you need him close. That realisation sends a bolt of raw adrenaline right through his core, and he doubles down, dragging his tongue in deep, purposeful strokes.

Your desperate noises urge him on, and he moves in closer, pressing you more firmly against the counter. The scent of you and the haze of arousal in the air blur his senses. He’s focused on nothing but your pleasure—on coaxing more of those shaky, breathless moans out of you, each one sweeter than the last.

When your fingers tighten again in his hair, he lifts his gaze for a heartbeat, catching the dazed, blissed-out expression on your face, a wave of heat flashing through him,

He’s done for. 

He feels the telltale flutter in your core, the way your thighs tense around his head and the broken syllables of his name falling from your lips. His own heartbeat stutters at the sound of you gasping, higher and higher until you’re almost pleading.

“Steve—” you manage, voice trembling on the edge. “I’m gonna—”

He groans low in his throat, pressing in closer. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs hungrily. “C’mon baby—please—wanna feel you—”

That’s all it takes for you to come apart, back arching and legs clenching, trapping him in a burst of sensation. 

He keeps his mouth moving, coaxing every last pulse out of you. The tight press of your thighs around his head should be suffocating, but to him it’s pure adrenaline. He savours the moment, humming with open satisfaction at how your body shudders under his relentless focus, until you finally push lightly at his head, too sensitive to handle more.

He reluctantly withdraws, breathing heavy as he looks up at you. Your cheeks are flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling while you come down from your high. For a split second, he stands there on his knees, watching your every expression like you’re the most captivating thing he’s ever seen.

“Was that… all right?” he asks, voice almost shy now that the immediate rush is ebbing, your release still glistening on his chin.

You offer him a dazed little nod, and he can’t help the proud grin spreading across his face as he rises to his feet. The minute his lips touch yours again, you taste yourself on him—a sharp, dizzying reminder of just how thoroughly he’s had you. He smiles into the kiss, smugness in the way his hand cups the side of your face.

Your own hands move with eagerness, tugging at the hem of his sweater. The first spike of panic darts through him, and he tenses. 

No. Not Yet.

He knows what it would mean—bared skin, the possibility of further questions, it's unpredictable. His heart thuds as he pulls back minutely, not wanting to flee but unable to hide the flicker of fear in his eyes.

You pause, taking in the hesitation etched across his features. 

“Not ready?” you ask, gentle but direct.

His lips part, but no words come out at first. A flush creeps up his neck, embarrassment and self-consciousness colliding in his chest. 

“I… I’m sorry,” he finally mutters, feeling every bit as uncertain as he did the night before. 

So much for the surge of confidence.

Your brows knit in understanding, and you nod softly. There’s no accusation in your expression, no frustration. Instead, you lean up to kiss him again—light and sweet and reassuring. 

“Can I still take care of you?” you whisper when you pull back, searching his gaze.

Take care of him. 

“You… you don’t have to do that,” he mumbles, voice rough at the edges.

“I know,” you say, voice calm but insistent. One hand drifts to the fly of his jeans, carefully brushing over the hard outline straining there. He lets out a hiss of breath, tension sizzling through his entire body at the contact. 

“I want to,” you continue, thumb tracing a light pattern along the fabric. “Please?” You look up at him, meeting those warm brown eyes, “I want to make you feel good, too.”

And how could anyone say no to that?

“Fuck, angel… all right.” He exhales a shaky laugh, tipping his forehead to yours. “Yeah, all right.”

You free him from his jeans—he’s so hard it almost hurts, and the cool air hits him like a shock. Every nerve ending is lit up, thrumming with excitement and a bit of residual caution. But the second your fingers curl around him, that caution is drowned out by pure pleasure. 

His head falls forward as soon as your hand wraps around him, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a low, trembling groan.

It’s been so long since he’s been touched like this, and he can’t contain the steady stream of whimpers and half-broken words spilling from his lips. Every movement of your hand drags another rasping exhale out of him.

“God—” he mutters, voice pitched higher than usual. “You—fuck, you feel—”

His breath hitches again as you start slow, deliberately teasing him. He can’t help the ragged little laugh that escapes, face still hidden against your throat. 

“You’re killing me.”

But even then, there’s no mistaking the appreciation in his tone. He likes the way you’re taking your time, savouring the vision of him, watching him go boneless under your touch. His entire body thrums with the urge to thrust into your palm; he’s holding back with every bit of willpower he has, trying not to lose himself too quickly.

When you chuckle softly, your breath hot against his ear, he lets out a needy little sound that he never planned to let slip. 

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, shoulders shaking with pent-up tension. “I—I can’t—”

“Does it feel good?” you tease, your voice edging on playful, as though you already know the answer.

“Yes,” he blurts, shoulders jerking as a ripple of pleasure sparks through him. “Yes, it—it’s so fucking good.” His fingers dig into your shoulders, gripping the fabric of your shirt. “Not gonna last—”

You giggle, and he could swear that sound alone just about knocks the air out of his lungs. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, drawing a guttural noise from deep in his chest.

“You gonna cum for me, Steve?” you ask, voice lilting.

Oh, you’re cruel.

That sweet look on your face—so deceptively innocent, when he knows better. Like a siren, the way your voice teeters between soft and sultry, pulling him under, not allowing him to summon a coherent thought.

His cheeks are bright red, eyes shining with a haze of lust. His mouth opens, but he’s too far gone to form sentences, so he just nods, hair flopping into his face in a disheveled mess. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, tone shaky. “I’m close—I, shit—”

You give him a knowing, devilish grin and draw him down into a kiss—slow, thorough, open-mouthed. He tries to respond, tries to match your pace, but the rising wave of release scrambles his thoughts and tangles his tongue. 

All he can manage are broken moans into your mouth as pleasure overtakes him, and you drink them in eagerly. His orgasm slams into him so fast it nearly buckles his knees, and he grips you tighter, riding out each pulse as it wracks his body.

You keep stroking, guiding him through it, until he sags against you, spent and trembling. His head comes to rest on your shoulder, breath ragged in your ear.

The feeling of you envelops him—your clean hand softly cradling his face, thumb grazing the curve of his cheek. It’s such a gentle, grounding gesture that it helps his racing heart settle.

After a few seconds, he manages to straighten, eyes flicking down to the evidence of his release painting your thighs. There’s a flash of panic in his gaze, but there’s also a thrum of arousal still sparking in his veins at the sight. He fumbles to tuck himself back into his jeans, cheeks more red. 

“Fuck—I’m sorry,” he mutters, his voice still rough.

“Shh,” you say simply, pulling him in for a kiss. He melts into it, relieved and just a little awed by how casual and reassuring you seem, like there’s not an ounce of shame. When you pull back, you brush a few strands of sweaty hair off his forehead. 

“Did you enjoy it?”

He lets out a huff of laughter—surprised you’d even need to ask. His face is still flushed, and he ducks his head. 

“Uh… yeah,” he says, a helpless grin curling his mouth. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“Good.” You give him a knowing smile. “Would’ve broken my heart if I couldn’t do that again.”

“Really?” he asks, blinking in genuine amazement.

“Mhm,” you tease, leaning in to peck him lightly on the lips. “Never gonna be able to cook normally in here again, though.”

That makes him laugh, a loose, buoyant sound that brightens his features. 

“Um, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to the bathroom and… clean up a little.” You clear your throat, cheeks still pink. “Before we finish cooking.”

“Oh—shit, of course,” he says hurriedly, stepping back to make room for you. He tries to sound collected, but he’s still a little breathless.

You hop off the counter, bending to gather your discarded clothes. As you head across the room, you glance back, noticing him following your every move. A playful wink from you makes him chuckle under his breath, still riding the high of what just transpired.

Alone in the kitchen, he turns back to the neglected pot and quickly re-focuses himself. With a shaky exhale, he slides the diced onions into it. He sets the knife aside for when you return, mind swirling with the memory of your touch—the same memory that he would certainly be revisiting in the very near future. 

When you finally emerge, you’re wearing a pair of soft pajamas—something that looks cosy enough to curl up in. He catches the sight of you out of the corner of his eye and can’t help but beam, feeling that giddy high in his ribs all over again. He steps forward, gently tugging you back to your perch on the countertop.

“Hey now,” you warn, eyes dancing with good humour. “I’m not sure if I’m ready for round two.”

“No—neither am I,” he admits, pressing a quick, warm kiss to your cheek. “But I got this—just sit there and, I don’t know, look pretty.”

Your playful groan of protest is minimal, and he can’t stop smiling as you settle back. You watch him shuffle to the far side of the kitchen to grab a clove of garlic. He’s turning up the heat and chopping again with that same contented hum in his chest, as though he’s stepped into some domestic paradise.

He thinks about how someday, when he’s more at peace with his body, he wants to show you all of himself. He only hopes that next time, he’ll be a little bolder, a little braver—so he can give you everything you deserve.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi @just-lilita @negomi123 @catluver02 @tinythebunni 

[elfenbensord]

steve harrington mindlessly playing with the hem of your skirt, the bracelet around your wrist, your socks when your feet are in his lap, the loop in your jeans, the S pendent hanging around your neck sitting right on your chest, the buttons on your cardigan, he doesn't think much of it, he's your boyfriend, he just likes touching you but when he really thinks about, he guesses he just like the domesticness of it all and he's kind of sort of in love with the soft smile on your lips as he plays with the ties of your dress <3

[elfenbensord]

far to fall [remus lupin x reader]

“Listen to you," he said under his breath. "Can't even speak properly, can you, lovely girl?”

“Remus, don't be cruel. Don't be."

"Cruel with you... How could I ever be?"

summary: you’re in love with your best friend remus. he somewhat shares the sentiment.

word count: 7.8k

tags: smut, nsft, marauders era, best-friends to lovers, mutual pining, getting together, first-time, fluff, fem!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader

requested by @marimorena06 here

You had a huge secret. It wasn’t earth-shattering, it wouldn’t bring about world peace or ruination if discovered. It wasn’t criminal, though it felt like that sometimes, a thief stealing glances at his Sandy brown hair and perfect, inviting eyes. It wasn’t dirty or pure or light or dark, it just was.

You were in love with your best friend.

You’d never believed in love at first sight, but Remus Lupin inspired something alike. You just knew, that day in fourth year, when a quiet, brave boy held out his hand for a crying, lonely girl that something was about to happen.

At the time, you’d thought of love. So maybe you’d known all along. But that day turned into years of the same thing, Remus always reaching out to save you, to pull you away from the stuff that was hurting you - he’d always been that way. His saviour complex was something unhealthy and yet you couldn’t get it out of him if you tried.

The secret was starting to become less secret. It began with one wrong look, a gaze too steady, too longing. Remus went up to the bar for another drink and James said, “Oh my god.”

You could tell from his tone you’d been found out. James Potter had always been extremely perceptive. It was a wonder he’d never noticed before.

You put a handful of pear drops in your mouth to avoid responding.

James reached out to squeeze your cheeks, and they fell from your mouth in a sticky wet mess.

“James!” you sputtered, grabbing some napkins from the centre of the table to clean up your face and the ejected sweets. “What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he shot back. “I can’t believe what I’ve just witnessed. I have to tell Sirius-“

“No!” you said, much too loudly. You quickly searched the bar to see if Remus had heard. He hadn’t, so you leaned in very close to James’ face and whispered, “You can’t tell anyone.”

James wrinkled his nose, “I tell Sirius everything.”

“And Sirius tells Remus everything!”

James tilted his head in thought and then conceded. “Fair.”

Your hackles lowered. “Thank you.”

“But I want to talk about this!” he whispered urgently. Remus sat back down, a drink for each of the three of you in his hands. A butterbear for you and something with a little more kick in it for himself and James.

“Cheers,” James said.

“Thanks,” you said.

He smiled, a small smile, brilliant all the same. “You’re welcome.”

“When will Lily be joining us?”

James’ face clouded with adoration. Lily was in her second trimester of pregnancy, so she definitely wouldn’t be drinking anything. She kept a good lid on the boys, a skill you’d never managed to acquire.

“Not long now.”

“Oh, wipe that infatuated look from your face,” a new voice said. You turned your head to see Sirius Black looking exceedingly smart, although dampened by the rain outside. “I’m here, no need for tears.”

“Prat,” James said, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Where have you been?”

“With Marlene.”

“How is she?” Remus asked. Marlene had broken her leg trying to dust Sirius’ wardrobe. He felt terrible.

“She’s great! Cast comes off next week.”

They drifted into conversation. You tried your best to pay attention, clenching and unclenching the napkin full of pear drops in your hand.

Remus pushed his shoulder into yours. “Something wrong?”

“Mm?” you looked into his face, startled at how close he was. “No, just thinking.”

“About?”

You looked down at his mouth, caught yourself, averted your gaze to his neck. How do you describe the feeling of being found out?

“Nothing,” you said. “Nothing in particular.”

You insisted on keeping a healthy distance between yourself and Remus, hoping to dissuade James from imparting his newfound knowledge on anyone else in your circle of friends. This was an imperfect method, as years of friendship and doting meant that Remus was more than used to a friendly arm hooked through yours, his shoulders against yours, your knees and thighs pressed together. If you moved, he moved to follow, without thinking. You were almost flush to the booth wall when Lily arrived.

She had the pregnant glow about her, looking incredibly healthy and happy. She squished in next to Sirius without complaint, James  gazing at her as though she were an angel stricken from heaven.

Despite trying to escape his side, Remus gave you such a sense of security that you couldn’t begrudge his right forearm pressed to your left. Your arms fit together like two jigsaw pieces.

“I’ll get some more drinks, shall I?” you asked, hoping to escape Remus and your racing heart for a moment.

“I’ll come with you,” Remus said, sliding out of the booth so you could stand.

“No, that’s okay,” you said abruptly, almost tripping over him. You made a beeline for the bar toilets, shutting the door behind you with a final click.

You let out a loud, panicked exhale.

Being in love with Remus was one thing. It had kept you up so many nights, staring at your ceiling, wondering what you were going to do. Because if you didn’t have Remus, you wouldn’t be you anymore. He was this all encompassing part of you, the glue that held you together most days. If you fucked it all up you would never forgive yourself.

Corrupting the friendship between you both was a taboo you didn’t dare think about. Construing his affection as anything but platonic was your own affliction. You wouldn’t be the one to pull the stitches he’d sewn in you to keep you both together.

It was so heavy. James knowing should’ve made it as though the weight of your secret was lifted - it didn’t. It was crushing.

You pushed the tips of your fingers into your closed eyelids until you saw stars.

Somebody knocked on the door. You threw yourself back from it in a violent flinch, having forgotten where you were.

“Two seconds!” you called, voice rough.

“It’s me,” Lily said through the door.

You frowned. They’d noticed your detour and your absence.

You cracked the door open. Lily pushed in, her small distended stomach brushing the doorway.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yes. Yep. Uh…” you had to think quickly of a way to hide how you were feeling. If Lily spent too long here you might spill it. “Do you have a tampon?”

“Oh!” she looked relieved. “No, babe. I’m pregnant, no cycle for me.”

“Right.” You pressed your hand to your forehead and laughed nervously, though it was half false. The panic from before was persevering.

Lily could see it on your face clear as day. “Is it heavy?”

You were confused for a split second. “Wh- no. No, I just didn’t expect to start right now.”

“Right. Uh, I’ll go find something.”

“You can’t be doing errands for me, you’re not supposed to be on your feet.”

She rolled her eyes, “I’m not that pregnant.”

You stared pointedly at her tummy. “Who told you that?”

“I’ll sort it out,” she said, slipping from the bathroom.

You took the next few minutes to sort out your breathing. You didn’t need to panic. James probably wouldn’t tell Sirius. Sirius was smart and nice enough to know not to tell Remus. And if Remus found out - god forbid he found out - he wouldn’t do anything like you imagined. He wouldn’t toss you aside, cut you out of his life. He couldn’t.

You had to believe he couldn’t.

“Knock knock,” James said. You cracked the door an inch. He could see your blotchy face.

“Is it bad?” he asked in concern.

“It’s fine. Where’s Lily?”

“Sitting, like she should be.”

“I told her that too.”

“Here,” he said. He held out a box of tampons.

“Thank you,” you said, voice oddly tender. Maybe James was a better friend to you then you gave him credit for.

“You need anything else?”

“No.”

“Alright. Remus thinks you’re mad at him.”

“Tell him it’s hormones.”

“Is it?” he asked. You shut the door in his face.

You gave it five minutes as though you’d actually needed a tampon, leaving the full box in the stall for some other desperate soul. You shuffled over to the bar, feeling as though every patron had its eyes on you, ordering a round for your table and some snacks for Lily.

It took you two trips. Remus peered at you in concern, budging up so you could sit at the end of the bench.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Lily said, grinning at her crisps.

“Don’t mention it,” you said weakly.

“Everything okay?” Remus asked you.

“Yep.”

He didn’t believe you. You leaned heavily on the table, tuning into James' story about their evil garden gnomes and the mess they’d made of the baby’s nursery.

Remus took your posture as pain. He placed his large, warm hand to the small of your back and began to rub soothing circles in your skin. You melted under his touch, shoulders slowly lowering into a less defensive position.

James said something, you weren’t sure what, eyes half lidded from Remus touch. Remus laughed, loud, unexpected. It made you smile so hard your cheeks hurt, turning to grace the lines of his exuberant face in a way that was so familiar it made your eyes burn.

“I want a cig. Remus?” Sirius prompted, carefully weaving over Lily’s stomach and legs.

“I don’t smoke,” he said, though he was already standing. You mourned the loss of his hand on your back. He climbed over you with the same care as Sirius had.

“As good a time as any for a pee,” Lily said. Standing seemed slightly more difficult for her than the average person.

James was on you before she’d even made it to the bathroom door. “You fancy Remus,” he crooned.

“Will you shut it?” you hissed.

“This is literally great news. Now you can get married and have kids and him and baby Potter can be best friends forever.”

“You have it all worked out, don’t you?” you sighed in defeat.

“Wouldn’t you? Oh, will you tell him? Please tell him. We can go on triple dates.”

“You say all this like - like it would work out. It’s not that simple.”

James' happy demeanour toned down, a more serious look crossing his face. “I know it’s not simple. But - but when can love not be a good thing?”

Your face flamed. “Who said anything about love?”

James shrugged. “I’d know a thing or two about it.” Lily emerged from the bathroom and his eyes lit up.

“Yes. I guess you would.”

-

“Mate, the amount of whipped you are is ridiculous,” Sirius said.

Remus threw his shoulders back and groaned at the knots there.

“You literally asked me to come stand with you while you smoke in the rain when I don’t even smoke, and now you’re making fun of me for it?” Remus said, leaning against the cold wall behind him.

“Not for me, you pollock,” Sirius said through the cigarette in between his lips, shielding his lighter from the wind

Remus laughed defensively. “Says the man waiting on McKinnon hand and foot.”

“She broke her leg, idiot,” he took a long drag.

“I’m not whipped.”

“And I’m not ruggedly handsome.”

Remus sighed. “If you had your period, I’d do the same for you.”

“It’s not the same.”

“How?”

“You don’t look at me like that. I hope.”

Remus titled his head backwards so that the rain fell on his face. “It’s a want I can’t entertain.”

“You are so determined to be unhappy,” he said theatrically.

“Is that why we’re friends?” Remus asked, lips quirked in a lopsided smile.

“Get a grip.” Sirius said, dropping his finished cigarette on the floor and squishing it under his heel. “Just tell her.”

“I can’t.”

“Look, she didn’t care about your monthly cycle, I hardly think a confession of love will deter her.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Sure it is,” Sirius said, holding open the pub’s side door. Remus walked through. “Some things just are.”

“Not this.”

“She’s nice, you’re nice. Perfect match.”

“She’s more than nice.”

“Yeah, get a load of you.”

“I despise you sometimes,” Remus said, although he was laughing all the same. Lily was toddling back to the table. You looked as though you were upset, James saying something quietly to you, his eyes on his wife.

You leaned back against your chair in a slump.

“Move up, sweetness,” Sirius told Lily. “Lest I have to climb over you again and risk damaging my godson.”

You made room for Remus without complaint. He would’ve commented it was too much room - you hadn’t been as touchy today.

Hormones. Huh.

“You want to go home?” He asked you.

“Boo! Don’t go, Y/N.” James said. “Stay here and drink martinis with me.”

“I’ll stay, but I’m not drinking anything with vermouth in it.”

“Margaritas?”

“Be a man, Potter!” Sirius said with bravado. “Cosmopolitans or nowt.”

“Please no cosmopolitans,” Lily pleaded. “They make James too slutty.”

-

You were hiccuping through your third cosmopolitan when Lily cut you off. The pub was busier now that the night was starting, you had to strain to hear her.

“No! No more, Y/N. I can’t manage you and James and Sirius.”

“Remus will manage me!” you giggled.

Remus laughed. “Don’t I always.”

“I resent that.”

You braced your hand in between his knees, reaching forward to swipe Sirius' drink now that yours was empty. Lily threw her hands open when Remus did nothing to stop you.

“I’m not the boss of her.”

“Right!” you agree, practically gulping down the red drink.

“Maybe a little,” he said, disentangling your fingers gently from the stem of the glass.

“Spoilsport,” you mumbled. The cold from the glass was seeping down your hands.

“Feel,” you said, holding your hand out. “I’m cold.”

“You are,” Remus agreed, taking your hand between both of his.

You nodded, satisfied. You were a little dizzy now. The drinks were finally getting to you, seemingly. It was nice to be drunk - you could only think about your cold hands and Remus’ legs and none of the scary stuff.

Sirius was similarly drunk, leaning heavily into Lily’s side and spurting babble at James who was much more sober, surprisingly, his second cocktail still in front of him. How responsible, you thought. How boring.

“Loser,” you mumbled.

“I hope you’re not talking to me,” Remus said lowly.

You giggled. “Not you, Rem.”

Sirius clocked his missing drink and made a high pitched sound. “You fiendish girl.”

“Snooze loose.”

“Jesus, she’s gone,” James said. “I wish we had a camera, she’s funny when she’s drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

Everyone at the table looked at you sympathetically.

“You guys suck.”

“I’m so tired,” Lily said, leaning her head atop Sirius’.

“Me too,” Remus said. They shared a companionable laugh.

“Not me,” James said.

“God, getting older sucks. What happened to getting blackout at sixteen? You guys have three cocktails each and fall asleep at the table,” Sirius said.

“Because you look wide awake.”

“Toss off, Moony.”

I volunteer, you thought to yourself. You laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Toss off Moony,” you repeated. It was funnier the second time; you giggled to yourself hysterically, so hard that it made you feel sick.

“Alright, calm down,” Remus said, fingers wrapped around your upper arm. “We don’t want a repeat of Sirius’ birthday.”

“You throw up one time and no one lets you forget.”

“It’s not that you threw up,” Sirius said gleefully, “it’s because you threw up laughing at frogs.”

You couldn’t help yourself, sighing in happiness at the memory. “They were so sticky.”

“Right. Home time. You’re coming with me-“ Remus said to you, “-so I can make sure you don’t choke to death. Sirius?”

“I’ve got a date with Miss McKinnon.”

“She won’t touch you like this,” James said, long arm wrapped tight around Lily’s shoulders.

“We’re gonna cuddle,” he said, enthused.

You staggered to your feet, wobbling in your canvas trainers. Remus steadied you by the shoulders.

“Can you side-along or are you a splinch-risk?” he asked you.

“I’m fiiiine, Remus. You worry too much,” you said, spreading the fingers on your hand against his chest affectionately.

“Sure. See you tomorrow for tea?” Remus asked the remaining friends at the table.

“Yes, Remus. See you then. Goodnight both!” Lily called.

“Goodnight,” you said. You crossed the threshold, Remus’ arm steering you out. He held your shoulder tightly.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“1, 2-“

You hurdled through the air, a complete feeling of weightlessness moving through you, landing gracelessly at the bottom of the steps to Remus’ flat building.

You felt like the air had been ripped from you, bending over at the waist to brace yourself.

Remus patted your back, used to this post-disapparation sickness.

“You’re okay. Quick, stand up before you throw up.”

You did as he said, smoothing your wind-blown hair to the sides of your head. “Why is side-along always the worst?”

“You’re usually drunk to begin with,” he said, opening the door for you. You walked into the foyer, grateful for the warm air that greeted you. You rushed forward to click the lift button, pleased at the green light that it emanated. Someone had drawn two dots over the downward v to make a weird smiley face.

The doors whooshed open, a low-pitched tone announcing the elevator's arrival. Remus walked in after you, much more steady on his feet.

The mirrored walls displayed you both clear as day. You, looking a little messy, mascara smudged under your eyes. Remus, handsome, neat, worn coat with the patched elbows.

You caught his eye in the reflection. “You’re tall.”

“Am I?”

“Mm,” you said, hopping from foot to foot. “Very tall.”

“No ones ever told me that before,” he said, nudging you out of the opening doors and onto his floor.

“Really?”

“No.”

The inside of his flat was orderly, the smell of woodsmoke and something soft, like lavender or thyme, greeting you. It wasn’t a huge place, just an open plan kitchen/sitting room, bedroom, and bathroom. He folded your coats over the side of the sofa and kicked his shoes off.

You couldn’t work the laces of yours, moaning in annoyance.

“Here,” Remus said, leaning down. You brushed the hair out of his eyes without thinking. He untied your laces in the nick of time. You used his shoulders to balance yourself and toe them off.

He rose to his feet. “Come on, you’re in the bed.”

“Remus,” you said, knowing the argument that was about to happen. “It’s your bed, I’m perfectly fine on the sofa.”

“You’re my guest,” he said familiarly.

“It’s your bed,” you repeated.

“You never win this one - I don’t know why you try.”

“You’re being unfair.”

He smiled, knowing he was winning. You had a sudden stroke of genius.

“Look, it’s a double bed. We can share. That way you know I’m not choking to death on my own vomit,” you used his logic against him.

He was hesitant. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You won’t. Now come on, I’m so tired I can see two of you.”

"What a treat for you,” he said. You turned from him to smile.

-

You woke up confused, boiling hot and with a mild headache. Remus was asleep next to you, his face peaceful in sleep. You shrugged the blanket off of yourself and huffed, trying to cool down. If you squinted, you could see his alarm clock on the opposite bedside table.

9:42AM.

You blinked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Remus had already laid out a glass of water and a closed box of paracetamol.

What a sweetheart, you thought to yourself wistfully.

You sat up to chug the water, forgoing the painkillers. You knew the headache would dissipate as soon as you had a drink. Your legs were aching.

You shrugged off your jeans, bending over to rub at the red lines embossed in your skin from the seams. You searched through Remus’ clothes until you found a pair of navy jogging bottoms, pulling them on instead. You sighed in relief, unbuttoning your shirt to reveal the vest top underneath.

How you’d managed to fall asleep completely dressed was besides you. Remus was in similar fashion, probably overheating just as badly as you’d been.

You crawled over the sheets to his side, placing your hand on the flat stretch of his stomach. Kneeling like this, you could see every detail of his face, his collarbones, his Adam’s apple.

“Moony,” you sing-singed under your breath. “Mooooony.”

He scrunched his eyes closed even tighter. “What is it?” he asked.

You sat back on your haunches, hand trailing down to his hip bone. You considered yourself for a moment and drew away.

“I’m awake, so you must also suffer my misfortune.”

“How selfish,” he said, stretching and pushing his face into the pillow. “Godric, it's warm.”

“You’re fully dressed.”

“What?”

He opened his eyes, looking down at himself.

He glanced at you. “You’re wearing my clothes.”

“Oh, sorry. I can take them off.”

“Would you?” he asked, faux-eager.

You sniggered. “You’d like that, huh? Typical boy.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I want breakfast and we’re late.”

“Yeah?” he turned his head to squint at the clock. You ignored the urge to reach forward and touch his neck. “It’ll have to be brunch.”

-

“Cosmopolitans make you slutty too?” James asked, gesturing to your tank top.

“Misogynist,” you gasped, pretending to be scandalised.

“I never said there was anything wrong with being slutty, babe. Have as much sex as you like with Remus.”

“I’m not having sex with Remus.”

“You sound unhappy about that.”

You punched him in the arm. “Leave me alone. It’s too early for this.”

“It’s almost 11AM.”

You could hear Remus making tea in the Potters’ kitchen, his and Lily’s voices drifting in to mix with the sound of the washing machine, the whining kettle.

You’d come straight to the living room, intending to starfish on their sofa. James had beat you to it. You sat on top of his legs until he moved them

“I am unhappy about it,” you admitted.

James’ face might’ve split from the force of his victorious grin. “Acceptance. That’s like, the last stage.”

“Of what?”

“So, you’re gonna seduce him?”

“Are you joking?”

“No. Seduce him. Or confess your undying love, then seduce him.”

“I could do neither.”

“Bo - ring,” he said. “Look, I’ll help you out. We’ll plan, like, a whole thing.”

“You’re scheming,” Remus said suspiciously. Lily was close behind him, raising her eyebrows.

Remus sat down on the arm of the sofa next to you, offering you a cup of tea.

“Thanks,” you said.

James sat up properly to make room for his wife. Lily rested a protective hand on her stomach, tea held to her chest. They melted together, James’ arm wrapped around her shoulder, hand wandering up and down her upper arm. You could see the goosebumps break out on her skin, an expression of content on both their faces.

You leaned into Remus, just a bit, your hair against his elbow. You breathed out, watching steam from your tea swirl with the action. It tasted exactly as though you’d made it yourself.

“What are you and Y/N planning?” Lily inquired, smirking.

“I’m not planning anything.”

“That’s right, plausible deniability and all that,” James said, nodding gravely. “This burden I shall bear by myself.”

“That sounds like it’s not going to end well.”

-

It went like this.

Marlene got her cast off. Sirius decided that was enough to celebrate, declaring a party must be had at his flat. Everyone had to attend.

It was rammed from one end of the room to the other. You could barely make out one old friend from the next, people from your year of Hogwarts and even the year below having arrived in droves. Marlene sits in the middle of it all, a permanent perplexed expression on her face. Half the people who came brought birthday balloons.

You’re pushing through the people, looking for Remus like you usually are. He’d disappeared to find drinks and never returned 20 minutes ago.

Sirius popped up out of nowhere. “Hey, can I get your help?”

“Sure. Nothing better to do,” you said.

“‘Nothing better to do,’ she says. You’re young, fun and at the biggest party of the year!”

He led you into the kitchen, which was less packed but still had some milling guests, through the kitchen into his bedroom.

"What do you want?"

"Well, I knew there was something, but what was oh- right! You're in love with Moony."

Your face fell. "Sirius-"

"Don't worry, dollface, my lips are sealed."

You frowned. "James told you?"

"I guessed."

"With prompting?"

He didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"I'm going to wring James' neck."

"Settle down… is it such a bad thing, loving Remus?"

"No, of course not! He's - he's the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Then what's wrong?"

You sat down heavy on his rumpled bed, picking at a ladder in your tights. "It's difficult." You paused, chewing your lip.

"It's difficult," you repeated. "For me."

Sirius sat down next to you. "It doesn't have to be."

"I think people keep saying that, but they don't really believe it."

"I believe it. Love is never easy, but what's the point in loving someone and not telling them? Love with nowhere to go isn't what it could be."

You dropped your head into his shoulder. "Shouldn't you be having this talk with him? He's your best friend, not me."

"We're good friends, aren't we? Plus, James bagsied him."

"You drew the short straw," you grumbled.

"You're not the short straw, idiot. I like talking to you, especially if you're gonna marry my best mate."

"Marriage is not on the cards."

Sirius tapped a rhythm on his leg. "You're both the same. Determined to be unhappy."

"I love him," you said miserably. "It's a lot. I can't see everything else anymore."

"Love is supposed to make you happy."

"He does!"

"Then why won't you tell him?"

You thought about this for a long time.

"When we were 17… You remember, in potions, Slughorn made Amortentia. I was never any good at potions, Remus used to let me copy all his answers and - I turned to Emmaline, and I said - 'God, can you smell that? It smells like woodsmoke in here.' She looked at me like I was stupid."

You inhaled.

"I've loved him since I was 17," you whispered. "Maybe since the day I met him. How do you tell someone that?"

-

Remus leaned his head against the door, his fingers wrapped around the handle. James was looking at him with an intensely pleased expression.

"Woodsmoke," James said. "Boom."

He unwrapped his hand.

James' face was a picture. "Wh- wait a second! Where are you going?"

"I need to buy a ring."

James chased after him, tugging him back by his shoulder. "Woah- woah, Moons. You can't just ask her to marry you out of the blue."

"She loves me."

"Marriage is more than just love. Trust me." They both came to a stop. James was still grinning. Remus couldn't help it, he smiled back.

"She loves me."

"She does."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"She asked me not to."

"Oh, so now you've suddenly developed an ability to keep secrets?"

"Why do you think I pulled you off to Sirius' room in the middle of a party? For a snog?"

"I'm an excellent kisser."

"You sound like Sirius."

"Can't I get her a ring without getting married?"

"You can get her fifty. But maybe put the poor girl out of her misery?"

"How do I tell her?"

"Think on your feet, buddy," James said, turning them both around.

Remus felt as though volts of electricity were running through his body, as though every footstep he took back down the hallway was as loud as a thunderclap.

Sirius was shutting his door gently behind him.

"Ooh, perfect timing, lover boy. She's debating her whole existence in there."

"What did you say to her?" James asked indignantly.

"Nothing bad. Just that if she never tells him she'll die alone."

Remus ignored them both as they argued, squaring his shoulders to stare at the door. James patted him solidly on the shoulder. "Go get 'em."

They walked down the hallways like kings. "Let's get this party started!" Sirius cried.

"Y/N?" he called through the wood. "Can I come in?"

You said something. "What?" he called.

"Yes! Come in!"

You were splayed out on the bed, hair around you like a halo. You looked sick to your stomach.

"Cramps?"

"What?"

"Is it your period?"

"No."

He pushed himself up against the wall, his palm against the cold plaster.

He took a deep breath.

"When we were 17," he started shakily, "we had potions. Slughorn made amortentia. You were always pretty good at potions, but you never had any confidence, so you'd always copy my answers and I'd pretend not to notice."

You were staring at him with wide, wide eyes. He didn't dare move toward you, swallowing hard.

"And I turned to James and asked him what he could smell. He said Lily, obviously. He asked me what I could smell, and I said, ‘chocolate'. But-" he held your gaze, heart racing, and took the leap, "I lied. I didn't want anybody to know, I didn't want you to know. It was my biggest secret. Even bigger than the wolf."

He hesitated.

"It smelled of you. I fell for you a long time ago," he admitted.

“Was it so far to fall?” you asked him, voice cracking.

“It didn’t hurt at all,” he assured you.

You blinked. A tear gathered at the corner of your eyes, glassy in the low light.

You'd barely sat up and he was on you, almost pulling you off the sheets with the force of his hug. You laughed wildly and he cherished the sound.

You pushed your face into the side of his neck and he shivered at the feeling of you inhaling. You went to say something, and he knew he should've waited, listened, but he couldn't. He plastered his mouth to yours. You didn't hesitate, not for a second, kissing him back with all the wild abandonment you possessed.

He laughed into your mouth, kissing and kissing. You weren't the shy kisser he often imagined, matching his passion and tenacity with ease.

"Wait, stop," you said.

He looked at you in concern. "What, what's the matter?"

You leaned your forehead against his. "We can't make out in Sirius' room. That's, like, a cardinal sin. Imagine the things this bed has seen."

He touched the tip of his nose to yours. "Where else can we?"

"My bed, your bed. I'm not fussy."

He grinned, ducking his head to kiss your cheek. He pulled you up onto your feet. "Splinch-risk?"

"As if. He puts who-knows-what in the drink."

"1, 2-"

Maybe because he wanted to ravish you so badly, the disapparation felt as though it took millenia. When you both finally arrived at the outside of his building he pulled you in.

He couldn't accurately describe love to someone if they asked, but if he could he would play this clip, both of you falling over each other to steal kisses and laugh in the elevator at yourselves, red-faced, ecstatic in the reflections, almost missing your floor. Him fumbling with his keys at the door, forgetting to pull them out. Kissing you up against the thin flat walls like you were a sacred being, like you were a prayer he was sending.

The fronts you put up for other people, for yourselves, fell away. It was just you and him. Maybe it was hard to kiss your best friend without laughing madly or maybe it was your own mistake. Either way, it was a mess of kissing and laughing and struggling to breathe.

"Don't, don't," you begged, tickled by his lips against the skin under your ear.

"Or what?" he asked, though he pulled away anyways.

You went up on tip toes to do the same to him, laughing as he went boneless.

"Alright." He swatted your head lightly with the back of his hand. "You proved your point."

"Did I?" you asked, taking the skin between your teeth.

He gasped. "Demon."

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you. Sent to corrupt me."

"Consider yourself corrupted," you said, licking a stripe over his nibbled skin. "Now you're mine."

"Is that so?" His hands, seconds ago having held the nape of your neck, traveled down. The other pulled you flush against him. He watched your face saturate as you realised his affliction.

The other hand slipped under the edge of your skirt, holding your hip in a brushing grip.

"Excited to see me?" you asked, breathless. You were doing some exploring of your own, fingers traveling over the lines of his stomach and chest.

"Excited to do lots of things to you."

You moved away from the wall he'd pressed you against, walking him backwards until his knees hit the back of the sofa and pushed him down, clambering into his lap. You didn't shy away from him, setting yourself down on him in a way that made you both stutter in your breathing.

"Aren't we supposed to wait?" he asked you.

"For what?" you asked him, pushing his hair from his face with both hands.

"The right time."

"Doesn't it feel like now?"

"I just want you to be sure."

"I'm sure. Are you?"

He grabbed your hips, pressing you down, grinding you against him. "I'm sure," he laughed at your squirming. "I'm sure."

"Let me take my skirt off," you said, moving as if to climb off of him.

His arms tightened around your waist. "Do you have to?"

"Like this one, do you?"

"Can't you tell?"

"Let me up." You unseated yourself from his lap. It seemed much more illicit suddenly, him lying back on the sofa, red in the face and hard watching you undress with a heady gaze. You pulled your tights off in a hurry, almost toppling over. He smirked in amusement.

Next was the skirt. You unzipped it, letting it fall to your ankles before stepping out.  He hooked under your arms and brought you up, onto him again. Your underwear were simple, cute, black with a lettuce edge trim and purple ribbon with a bow on the top, like a gift.

He trailed a finger at the slip of skin just above it.

"You always wear stuff like this?"

"Thought I might get lucky," you admitted, bashful.

He moved his hands, pressed flat at the curve of your stomach, up, over your shirt to the peaks of your breasts. You brought your fingers up to the buttons, he squeezed.

The shirt came off. He pushed your bra up, not bothering with the clasp.

"What, you never took a bra off before?"

"Quicker," he mouthed, pressing his lips to the underside of your breast. He kissed stripes, leaving wet half circles in his path.

You did your best to maneuver around him, digging your fingers into his shirt buttons. You stopped at the first inch of a scar, tracing the thickest one with the lightest touch of your fingernail, sending goosebumps up his back.

"Do they bother you?" he asked.

"Never," you said. Pushing his shoulders back with your hands, you leaned down to analyse the scars. There was no rhyme or reason to them. Some were purple, some white with age.

You brushed your hands down his bare chest and smiled at him.

"You're so handsome."

The smile he gifted you in return was soft, loving.

"You're more perfect than I could have imagined," he said in turn.

"You imagine me like this?"

"Only every night."

Your hands wandered down to the zip of his trousers. You hesitated. "Go on," he said softly, pleaded softly.

You unzipped, unbuttoned. The trepidation between you both heightened. The shape of him was clearer and clearer.

You pulled his trousers down, then used a gentle hand to palm him through his boxers. His breath hitched. You were soft, lovely, probing with curious fingers. You'd be his undoing.

A fingernail, scratching at the waistband. You pulled him free, finally, his dick standing up. You used a knuckle to trace a prominent vein, gasping in happiness at his twitches.

He turned his head to the side, blinking hard. You took him in your hand and pumped with a confidence he wasn't sure you actually had, shyness and pleasure both written on your face.

"Alright, don't do me in," he said. He gripped the skin of your hips and pulled you forward, your silky underwear sliding against him. You took to this like a fish to water, planting your knees on either side and rocking your hips into him. He groaned, attempting to help, but your movements created a weakness in him he couldn't overcome.

You were wet on top of him, leaking through silk, coating him where you made contact.

You reached down in between your bodies to pull your panties to one side. You dipped a finger inside, then two, pulling slickness out and rubbing a circle around your entrance. Remus watched with half lidded eyes.

"You want to?" you asked him. He was better at it than you, probably because he could actually see what he was doing. He graced the skin of your clit, down, pushing his middle finger inside you with infinite care.

You moaned, your shoulders pushed back. "Ah, can you- will you-"

His middle finger was joined by his ring finger. His pinky and index hit the soft skin surrounding your entrance with each stroke. The meat of his pan rubbed your clit, sending spikes of hot pleasure up your abdomen.

You couldn't hold yourself up anymore, falling into his chest, arms braced on the sofa behind him. You tucked your head into his neck and gasped for air.

This restricted his speed but not his movement, scissoring his fingers inside you, curling to find where it felt best and repeating it whenever you squirmed.

You lifted yourself to escape his ministrations.

He rubbed the head of his dick against you. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Mh-hmm."

You were flat to his chest. He pushed his hips down, lining up with your entrance. You cried out at the feeling. The first few inches were easy-going, sliding up into you as easy as pie. You'd brought a hand up to the hair at the base of his neck and he winced at the death grip you had.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked, coming to a stop.

"No - oh my god. You're big."

"I thought I was tall? Handsome?"

"You can be - oh, you can be all of those things."

"Listen to you," he said under his breath. "Can't even speak properly, can you, lovely girl?"

He was far from bottoming out. He held you in place, pulling out to push back in, stretching you out that little bit further each time, filling you up. You tried to move, ride him, and he tightened his grip.

"Stay still, sweetheart."

You listened. He was making good progress of you, easing you open with long, firm thrusts. You were beside yourself at this point, making sounds in his ear that almost pushed him to the edge every time he pushed back in.

Finally, with his full length inside you, he stopped. You wriggled circles around his dick, moaning with weak desperation.

"Remus, don't be cruel. Don't be."

"Cruel with you..." He thrust up, harder than before but never enough to hurt. "How could I ever be?"

You were pitched up, higher than he'd ever heard. His hips were doing all the work, you a sopping wet mess.

"We're a perfect fit," you said, your hair on his neck, your face against his shoulder. He turned to kiss your forehead.

He spread you open with his hands, the drag of his dick against your walls almost too much to bear. He was moving you up and down on him, finally encouraging you to move. You did so with a struggle, using your knees as an anchor to ride him.

You rose as high as you could, taking great pleasure in making him moan with every drop, pulling all the way off to abruptly drop back in, feeling his dick at the very deepest part of you.

When he was fully inside you, you rolled your hips, leaning forward to press pecks to his chest. He tangled a hand in your hair.

His head was thrown back against the sofa. You might look at his face and think he was distressed.

You steadily increased your speed, puffing with exertion though it could hardly be noticed between the sounds you were making.

"Don't wear yourself out," he said, sounding worried.

You let yourself drop onto your legs completely. "I can do it."

He lifted and dropped you with little effort, bobbing short, deep strokes, touching a part of you that stopped you from thinking.

"Can we go faster?"

He lifted you up close to his chest and layed you out flat on the sofa. It felt nice to be on your back, staring up at him instead of down. He hiked one of your legs up by the knee. The other leg fell off the side of the sofa.

It was his turn to be on his knees, lining up with his hand braced beside your head.

He did exaclty as you asked, fucking you at a pace that hardly let you catch your breath. It was overwhelming in the best way. His free hand came down to rub big, arching circles in your clit.

"Pretty baby, so pretty spread open like this"

"I'm close," you breathed uselessly, hand gripping the wrist near your head.

"Yeah? You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?"

The praise sent a hot flush through your whole body. You cried out, feeling the pressure of his thumb on your sensitive clit increase. Despite enjoying the feeling you felt yourself shy away as the climax started, pushing your leg down and in. Remus chuckled, doubling down his efforts.

He thrust into you with a force and it was enough to push you over the edge, both hands clamping down hard around his wrist where he held himself above your head. “Oh, god,” you cried, breathless,  the words ripped out of you.

Remus had an intensely pleased look about him, bringing up the hand from the apex of your thighs to cradle the side of your face, smoothing the lines where you’d scrunched your eyes closed.

You opened your eyes, misty as they were, to look at him, the corners of your mouth going up. He leaned down to kiss you, pushing most of his weight on you.

You made such sweet sounds, he thought. And you were stunning, sweaty and boneless, splayed out across his sofa like a vision, face alight with pleasure. You covered the hand he’d brought to your face with your own, steadying the jostling of each thrust.

He held your gaze and you laughed, a cascading sound, breathy and infectious. He was nearing his own climax, increasing his speed so that the loudest sound in the room was the slap of where his body met yours. You were half-sobbing with every thrust, though they were coloured with pleasure.

He pulled out, leaning back on his haunches, and painted the skin of your stomach white with a few rapid pumps of his shaft.

“Messy,” you said.

“Yeah, you should see the sofa. I’ll never have company again lest they see how much you like me.”

“I more than like you.”

“That much is evident,” he said, charting a course down your abdomen and slipping his fingers back inside you, pumping leisurely in and out, forcing wetness into the ever-growing pool beneath you and smiling like it was funny.

He moved back, his fingers still inside you, to kiss the soft skin between your cunt and your thighs, teasing you. You held your breath in anticipation, almost screaming when he teased the bud of your clit with his mouth. He liked stripes up your centre until you were begging him to stop, ticklish and overwhelmed.

He pulled his fingers free of you and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

“If we weren’t wizards I’d send you a dry-cleaning invoice.”

You snickered, finally closing your legs to rub the skin of your hips. He watched you, kneeling before you like a prayer.

“You’re a rough fuck, Lupin.”

“That wasn’t too rough, was it?”

“You could go rougher.”

“Oh, could I?” he said, pulling you up and into his arms. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your legs on either side of him. He was still hard enough underneath you to keep going, but he hadn’t pulled you up for that. He rubbed a hand up and down your back, the other behind your shoulders, soothing the shakes moving through you.

“Maybe not today,” you mumbled.

“No, I don’t think so. Another time. We’ve all the time in the world.”

You dotted lazy kisses over his freckled shoulder.

“Wait,” you said, stilling with your mouth a millimetre from his skin. “I lied before, about being on. You didn’t know that. You were gonna fuck me on my period?”

He pushed your head back, his hand in your hairline. “Yes? What a strange question to ask.”

“I am not the strange one.”

“I’ll fuck you whenever you like. A little blood never bothered me.”

“I’m not sure if that’s romantic or insane.”

“You’ll change your mind the next time you cycle.”

-

James invited you over with a bottle of champagne.

You rushed forward to hug him, laughing when the air rushed out of him. “Thanks for your devious master plan, James.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, surprised. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

“She’s always like that,” Remus said.

“I bet she is, you dirty dog!” Sirius chimed in. Marlene whacked him upside the shoulder. He shifted her where she sat on his lap, laughing.

“Baby Lupin on the horizon? Harry’s getting so lonely,” James said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Harry’s not even born yet,” Lily said. “Stop pressuring our friends into having kids.”

You felt yourself light up at the thought. It was definitely too soon to be having kids, but it didn’t stop you from thinking about it with great anticipation.

Remus hugged you to his side, grinning. “We’ll see.”

&lt;3

thank u for reading !!the title and some lines of dialogue are directly inspired by the end of love by florence and the machine as linked above!!!

[elfenbensord]

for anonymous - thank you for voting!!! hope you like this hehe <3

contains: love drunk!steve; gender unspecified reader; flirting; s4!steve

He’s practically drooling. If he were someone else, he would call himself pathetic - even if he knows he is. Steve licks his lips, watching you reach high for a tape, your shirt riding up a little.

“Are you serious?”

He can’t hear Robin, or maybe he just doesn’t want to. Loves her, but pretty boy duty calls.

“Steve!”

“Huh?” he finally asks, turning to face her.

“Have you even heard a single thing I’ve said in the last —“ She checks her watch. “Three minutes?”

“You were talking for three minutes?” he asks, startled.

“Oh my God, Steve.” She’s pissed. And he feels bad, but he knows she’ll be fine in five minutes, and probably even better if he fucks up while checking you out at the counter. “You’re such a bonehead.”

He rolls his eyes and looks back at you. You’re looking at him, all amused. He feels so deeply seen, like you shouldn’t even be looking at him, like he doesn’t really deserve the attention.

“Sorry,” you say. Your voice sounds so sweet. “I just haven’t heard someone say ‘bonehead’ in a while.”

“He is,” Robin says flatly.

You smile at him and his knees feel weak. “I’m sure.”

You continue browsing. Robin looks at Steve. “You are a bonehead,” she affirms, grabbing a cart of tapes to put them away.

Steve feels all dizzy. He’s seen hot people in the store, but this is different. You’re straight out of a dream. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t seen you before. You’re about his age, but he doesn’t remember you from high school. Not that three concussions haven’t ruined his memory.

He perks up when you come to check out. Steve has no small talk in his mind for your selections. His brain feels frozen and it reminds him of his time at Scoops a year earlier.

“Do I know you?” he asks. It comes out awkwardly.

“I don’t think so,” you say. “I’m just - I’m here visiting some family, and I have to babysit.” You point at the two animated movies you’d chosen. “So, no, I don’t think so.”

“Babysit?” he says. “I babysit, too.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” he says. Now he’s spitballing. “They’re little shits though. Always dragging me into things I don’t want dragged into. But they’re sweet, I guess. Except one of them.”

You nod politely.

He wants to hang himself with film strips.

“Well, if I need help, I’ll definitely call you.”

Finally, an opening. “You’d need my number to do that, huh?”

Now you’re frazzled. Thank God. “I guess so.”

“How long are you in town for?”

You bite your cheek. “Another week.”

Steve hums. “I say we take our kids, drop ‘em off at the arcade, and head to the movies ourselves.”

You laugh, looking at him like he’s crazy. Your eyes are soft, though, and your smile is genuine. “Seems irresponsible.”

“Self indulgent, maybe.”

You stare at him for a moment longer before realizing you need to pay. You mumble and search your bag for your wallet, sliding a five across the counter. “Sorry,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m a little frazzled.”

“I have that effect on people.” Oh, he’s so back. He grabs your change, slipping it back to you.

“Want your receipt?”

You read between the lines. “Sure.”

He grins and snatches the paper from the register, scrawling his number across the top. He writes his name before realizing he never said it out loud. “Oh! I’m Steve, by the way.”

You give him yours and take the receipt from him. “Nice to meet you.”

He nods, waves as you leave, heart thumping. He collapses against the counter once you’re out of sight, head in his hands.

“A week,” Robin says, startling him. “You gonna have a whirlwind romance or something?”

“Maybe,” he says.

She scoffs. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”

[elfenbensord]

I would've read your love letters every single night - S.H

Steve Harrington x female!reader

Steve falls for a girl he's only ever written to 

A/n: pen pals, friends to lovers, Steve calls reader ‘angel’

Warnings: 18+, strong language, kissing 

Word count: 2.9k

October, 1988

It started in the summer, with a misplaced letter that Steve had to respond to. It was on his doorstep, with no phone number, neatly written for someone else, someone who was not him. So he wrote back, nicely informing the person that they had the wrong address and then she wrote back thanking him for being so kind and then his pen was suddenly in his hand again, writing. 

Over two months later it was normal for him to get letters from her, they were meant for him now, they weren’t delivered wrong, they were always in the right place, right on his door stop. Soft white envelopes with the prettiest handwriting he had ever seen, that smelt like pink flowers he couldn't recall the name of but he would know if he smelt them. 

Steve had made one or three jokes about her, the girl he was writing to because of some little mistake, being an angel, because half the time he was unsure if she really existed, just like angels. 

He was desperate to get home, to recount his day on pen and paper, to write down all the jokes Robin told or how there was one customer who spent hours behind the red curtains and how Steve had seen a little white kitten on his drive home that she would've just adored. So he did just that, he wrote down everything he thought she would like to hear, in much messier handwriting, with a few spelling mistakes, not that she ever minded. 

And a letter came back because it always did. 

Dear Steve, 

I think timing someone when they're hiding out behind the curtain is completely reasonable, especially if behind it is exactly what you would find behind a red curtain in a video store, then yes, I think you should time them next time. Just as your letter came I was coming back from a walk through town and I saw a kitten and it reminded me of you, i thought that was silly but seeing you did the same definitely saved me from feeling stupid, it reminded me of that story you told me about your neighbours cat attacking you, though I doubt a cat would attack without its own reasons, you may only be telling one side of the story with that one. I’m sure it was very cute though, the one you saw, it may have been a sign of luck, or peace or something good coming your way. (Don’t make fun of me I know you don’t bother with that stuff but still.) 

I wanted to tell you that I got the job at the florist so your help with the application must have been what did it, I’m starting to think you’re good luck, or you’re just far too sweet to me, either way, thank you.

She always ended her letter with a heart, drawn quickly at the end of her words, it was a little thing he hoped she only did for him. It wasn’t fair but Steve wanted to be the only one she wrote to, he didn't know many twenty one year olds who kept pen pals so with luck, he was starting to sound like her, he was the only one. 

He kept all her letters in the top drawer of his desk. If it took a while for her to write he liked to read over them, first thing in the morning or right before bed, occasionally a little drunk around three in the morning too. He had favourites, this one would be one because she had called him sweet and that was a direct hit on his heart. 

He brushed his fingertips over the word, over the paper, hating and loving at the same time that she had touched it too. He didn't know her, well he did but he wouldn’t know her if he saw her walking through Hawkins, however it didn’t matter, he was sure she was pretty, he was sure she was perfect. Whatever she looked like, Steve had a lingering crush on her, that gave no signs of going away. 

He had his pen ticking back and forth in his hand, like he used to do when he put off doing his homework in school. There was something that caught his eyes on his desk, a picture, from the spring, of him, Robin and then Nancy and Jonathan home from college, in Mrs Byers garden. He liked that picture but he still found himself ripping it straight down the middle and cutting himself off. 

Dear angel, 

I’ll bring a stopwatch tomorrow. And for your information I have been nothing but nice to that cat. I've even petted it a few times when it’s been sitting on my car, I think I even called it a pretty boy once so whatever issues it has with me are one-sided. I can see you taking that side though, it's a grey fluffy thing, like a big mothball, that would adore you much more then me if you ever met it and I’m sorry sweet girl but I don’t think white kittens are signs for anything, but I would never make fun of you, if I ever did I think I would die on the spot, you can’t be creul to an angel without paying the price I’m sure I read that somewhere. 

I’m glad you got the job but I know I had nothing to do with it, you could’ve gotten it on sweetness alone, you belong in a flower shop, (I’m not even going to try and spell whatever it’s really called) that’s why they gave you the job.

P.s I’ve put a picture of me in the envelope, I’m not expecting one back or anything I just wanted you to have a picture of me, like soldiers did in the war, they did that right? 

She hated that her shoes were on her bed but she was so desperate to read Steve’s letter, taking the time to untie her laces was completely out of the question, and how else was a girl supposed to read a letter from a boy she liked then laying on bed with her feet kicked up.

The picture he had given her fell from the envelope, it was clearly ripped and Steve was clearly sunkissed in it, the weather must've started warming up where he was just like it did where she was and he had caught the sun. He had pretty freckles dotted everywhere, the sweetest of smiles, pretty blonde highlights in his hair and-

In all her dizziness, in reading his words twice over, she always did that, in her daydream of having him call her angel again and again she hadn't even placed him. Steve wasn't just sweet, kind Steve who never left her letters unread, who helped her with whatever she needed, who called her names that made her stomach flip, he was Steve Harrington. 

King Steve, Hawkins it boy, Steve who she sometimes saw buying handfuls of popcorn and candy with his friends on a friday night. Which made Robin, Robin Buckley, Eddie was Eddie Munson, Nancy was- her head was a mess. Too caught up on falling she hadn't realised who he was. 

She didn't answer the letter, she couldn't. 

Sometimes he just didn't hear from her for a little while. He guessed sometimes she didn't hear from him for a while too, but he wondered if she waited so anxiously at the window like he did. He wondered if she felt this tightness he felt in his chest when he didn't get to read her words. 

He walked to work just to get his mind off of her, and the horrible feeling that sending the picture had pushed her away, they had a nice first name basis thing going that felt delicate to him and now he feared he had dropped them and watched them shatter into a rug he couldn’t pick them up from. He felt this uncomfortable tightness in his chest, like his body was telling him he had done something wrong. Because, fuck, did he miss her. 

A sweetness filled the air on his way home, the florist's doors wide open, open to catch people as they passed on the street. Considering Hawkins only had one flower store they didn't need to bother. And for the first time since Steve was seven years old and obsessed with daisies he wanted to go in. 

Flowers were her thing. And he would take any little part of her he could get, he decided two steps from walking in that if on the rest of his walk home, he saw that kitten again, he would write to her first. 

Everything around him was red and orange, he felt like he was drowning in cinnamon and cold fall mornings but he guessed that was just because of the time of year, he wondered what spring would be like. 

There wasn’t really anyone inside, just an older man, no doubt buying some roses for his wife, standing as the young girl behind the counter tied them prettily and smiled at him, making light conversations in ways that would make how Steve was with costumes look awful. 

Pink hyacinths. That was what the letters were coaxed in, he glanced but couldn’t find any, even though he was sure that was what was softening the air now, pretty stem cut hyacinths. He would’ve brought them if he could only find them.  

“And some lavender for luck.”

Steve’s heart thumped in his throat, he had heard that before, lavender being lucky, not that he agreed but she had made it sound right so he supposed- the hyacinths weren't in the florists, it wasn’t in season for them to be, but they were in the perfume she wore. The girl behind the counter and the girl from his letters. 

He walked out with a headache unknowing if it was the overwhelming flowers or just because he had seen the girl-, no, his girl. 

Dear Steve, 

I’m so sorry for taking so long to write back, but you’re right, they did send letters and pictures, normally they would take a picture of the people they loved with them, I’m sure lots of young men took pictures of there girl and then left them one of them, it’s all terribly sad if you think about it too much but its romantic too. Your picture was very sweet, I put it on my bedside table, beside your letters, it just made sense to put it there. I hope you don't mind me not sending one back, I think I'm still just too nervous, especially now I've seen just how handsome you are, I don't want to make you overconfident so i'll leave it at that. I don’t think you could ever be cruel Steve, not in my eyes.

Dear angel, 

Don’t be sorry, I was just worried about you that's all, I think I worry about you a lot when the post is late or you’re just busy, I hope that’s okay, that I worry about you. I’m glad you kept the picture, it was one of my favourites, I kind of hated tearing it but I wanted you to have it more, please don’t call me handsome again, I don’t think my heart could take it, the back of my neck started burning up when I read your words. I take it back, please call me handsome over and over again. I have an update on the person behind the red curtain, they came back three times since you last wrote, I also had a run in with the neighbour's cat, it hissed at me the other morning for walking past it. I might buy treats to win it over, let me know what you think it might like. 

You’re right too, I would never be cruel to you, (thank you for not saying anything about the spelling mistake), I would never be anything be kind to you, good to you, fuck, sorry, my hands moving faster then my head is, I hope works going okay, I’m sure you fit right in. 

She had read Steve’s latest letter a number of times, more times then she could count, his handwriting seemed to deteriorate as he wrote, it was much messier then she was used to but she liked that. She liked how he wrote what came to his head the second it did because it made her feel special to know that when he wrote to her it was with some kind of need. No matter how small, the scribbled writing made her feel dizzy and lightheaded. 

It kept her warm somehow, to picture his words, even in the pouring rain. Even in the middle of Hawkin’s where all the pavements had holes that made dirty water splash against her legs every time a car passed. 

A truck went past, over the speed limit too and that did catch her attention. It pulled her from her daydreaming and back to the path she was walking, to her soaked jeans and her muddy shoes. To Steve, standing what could only have been six or seven steps away, his jeans just as damp and his hair soaked through. 

She looked at him because she thought she could get away with it but he knew. Somehow he knew it was her and all she could was turn her back on him and hope he forgot the entire thing but even through the bad weather she could hear him coming after her. 

“Wait, wait, wait.” Steve reached out for her arm, a careful touch as he caught the sleeve of her sweater, pulling at the wool in the rain would only stretch it but that wasn’t too important right now. 

His eyes were softer then she imagined, she had seen the boy she wrote to as soft and sweet but Steve Harrington couldn’t be soft, his reputation was enough for her to know that. But then he was looking at her, down at her really, and she felt she couldn't walk away even if she wanted to. 

“I’m sorry-” “I’m sorry-” She didn’t know what he was apologising for but she didn't know what she was for either. 

Steve hadn’t let go yet, he didn’t think he could, his thumb pressed the white wool of her sweater, it was wet and cold but nothing had ever felt so sweet to touch before. She smiled at the ground, a bashfulness in her eyes that made the lines of his smile burn like a papercut. 

He didn’t take his eyes off her, he had seen her twice now and he knew he didn’t ever want to take his eyes off her. He had been so right to call her an angel, the thought that the night after he first saw her, pretty pictures of her behind the counter playing through his mind as his lost sleep over how perfect she was to him. 

He swallowed nothing, his throat moving and her eyes following along his neck, his tongue moved before he had the chance to think, just like his hand would. Because if he thought about the soft little way her lips parted he would’ve fainted right there on the sidewalk. 

“Sorry about the letters, being so-, illegible.” He laughed to himself, eyes casting to the floor for a second, waiting for the teasing to come. Not knowing her in person protected him a little, his bad spelling and his messy handwriting, his incorrect use of words, it didn't matter when it wasn't face to face but now he was praying the girl in front of him didn't think he was an idiot. 

“They were fine, more than fine.” She spoke softer than he imagined, a little more nervous then how he read her letters but it was okay because he was nervous too. 

Fine had never sounded so sweet before. A word had never meant so much to him and he couldn’t help but relax his shoulders, the strain in the back of his neck now gone as let her sleeve go. 

“Yours were much prettier to read.” He liked the look on her face a little too much. He liked how fucking pretty she looked when she was praised, Steve would’ve confessed how much he adored even just the scent of her letters or the way she wrote her s, just to see that look. 

“I like your handwriting.” She pinched her brows together, like she was wondering how someone couldn’t.

And she was because his handwriting made her feel special, it made her bite her lip and kick her feet, it made her cheeks burn when he cursed or called her angel, it made her know which letters were from him just from seeing the envelope sitting on the dining room table- she couldn’t think, Steve Harrington was kissing her.

His hand was on her waist, his fingers too close to her hip, digging in her flesh through her clothes and he was kissing her and she was kissing him because nothing had felt so right before. He was soft and sweet but full of need too as her lungs began to ache and his lips moved against hers. 

He muttered something, something that had him grinning and her smiling shyly, “You can’t put that in an envelope.”

[elfenbensord]

ROSEHILL COTTAGE The Holiday, 2006

[elfenbensord]

win with you (18+)

summary: your bantering with steve comes to a head (lol get it)

contains: smut! 18+ only! steve x reader; reader with a vagina; fem!aligned reader; fingering (reader receiving); handjob (steve receiving); bantering; some pining; cutie ending

author’s note: let’s try not to plagiarize this one luvs xx

Steve’s not even drunk and he’s still annoying. Making you grit your teeth in the passenger seat while he’s being cocky and what he must think is comedic.

“Admit it,” he says. His smile is all teeth. “You love watching me do keg stands.”

“I was literally not even outside when you did that.”

“Then what’s got your panties in a bunch, huh?”

He’s being mean about it, but he doesn’t mean to be. He doesn’t know you’re head over heels for him. Catching you gawking at him isn’t all that serious to Steve. He just thinks it’s funny.

You don’t.

“Who says it’s you?”

“I do. Jesus, should’ve seen your face. Looked like you saw a God. You think I’m pretty, babe?” And he laughs.

“Shut up!”

“If it wasn’t the keg then what was it? Grinding on people? My outfit? My jeans a little too tight?”

You want to throw yourself out of the car. “Steve, stop!”

“So you’re saying you’re not wet right now?”

“Oh, my god. No.”

You are. You have been since he picked you up to go to this stupid ass party. Maybe if he didn’t hold the door open for you, or put his hand on your lower back to guide you inside, or wink at you from across the room when someone was holding him up you’d be dry. But you’re not. Not like you can help it.

“Okay, so prove it.”

You look over at him finally, his smile more relaxed and bemused. “How?”

Steve holds his hand out towards you, elbow resting on the center console. “Give me your underwear.”

Your stomach flips and your face gets hot. “You’re disgusting,” you scoff, looking back out the window so he doesn’t see how phased you are.

“So you won’t?”

“No!”

“Fine.” He rests his outstretched hand back on his thigh. “I’ll just assume you’re wet since you’re so embarrassed.”

You grit your teeth hard. “Will you shut up for the rest of the drive if I do?”

“For tonight only? Sure.”

“You swear?”

“Swear.”

You huff, incredulous at yourself, as you slip your underwear down your thighs, pulling them over your heels at the ankle. There’s an evident wet patch, stringy with your arousal, and you’re about to shove them back on before Steve grabs your wrist. “We made a deal,” he reminds.

You practically throw them at him, crossing your arms over your chest as he lets his eyes wander from the road to the silk in his hand. “Oh, Jesus,” he says. “I fuckin’ knew it.”

You try to snatch them from him, but he’s already pulling off to the side of the road to get a real good look at them. You hide your head in your hands when he turns the overhead light on, gasping a little. “Wow. All this for me?”

You growl. “Who said it was for you?”

“You know I’m teasing,” he says, but he still grips your underwear in his hand. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

Your head races because you actually weren’t expecting him to ask that. “Um. Uh - Brady. Brady Tyler?”

Steve scoffs. “That dumbass with two first names? He sat by the chip bowl all night.”

“Well, I like chips.” Your hand reaches for the silk and again, he pulls away.

“You like chips, or you like Brady?”

His brow is quirked. He’s staring you down and he has to know it’ll get even more of a rise out of you.

“This is humiliating,” you sigh, finally getting your hands back on your underwear. “Can you just take me home like I asked?”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you-“

“Bullshit, Steve,” you spit, staring out the window again as he kicks the car back into drive. “You like it when I get embarrassed, you think it’s funny.”

“Well, a little,” he admits. “But I didn’t mean for you to get uncomfortable. Really.”

“How did you even know I was wet?” you ask after a while.

Steve bites his lip and drums on the steering wheel. “You want me to be honest?”

“You look up my skirt or something?”

“No. I just - I could - I could, like, smell it.”

You throw your hand against his arm fast and hard and he groans.

“Why do you say shit like that?”

“Well, I - I did! Moment you got into the car - it’s not - it’s not like it’s bad, I just - you know?”

“‘Not like it’s bad’? Oh, tell me, Steve, did it make you hard?”

You’re trying to get a rise out of him to satiate your own anger. It’s a lot easier (and admittedly more fun) when the bickering goes both ways. But he stills, pulling onto your street, going quiet.

“Did it?”

“We’re almost -“

“No way! You did not just make me show you my underwear to avoid this now.”

“It’s gettin’ late -“

“Let me feel, then.”

“Huh?”

“Only fair, right? You got to hold my underwear, I think feeling your dick is less intimate.”

“That’s absolutely not true -“

“Will you let me?”

Steve groans and pulls up to your apartment, throwing it in park and turning to face you. “Fine,” he huffs, taking your hand and moving it to his left thigh.

“No,” you scold, breaking into a smile. “That’s not the side you tuck it into.”

He seems to grow a little pale. “How do you know?”

“Everyone knows, Steve, not like you’re -“

Your hand hits his hard on and you both gasp at it. It would be comical except for the implications that you’re both horny for the other. You let your hand stay for a moment, watching Steve’s dark eyes flit down, then back up to yours. He licks his bottom lip.

“Not like I’m what?” He finally asks, voice cracking.

You blink, heart racing. You lick your lips, too. “Not like you’re small,” you mumble. “Your jeans are really tight,” you add.

You can feel his cock kick under your palm and you experimentally press down with the heel of it. Steve gasps, head leaning back against the seat. His jaw drops. You’ve never seen him so lost for words before.

“Is that good?” you ask dumbly, still using the heel of your palm on him.

He sighs and licks his lips, highlighted hair falling over his forehead. “Uh-huh.”

You’re shy. Even with your hand on him. You pull back but he takes your hand again, pressing it down on his cock and grinding up into it. Both of your eyes widen, your throat going dry. You can’t speak, so you just continue, rubbing him through those stupid dark wash Levis.

“You- w-were hard for me all night?” you finally whisper, stuttering a bit. You swallow hard.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning back against the window so he’s facing you. “Ever since I….”

“Picked me up?”

“Please,” Steve asks hoarsely, his hands moving to the waistband of his jeans. “I gotta - it hurts.”

“Oh,” you whisper, removing your hand so he can shove his jeans down his thighs. He’s left in his boxers, and his unfocused eyes flick up to meet yours for approval. “You’re wet, too,” you say, reaching out with a finger to touch the wet spot where the tip of his cock is.

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back again. “More, please.”

You realize your power here, as his adam’s apple bobs, as his cheeks turn red. It’s thrilling to have the upper hand. It makes it feel like you’ve won.

“It’s only fair that you give me yours, right?” you say, running the tip of your finger down his shaft. It’s begging to be let out. “Don’t you think, Steve?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” you scoff, moving up to his waistband, letting it snap back against his stomach. “Gotta take a good look at what I’ve done to you.”

Steve moves surprisingly quickly, though a bit irritated. He hands his boxers over with a scrunched nose. “There.”

“Hmmph.” You punch the light above you on and grin widely as you examine them. The amount of precum is a little unbelievable, but it’s clear he’s been thinking about you just as much as you thought of him.

Steve mocks you, huffing with his arms crossed, dick out in the open. “What?”

“I think you made a bigger mess than me.”

“Absolutely n- oh!”

He throws his head back as your hand gently wraps around his length. It hits the window harshly and you laugh, but Steve’s incredibly serious. His hips thrust up into your hand desperately. His jaw’s gone slack again, eyes squeezed shut, fists balled up. You stroke him and beam when he inhales shakily, one hand coming down to rest lightly on yours.

“Not fair,” he heaves. “Didn’t get to touch you.”

You twist your wrist. “You want to?”

“Jesus, yes, of course,” he babbles. In the light of the car, you can see the faint line of the scar across his jugular. You want to lean forward and kiss it, lick it, soothe it. “Thought - th-thought touchin’ your underwear would be sp-spank material for months - wanna feel….”

“Wanna feel what?”

“Your pussy,” he nearly growls, bucking his hips upwards again. A hand goes up towards his hair, tangling his fingers in it. The sight makes your eyelids drop, your mouth salivate. He looks so wrecked and so big in your hand.

“Steve,” you moan, thumb swiping over his leaking tip. “Why didn’t you say somethin’?”

“Are we doing this here?” he breathes, suddenly punching the light out. He seems a little more focused. “I’m not a big fan of c-car sex.”

“What? Don’t wanna ruin the leather?”

“Shut up.”

“Is that how you should talk to me?”

“Y’know what turns me on?” he says, leaning forward, your hand still wrapped around him. His hands make their way between your legs, big and warm on your inner thighs. Your hand stops moving now, feeling a little less in charge with him looming over you. “When you get irritated with me.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Y’must be turned on a lot then.”

Steve’s knuckle grazes over your swollen clit. You gasp and squeeze his cock, your other hand gripping the door handle behind you. “Oh, I am.”

It’s quiet as he touches you. You can’t meet his coffee colored eyes while he rocks the joins of his fingers against your clit. He soon manages to work his way underneath the fabric of your underwear and you both gasp.

“Jesus, she’s cryin’, huh? Wanted me so bad all night,” he coos, now using the pads of his fingers to stroke up and down your folds. You shiver and try to keep up your own strokes, but it’s insanely difficult when he’s touching you like this. You feel his cock flex in your palm and it makes you clench up. “Come on, thought you were touching me.”

“Shut up,” you grit, “your stupid dumb fingers are distracting me.”

He chuckles, pressing two fingers right against your entrance before pulling away. “They are, aren’t they? Needed me, didn’t you?”

“Just needed something.”

“Sure, like Chip Bowl.” He scoffs. “You could’ve made up a much better lie, y’know.”

You jerk Steve off again, trying to get back a bit of your authority. He groans low in his throat, breaking it off with another laugh. “Could’ve - picked - a-anyone else-“

“Yeah, well,” you breathe, fighting back a moan as his fingers work fast on your clit, your hand finding the same pace against his shaft. “Your nickname w-was f-fucking… the Hair.”

“That’s mean,” he whines. “Not like I chose it. Oh, fuck, honey-“

“And King Steve,” you continue, spreading your legs, pushing forward slightly to have better access to him. “Stupid.”

“You’re about to cum on his fingers,” he groans.

“Bullshit,” you moan, grabbing his shirt with your free hand. He’s got the top half unbuttoned, showing the hair on his chest, sleeves rolled up. If you look down, you can see the veins in his forearms pushing out as he works on your cunt. You pull him towards you and his lips land on your neck. He’s quick to suck an eager hickey into it.

“Gonna make me cum,” he whispers into your skin. “You- this isn’t how - mmmmmph - how I wanted….”

“Oh,” you breathe. Your wrist is starting to cramp but you maintain your pace. “You d-dreamed about this, huh?”

Steve licks a path up to your ear. “Like you haven’t.”

You grab his shirt harder, breathing heavily, panting while he rubs your clit. He bites into your neck, a whimper leaving his throat. “Ah,” he cries, rutting into your hand as you rut into his, “‘m gonna cum, shit!”

“On the leather?”

Your orgasm hits you fast and severe as he slides two fingers knuckle-deep into you. You gasp and swear, pushing yourself into him and pulling him onto you. Steve groans, cumming from the sensation of your tight walls around his digits, your hand pumping him through it. He forces himself off of your neck to press his lips harshly into yours and you both moan and lick into each other’s mouths until you need to pull back to breathe.

You can only stare at each other for a while. Your thumb rakes over Steve’s temple, rubbing away a stray drop of sweat. He looks drunk. Your chest heaves and he moves his hand to your thigh again, rubbing gently.

“Thanks for the ride,” you finally say, pushing his hair out of his face.

He smiles and nods. “You, too. Are you gonna let me in to clean up?”

You smile back. “Sure. But I’m not helping.”

“Awful rude of you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek. You notice now how hot you are, how radiant your cheeks have been. The intimacy of his kiss only makes you boil more. “How about you let me stay to make up for it?”

“You trying to sleep with me?”

“No,” he muses. “Just trying to win with you.”

[elfenbensord]

[elfenbensord]

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

[elfenbensord]

oh i leave quite an impression, five feet to be exact. SHORT N' SWEET Sabrina Carpenter's 6th studio album ● released August 23rd, 2024

[elfenbensord]

who says it can't be both

liking this man causes the same symptoms as psychosis

[elfenbensord]

heyyy, I tried to go to the link of request that you have on you pinned post and it keeps sending to another place (that I'm almost sure you didn't wanted) sooo, just so you can change it or let it, whatever you prefer 🫶🏼(btw sorry for bad English)

bahagahhaha i accidentally added the wrong link🫣🫣 thanks for telling me😘

[elfenbensord]

I hate the whole discourse of: "fanfic writers need to accept criticism so they can improve". Look, I did not post 5k of men blowing their loads so that I can become Hemingway or something, just don't read it if you don't want to, or do read it and drop your damn thanks in the tin.

[elfenbensord]

“when did Steve get so hairy?”

inspo

[elfenbensord]

its not psychosis its divine knowledge this time

[elfenbensord]

saddest moment of my life was watching st4 with my bf and having to pretend i didn't find steve shirtless hot😔 needless to say i'm single now lol

[elfenbensord]

Hi, I was wondering if you take any request?

hello! yup, i'm taking requests 🏂

info is in my navigation post which is pinned on my blog😘