#hmlhr

[rosewaterandivy]

got lovesick all over my bed

Summary: it might be worth it for once.

Warnings: facetime shenanigans, rockstar!gf had one too many glasses of merlot, my usual brand of filth™️

a/n: be a slut, do whatever you want!

🎶 everyone wants him, that was my crime, the wrong place at the right time 🎶

It was stupid.

Borne of desperation and one too many glasses of red wine, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Steve was off filming for the next few weeks and you were back in an empty house in Laurel Canyon. You tried, unsuccessfully, to not be a bitter Betty about it all; oh, woe is me! My incredibly talented boyfriend has to go back to work.

Were you even his girlfriend? 

Jesus Christ.

It’s been what, less than two weeks and you’re already spiralling. 

Shuffling from the couch you pocket your phone and try to ignore the desire to double-text.

Hey

Could you be any more pathetic? Hadn’t even “defined the relationship,” whatever that meant, and already slipping. You know he’s busy, on-set, and suffering through night shoots in the desert somewhere.

Leaning against the island of your kitchen, you uncork some wine and pour it into a glass. Watching as the crimson liquid sloshes against the curved glass, you idly wonder if you should seal the deal and live your best Olivia Pope fantasy by having popcorn for dinner.

Before you could think better of it, you felt the subtle vibration of your phone in your pocket,

S.H.: Hey yourself

wow, so clever

wow, so bratty

You bit your lip and took a sip of wine in an attempt to quell the low swoop of your stomach.

The texts were intermittent for the next hour or so before he was called back to set. It was a nice distraction from the utter lack of plans you had for the evening. Your producer had sent over the final mix of your new album that you needed to proof and sign off on, so that was the plan while Steve was off filming for the next few hours.

He’d asked if he could call you later, once filming wrapped for the evening and you’d agreed not realizing that it would be nearing  2 a.m. and you’d be half a bottle in. 

Settled back in your bedroom freshly showered and laptop atop the duvet cover, you’re only briefly startled when the FaceTime ring trills out.

“Shit!” 

You quickly pause the song you were listening through and hope you look halfway decent before answering Steve’s call. Mussing your hair, you minimize the image of yourself and enlarge the one of him.

“Hey sweetheart.”

Steve smiles slow and sweet, huffing a laugh at your poor attempts at primping.

“Stop messing with your hair, you look great.”

“Uh huh,” you brush off with a smirk, “Watch me make red wine drunk the next trendy TikTok look.”

He looks to be back at the Palm Springs house, settled against the headboard of the bed that you swore was going to fall off the wall from the sheer amount of times he’d fucked you into the mattress the last time you visited. 

Your skin warms at the thought.

“Can’t wait.” He smiles and takes a screenshot as you flip him off, he’s always doing shit like that— his iPhone or one of his many film cameras or, your least favorite, FaceTime. Says he has to have up-to-date photos of you for the Missing Person posters he'll make once the coyotes finally get you out in the Canyon.

What a dork.

“How was your day?”

“Oh fine,” you say with a sigh. “Did a whole bunch of nothing, showered, I was proofing the final tracks for the album and then you called.”

“Oh,” he pulls a face, grimacing because he thinks he’s disrupted you at work, “I can fuck off if you—”

“Harrington, if you finish that sentence I swear to god—”

“Fine, fine,” he relents with a chuckle and runs a hand through his hair, knocking the glasses off of his head. “So that’s where these went.”

You roll your eyes, this man, honestly.

“You alright?”

“Yeah, just tired is all.” He heaves a sigh. “These night shoots are the fucking worst.”

You hum, “I can imagine. The cold desert at night?” You blow a raspberry, “And you’re worried about coyotes carrying me off?”

“I have a vested interest in your safety, y’know.”

“Oh, I’m well aware.” You tease, taking another sip of wine. “I got thick thighs and a fat ass, and the only person I want to eat me is you.”

“Aww, I’m touched.” Steve laughs, hand to his heart. “Look at you, gettin’ all sappy and borderline cannibalistic over FaceTime.”

“I know,” you demure and bat your lashes. “I’m so emotionally mature.” Setting the glass on the nightstand, you lean forward inadvertently giving him a generous view of your tits.

“Anyway,” you sit back against the pillows of your bed. “What’re you wearing, honey?”

It’s like his brain glitches for a moment or two, and he needs to reboot. 

“Uh,” he glances down with a furrowed brow. “Boxer briefs.”

“Thrilling.”

Could it be that Steve’s never done something like this before? It hadn’t been exactly discussed between you, but he was looking so delectable and you missed him so much.

Fuck it.

“What about you?”

A slow smile splits your face, a waggle of your brows. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Instead of a verbal reply, you pan the camera down to display your latest lingerie acquisition— pale pink and adorned with tasteful floral embroidery, because Steve is a sucker like that. You can hear him swallow and his shallow breaths from the speakers.

“D’ya like it?”

“Fuck.”

There was a rustling sound as he settled more comfortably on the bed. The room lights were dimmed casting shadows across his bronzed skin, an errant lock of hair falling in his face. His voice was so low when it came through the speakers that it sent heat straight to the pit on your stomach, “Wish you were here.”

“Me too baby,” you purr and set the macbook further down on your bed. “Tell you what,” you say taking a final sip of wine, “Why don’t you go ahead and record this for those lonely desert nights, hmm?”

His eyes nearly fall out of his skull. “Y’sure?”

“Course I am handsome.”

He was leaned over in front of the camera, undoubtedly attempting to prop it up on something and hit record.

“Gonna be good for me?” you rasp when he comes back into view, “Let me take my time with you?”

Steve nods, eyes finding yours as his breaths even out. You watched him hook his thumbs into the band of the boxer briefs and drag them down his toned thighs on screen. His hard length sprung to his stomach once the waistband passed his tip, hard and thick where it lay. You licked your lips.

He took himself slow, his fist tight at his tip as he slid down his length at an excruciating pace. That was how he usually slid into you, savoring that first push as you surround his cock in your warmth.     

Your core fluttered in time with the stroke of his palm, slow and deep passes up and down his length that would no doubt feel like ecstasy inside you.

“Feel good baby?” 

You own hand skates down your torso, lingering here and there before ever so gently brushing against your clit. 

“Thinkin’ about my pretty mouth wrapped around your cock?”

He let out a moan, eyes rolling back at a particularly good stroke. 

Fingers stuttering over your clothed clit, your free hand snakes behind you to unclasp the bra and let it fall down your arms. 

You watched as he fell back fully on the bed, his hand picking up pace as the other reached down to cup his balls. A choked moan came from the screen followed by even more hushed words. 

“Miss you daddy,” you whine. “Want your big cock fucking my mouth n’ gettin’ me all messy.”

Barely able to swallow around your dry mouth, you watched him lift his head and watched his hand stroke his length. Steve’s face was obscene; eyebrows furrowed deeply and mouth hanging open in pleasure.

You were overstimulated if anything, never imagining you would have such a visual of him getting off while you were beyond wet, almost uncomfortably so. Your clit pulsed as you caught on screen Steve moan a choked fuck as he writhed on his borrowed bed. 

Fingers pressing headily against your clit, you rubbed tight circles around the slick bud at the sight on the screen. Couldn’t remember the last time you’d been this wet for long-distance sex, no matter the hour. Dipping your fingers beneath the lace of your underwear, the slick of your slit wetting your fingertips. 

A small whimper left your lips as the contact, wishing that they were Steve’s fingers slipping through your folds instead. 

“Fuck, I’m so wet for you.”

He cursed deeply as he slowed his pace, mostly likely trying to hold out from coming too soon. Everything made it hard for you to articulate what you wanted at that moment.

On screen Steve brought you back, his head tilted back as he pumped his length beautifully. You could see his stomach tensing. You could see the tops of his thighs jumping before they disappeared from the camera’s view where they hung off the edge of the bed. You could see his jaw clench every time his tight fist circled his tip. The sound of him spit slick and stroking himself was so lewd paired with his pants and moans. 

While you were enamored with the screen, the fingers of your free hand brushed your nipples. You couldn’t stop your gasp if you wanted to. Every touch had your cunt clenching and begging for attention.

You could tell he was close, and kept teasing your skin but refrained from dipping a finger into your slit. Your breathing was labored, soft whines elicited from the back of your throat as on screen Steve moaned your name. 

“So pretty daddy, wanna see you come so bad.”

He was breathless at hearing your words, the low rasp of your voice filtering through the speakers. Fuck, does he miss you. 

You sigh again, whimper like a little punctuation, sheets rustling. “Thinkin’ bout your tongue and how wet you make me,” and your voice is so low, so needy, “I wish you were here. Touching me all over.” And the picture in his mind of you, so pretty and open, wild at the mere memory of him—

“Keep going. Think about me riding you, baby. Slow at first, how you like, taking you a little bit at a time. You’re always so hard.”

There it is, egging his own fist on to match the pace of a subtle and steady sluiced-up rhythm, your fingers working over, inside, back out, twisting and turning.

He’s lost in the way his heart pounds all the harder at the sounds you make because it means you’ve let yourself go. How you’d scramble for his fingers next, lacing them through yours, squeezing him there and everywhere.

And oh, how exquisite you look with that sheen of sweat across your chest. Hovering over him like a goddess and fucking him like a wet dream.

“Baby,” red lip pulled pale between his teeth, hands working in tandem—imitation and imagination constructing a well-oiled machine in your absence. “Baby, fuck. Miss you on me—miss you fucking me. God–”

“Yeah? Gonna come?” You’re panting, too, noises high and obscene, the background echo of your hand growing more frantic and unrestrained. “Me too, pretty boy. I want to do everything with you—have all of you. Your hands, your mouth, your cock.”

It’s all too fast. Your words, his words, your hands, his hands. Feels like he’s barely started when his eyes roll back against his lids. He’s spilling out, over his fist, up his clenched abdomen, body pulled tight, panting heavy and hard as he tugs at himself a few more times, breathing and listening, heart rattling against his ribcage when you whimper one last time.

Watching him come was enough to bring you hurtling over the edge, fingers pumping messily in and out of your sopping cunt, imagining yourself there and clenching around him instead. Your eyes flutter close, your release drenching your hand.

Steve aches then. His eyes flutter open. Heat smothered cold and lonesome like the embers of a dying fire. His neck hurts. His heart hurts.

“Babe,” you say and he hears it in you, too—the same ache, the same want. Like at the end of every call you’ve made to him since you’d left Palm Springs.

“When you get back,” you sigh, the telltale mantle of sleep falling over you, “I’m gonna let you know just how much I miss you.”

He’s hot all over, chasing the ghost of your doting kisses, the phantom touch of your skillful hands. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

A cheeky wink followed by a sleepy wave, and then you’re gone.

He closes out of FaceTime and types out a text to Robin.

Need an appointment with Lorraine Schwartz ASAP pls.

And if he peruses the jeweler’s instagram studying engagement rings for the next hour, well, no one needs to know.

[rosewaterandivy]

Coming soon a Hit Me Like a Hook of the Right joint…

Posted here!

[rosewaterandivy]

girl crush

Summary: there’s more than two beds, but of course you sleep in his.

W.C.: 2.5k

Warnings: y’all know me - it’ll be the usual! Smut, idolatry, devotion, unprotected sex (wrap it up!), pussy drunk Steve— I don’t make the rules 😤‼️

a/n: aka your first time with Steve, who may or may not be your boyfriend?

🎶 I’ve got a girl crush, I don’t get no sleep, I don’t get no peace, thinkin’ bout her 🎶

“Wish I could babe,” his voice sounds distant over the phone, wind whipping every other word through the mic, “But we just started production out here, we won’t wrap for a while yet.” You’d caught him during a break in filming, miraculously.

Several dates in LA after an introduction from Eddie, and here you are trying (and failing) to plan another. He’s back in California after a press tour and you were fresh off of recording your latest album.

“Well,” you drawl out, “I could come to you?” The question is rushed, breathless, you screw your eyes close in fear of fucking it all up.

A pause.

“You sure?”

“S’easier than dealing with your schedule, Harrington,” you say lightly, “Palm Springs is doable enough.”

He’s working on some indie picture out in the desert, you were murky on the details. You hear shuffling from his end and ‘psst’s trying to get someone’s attention.

“Rob… Rob! Can you– yeah, the address?”

A moment later your phone dings with a notification.

“So,” you say, throwing clothes haphazardly into a bag, “What’ve you got planned for us?”

Three or so hours later finds you in the desert and absolutely ecstatic about it. Dressed down in cut-offs and an old merch tank–or, as dressed down as you could get–you breathe in deep, thankful to be out of LA. Little to no paps and tabloids to be worried about–or worse, Deuxmoi acolytes–so you could finally relax.

Steve met you out front with the fattest joint you’d seen in years, he nearly dropped it when you all but tackled him to the ground. You were so happy to be with him again.

“Little soon to be proposing, no?”

“Think I’d do better than some hydro from Arglye,” he grouses, but you take it from him anyway with a deep inhale, “Says ‘hi’ by the way.”

“Tell him I accept and we’re registered at Tiffany’s,” you say finally, exhaling slowly.

He rolls his eyes, “Okay, Material Girl,” he helps to hoist you back up, “Tour time.”

After the grand tour, which was impressive–“Holy shit, do you have Robin on retainer? ‘Cause if not...”--Steve entertained you in the kitchen, making what he called the ‘secret sauce.���

“Oh, that?” you scoff, pouring some wine, “Had that on date number two, if you’ll recall.” You take a sip and continue with a waggle of your brows, “My compliments to the chef, as ever.”

Steve blushes at that, recalling how pretty you had looked with your glossed lips around his cock, all warm and soft under the dim light from the setting sun. A groan rumbles from his chest as he braces himself against the countertop, knuckles turning white.

“You’re a menace,” he said, voice low and gravelly, before he turned his attention back to the pots and pans on the stove.

You shrug and drink some wine, savoring the crisp tart taste against your tongue. Steve flits from one spot to the next while he cooks, stirring the sauce one moment and blanching veggies the next; all the while, remaining loose enough to pour a second glass of wine for you and another for himself.

Infuriatingly attractive that.

The sun had gone down in the desert while Steve finished with the pasta. You’d assigned yourself the task of setting the table and doing the dishes after dinner. Plates and cutlery arranged, you helped yourself to some salad while Steve served the pasta.

You mouth had already been watering at the mere scent of whatever was bubbling away on the stove, and all it took was one bite to have you audibly moaning at the dinner table. His eyes met yours, mischievous and curious, as he sipped his wine.

“Fuck me, that’s good,” you say with closed eyes, savoring the taste.

Steve laughs quietly across the table.

Dinner goes on, you try to reign in your vocal appreciation of the meal. He fills you in on some details of the shoot, set gossip, and the like. You offer up the scant information you have about the upcoming tour and album release. Clearing the table is easy enough between the two of you, knocking hips every so often as you washed and he dried the dishes.

You ended up in his bedroom, collecting the duffle you’d packed from the guest room down the hall. It was a kind thought, that you would opt for a separate room and your own space; he was hesitant like that, never wanting to assume.

Electing to change in the ensuite bathroom, you step out of the denim cutoffs and fold them neatly on the counter. Shoes had been kicked off at the front door earlier in the evening, leaving you now in an ancient Corroded Coffin shirt that had seen better days. He’s sat on the bed, looking all soft and sweet–tousled hair and wire rimmed glasses framing his face nicely, skin flushed from the wine.

He bit his lip when he saw you come out, hair a mess and legs, legs, legs, but a vision nevertheless. He can’t help himself as you step between his splayed knees at the edge of the bed, his hands coming to rest against he curve of your hips.

“Hey honey,” he murmurs as your arms wrap around his neck.

“Hey Steve,” you greet in return, lips pulled tight in an embarrassed smile.

Gently, he tugs you closer to him, the fabric of the shirt rucking up against your skin. His finger skirts against the back of your thigh, the skin shivering involuntarily. “Missed you,” he says, voice raspy and low.

His soft gaze lingers on you, warm hazel eyes looking up through long lashes. “Missed you too,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?” he asks, fingers grasping at the flare of your hips before he leans back on the bed, “C’mere then.”

As you clamber onto the bed, he lays back against the cool cotton of the duvet pulling you down with him. Substantively seated in his lap, you rest your head against his chest and let out a sigh.

“Comfy?” he says, a hand trailing lazily up and down your back. You nod, fingering the fabric of the shirt between your fingers. Softened by time and wear, paint and lettering disintegrating each time you wore it. It smells comforting like you–cardamom and sandalwood with a hint of something boozy–smells like home.

“I’ll keep you close then.”

His other arms falls against your hips while he continues to trace shapes against your back. You feel his lips leave at the crown of your head before his head falls back against the mattress. It’s quiet and he can tell from the rhythm of your breathing that you’re a few minutes from falling asleep.

The nation’s favorite spitfire in his bed, face nuzzled into his chest, bit by bit chiseling your way into his heart.

Steve lets his teeth worry his bottom lip, willing his nerves not to get the best of him. “Y’know, I really like you.”

“Mmm,” your drowsy moan comforting, the lazy smile tugging at your lips setting off the butterflies in his stomach. “I really like you too.”

Fuck, he hadn’t been this nervous in a while. And yeah, you’d been seeing each other for a minute but not long enough to have the ‘what are we’ conversation.

His hand tangles in your hair, loose and windswept from the drive, fingers scratching lightly at your scalp. A muffled moan pours from your lips and vibrates his chest.

“Sorry, sorry” you slur sleepily, “M’not normally such a lightweight.”

Steve, for his part, doesn’t think anything of it. You’d had, what, one glass of wine at dinner— maybe two? But you could be tired from the drive.

Maybe he’s misreading this thing entirely. A brief flicker of panic licks up his spine; maybe it’s too soon, maybe you just want to sleep—

“Can hear you thinkin’ up there,” you mumble and pull him from his downward spiral. A brief movement as you settle your chin to his chest and glance up. Your eyes are half-lidded and sultry, lips pulled in an enticing fashion.

He grunts when you shift your weight until you’re practically sitting on his chest to keep him breathless. He’s smiling up toward the ceiling, one side of his lips curled upward, jaw slack, easy and yielding because Steve offers himself to everything like this: headfirst and wide-open.

It’s be infuriating if he wasn’t crashing headlong toward you. It’d be irritating if he wasn’t so damn earnest about it.

After a while of feeling out each other's atmosphere, eyes catching every so often before flitting away to focus on something else, Steve arches up to request a kiss, all warmth and need.

You lean down to touch your lips to his gently, brushing your nose with his along the way— a wholly delicate gesture he never would’ve expected from you, but has grown to adore.

“We can go slow,” you breathe against his lips. “Don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Steve’s stomach swoops. He reaches up to cradle the back of your neck, drawing your forehead to his. “That so?”

You're smiling— so big and beautiful it hurts. And his heart is so loud he thinks you must hear it.

The kiss was clumsy, you chalked it up to too much drink, but the touch of your lips to his burned down his throat, like whiskey and joy— warm and smooth and cataclysmic as his hand cupped your face. You kiss him and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush in excitement because you’re not letting go, so he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning all the ways you like to feel him there.

“Steve,” you breathe, and it lights him up. “Steve,” you say again, and his eyes slip shut. Even now, he’s crushed with longing.

You press the heat of your core into his groin, grinding your hips into his.  

When your tongue touches him again, he thinks he might go blind. His eyes flutter open as much as they can, to savor the moment of your face so close to his. Your eyes, shut. Your skin, flushed. Your hair, a silky, folded curtain against his chest.

You are straddling Steve’s thigh now, sitting on your knees and moving against his thick limb in slow orbits. The underwear sitting against your hips is still there but does nothing to keep the slickness between your legs at bay. His thigh is moist from it, and it catches a shine in the fading light.

“Need you, baby,” you plead. “Any way you want.”

You glow like a full moon in the night, divining his animal desires with phosphorescent eyes.

Too eager now with permission. Too eager now with the fiercest kind of lust—of love—he lets it go. All for you, and you all for him. He nips at your collar, drowning deeper and deeper. Fingers meandering to hook into the gauzy and damp fabric hiding you from him and pulls. Wants you bare and shuddering beneath him. Hip bones against hip bones, the noises you make—ragged and hoarse—sending tremors down his back.

Steve grips your waist and moves you from his leg. A whimper escapes before it turns into a gasp as he turns you around, back meeting the cool of the sheets. “You call it, sweetheart.” Comes his husky voice in your ear. You know he means it completely.

A moan slips forth when he dives into the back of your shirt and tears it off, does the same with his. He wants to hear that noise again. The two of you are entwined like real lovers, pulling apart only to breathe and whisper to each other.

He falls onto his forearms, touching foreheads together, noses together, lips hovering until you meet him in a sloppy half-kiss, tongue slipping over his, spit and sweat shimmering across your mouth.

Steve doesn’t bother taking his boxer-briefs off completely, crumpling them down just below his cock is enough for him to slide in like he was created for you. He tells you as much, as you whimper and cry out beneath him.

“Look at me,” He prompts, tilting your face so you see where he’s connected to you. He’s searing hot as he thrusts upwards. “You were made for this.” He’s delirious with it, the heavy thrum that flows through the union of your bodies, “You were made for me.”

Like a prayer, he repeats your name.

Inside of that deafening miasma, Steve is still awake and a part of him knows that this is what he’d been longing for. His cock is throbbing inside of you and every time he pulls out and thrusts back in, your cunt wipes any shred of doubt from his mind.

Your head tips backwards and he catches the base of your skull in one giant hand. “So good,” you praise, “You’re so good, Steve.”

God, he’s so hard. Cramming himself inside your body, torso to torso, as close as he can get because he needs it—he needs it so bad.

He’s blind with it, drunk off it, beginning to rut like he’s in heat, surprised at the confessions he burns into your neck g’na marry you, fuck— that have you gasping and clenching in equal measure. Catalogues and litanies of honey, baby, fuckfuckfuck, god—growling devotions sinking into your throat, your shoulder, your chest. Sucking inscriptions in the common tongue of love as they slip past his lips.

You take all of him again and again, matching his pace, eyes squeezed shut, opening briefly but dazed. Panting and pleading his name, sudden waves of orgasm making you shake and shiver. Then he starts again— easier, kinder, letting the beast work its way back through his skin. Tongue sweeping lines. Canines pulling flesh.

You sigh and smile. A sacred dream of flesh and blood wrapped around him. “Wanna see you, baby,” you say, “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

So he does, blinking through the darkness and finds you like a beacon, as you always are, as you always will be. His hair falls to one side, lighter from the summer sun, suspended and rocking along.

“’S that good? Like this?”

“Yeah. Yes,” he babbles, “Wanna give you everything.”

“Come with me, Steve—come on, baby.”

And it’s all so fast. Your words. His words. Your hands. His hands. Hips moving in heavy thrusts and hair falling over his face and endless moans of god, fuck, 'm gonna come at the last minute before his eyes roll back behind his lids.

Steve buries his face into your neck, groaning. “Mine,” he whispers finally coming back to himself. Raspy and slow and again when you gasp. Your nails dig into his back reflexively, thighs squeezing him tight.

He’s smiling like an idiot because he doesn’t know what else to do about it. His heart is fluttering and filling up. He looked at you for too long, thought about you too hard even though you’re right here and his, and maybe that’s what launched itself into his dizzy head.

A hard kiss that makes you whimper. Mine. Another to the line of your open jaw. Mine. Your throat. Your collar. Your chest. Mine. Mine. Mine.

You smile into his temple, rubbing your cheek on him, too. 

“Keeping me all to yourself?”

He nods eagerly, heart full, then overflowing. “Keeping you forever.”

[rosewaterandivy]

omg, imagine actor!steve! being spotted at rockstar!gf show (kinda like people are spotted at ts era tour in vip tent) and getting cute little bracelets from fans & him showing her them afterwards.

In honor of a follower milestone, here, have some modern!actor steve x rockstar!gf. Took the prompt and ran with it; enjoy! 💜

tender charm

🎶 baby the way you move me, it’s crazy, it’s like you see right through me and make it easier, you please me, you don’t even have to try 🎶

Steve’s not the type.

Sure, he understands these sorts of things. And for most of your fans, attending a concert of this magnitude will be a defining event in the course of their lives.

He simply was not prepared for the sheer amount of people wanting to give him bracelets. He’s much more used to your fans showing off their ink and tattoos of lyrics or your handwriting. And, as always, he felt ill prepared because he didn’t have anything to offer them in return.

Luckily, they didn’t seem to mind. He was, however, bombarded with shouts of, “Take care of our girl, Harrington!” or “Tell Cherry we love her!” and the occasional, “We’ve got our eye on you, don’t fuck it up!”

Steve didn’t intend on fucking it up. Well, not if he could help it anyway.

So when he gleefully shows you the haul on his arms and shoved into his pockets at the end of the show, breathlessly recounting fan messages he’d promised to relay, Steve doesn’t necessarily catch the mischievous gleam in your eye as you nod along.

“I ended up with a ton of these,” his fingers pinch the moody teal and emerald beads at his wrist, black letters of SHRIKE contrasting against the bright white plastic, “I guess they assume it’s about me, or us.” He concludes with a shrug.

“Yes, because I never write songs about you.”

“Oh yeah, that’d be career suicide.” He laughs and settles back against the banquet seat of the tour bus.

“Hmm, that’s weird.” You say with a twist of your lips, “You’re missing some.”

Steve furrows his brow, confused as you turn to rifle through your bag. Prizing the bracelets between your fingers, you roll them onto his wrist before letting your hands fall into your lap.

He reads the newest acquisitions quickly, eyes widening in realization.

Something simple and to the point. Had cost you all of a ten dollars and maybe an hour of your time. An understated color palette of earthy tones for each bracelet, accented with black text printed on white beads.

The first proclaims DADDY. The second declares 2 B. The third is simply a chord of leather adorned with a singular gemstone in the center.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. “Are you—“ Big hands cup your hips and drag you closer to him.

“Yes,” you squeak, clambering into his lap and resting your forehead against his. Eyes growing misty, you blink to clear the haze and get a long look at him.

Under your gaze, he attempts to duck his head and nuzzle into your neck and shoulder. Your hands, cool against his heated skin, cradle his head while your thumbs rub in soothing circles against his scalp.

“You happy?”

Steve nods, at an utter loss for words. Can’t imagine trying to speak without his voice breaking or, god forbid, bursting into tears.

“Good,” You sigh with a sweet smile. “Me too.”

It was touch and go after the shower incident, which ended up being a false alarm anyway. And then there was really no time for discussion between your tour and his filming schedule.

It wasn’t something you’d sat down and discussed, not really. Steve’s always wanted kids, but never quite let himself believed that it would happen.

Not until you barreled into his life, a whirlwind of talent and genetics with a tendency for entropy.

One look at you and he was a complete goner. Started ring shopping after your visit to Palm Springs, as a matter of fact.

So to say that he’s happy is an understatement. Overjoyed, yes. Bowled over, definitely. Synapses and neurons firing in rapid succession, far to fast for him to keep up.

All he knows is this: the brush of your skin against his, a cool balm to his fevered flesh. The scent of you—musk and salt and home— surrounds him, blankets him in comfort. Everything he could possibly want, right here in his grasp.

“We’re having a baby,” he says with a shudder. Because now he’s said it, now it’s real.

You gnaw the swell of your bottom lip, pearly white and plush pink accented by the delicious curve of your smile.

“You can say that again.”

Steve jerks up helplessly. “What—“ Sets you back a pace and eyes you up and down, “Is there—“

A slow nod as happy tears clump your lashes together. As if you can’t take his torment anymore, you smile wide and radiant.

“Twins,” you rasp, “We’re having twins.”

He fumbled with his awkward limbs, drawing you near once more, hands tentative and hesitant with newfound knowledge. Logically, he knows you won’t break— you’re built of sterner stuff, as you like to remind him. But he can’t help treating you with tenderness at a moment like this.

Graciously, you allow it. Soft hands and watery smiles, sweet murmurs that fall from your lips and pierce him all the way through—“Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

A kiss planted on the tip of his nose as your hands stroke his form. Sliding smooth up his side and stoking heat into his arms and shoulders, up his spine, down his chest.

Steve’s eyes slip shut when your mouth returns to his neck. He takes your advice to heart, not that there was much convincing that was needed anyway.

It’s only then, your eyes both sharp and steady peering into the once empty parts of him, housed in the tender safety and warmth of your arms, does Steve bow his head and weep.

[rosewaterandivy]

If you need a crash course before Weds. 👀

hit me like a hook of the right

a series of blurbs & one shots featuring modern!actor!steve x rockstar!gf

🎶 Down, down in my bones, somewhere I'd never ever known, right at the back of my head it hit me like a beam of light 🎶

summary: Girl meets boy, seems pretty simple, all things considered. And in any other reality than the one you’re living, it would be. But being one half of a Hollywood It-Couple is … complicated at best, and devastating at worst.

vignettes from your life as Cherry McGowan, rockstar and girlfriend to actor Steve Harrington.

warnings: my blog is 18+ MDNI reader/rockstar!gf & steve are in their late twenties/early thirties, drinking, smoking, invasion of privacy & general celebrity nonsense.

a/n: just a bit of escapism for ya! updates will be sporadic until mid-september, at the very least.

Series playlist

listed in chronological order & (*) denotes 18+ content

won me over in spite of me

pynk like the inside of your*

girl crush* - posted 9/20

got lovesick all over my bed* - coming soon

Emmy's drabble

honey, you were mine

dancing in the dark

nothing compares 2 u

flipped the script, shot the plot

let gravity win

almost wilting away

didn’t know I was broken ‘til i wanted to change

real love baby

more than being unknown

my days on a wire

requests (one shots, drabbles, hcs, etc.)

craving through the dark

tender charm

[rosewaterandivy]

Cathedrals

Summary: In the cathedrals of New York and Rome / There is a feeling that you should just go home

Pairing: past s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 1.8k

Warnings: angst, rich people being, you guessed it, rich, sad boy steve, actor!steve, rockstar!reader

hit me like a hook of the right m.list

“Hey,” He says, stepping next to you in the Sackler wing as you eye the Temple of Dendur.

It’s a rare moment to yourself in an otherwise packed event. You sigh and take a sip from your champagne, thinking that maybe if you stay silent long enough you can simply will this moment away.

He looks good, but it’s not hard for a man to do at the Met Gala— show up in a tailored suit with an appropriate accessory and call it a day. His hair is longer, starting to curl at the nape of his neck in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it.

“Hi,” You allow, keeping your gaze forward on the blocks of stone.

And there’s a million things you could say to him right now, but the most pressing and the one you will absolutely not bring yourself to ask is this: why did you let me go?

You’d rather not have to deal with tears after all the hard work Lisa an her team did on your face. Instead, you keep your eyes forward and take a steadying breath.

“You look good.”

You hum, as if in thought; not accepting the compliment but not out right denying it either. Because yeah, you know you look good— great, even after the past few months without him. And it’s not as drastic as changing your hair and dropping weight, but you’re healthy; you’re good.

The dull accompaniment of people meandering around the wing has fallen to a hush. Sure strides sound out against the pristine floors as a familiar hand falls to the small of your back. Part of you wants to lean into it, into him, all broad chest and the familiar scent of bergamot and spice.

Steve stiffens and takes another sip from his drink, ice clinking in the crystal glass.

The hand winds its way around your hip to settle against your stomach, warm and inviting. The scrape of his stubble against your hairline as he dips down to whisper in your ear sends a shiver through you.

“Ready to go?”

His lips, pink and full, graze the shell of your ear as you nod and turn in his grasp. He drops a kiss to your forehead and holds your glass as you crumple the fabric of your train in your grasp.

“Oh,” You say, taking a step toward the mezzanine. “This is my friend, Steve Harrington.”

He stops at your side, offering you an arm for balance that you gladly take, and goes to shake his hand.

“Nice to meet you man,” He says, pumping Steve’s hand in a firm shake. “I’m Sebastian.”

“I, uh,” Steve eloquently replies, eyes flitting between you and your escort. “Yeah, nice to meet you too.”

Greetings aside, Sebastian smiles at you and tosses over his shoulder, “See you in there!” His free hand wrapped around your waist as the pair of you navigate yourselves to the table for dinner.

A refreshed drink awaits you, thankfully, as you settle the skirt and train around your chair. Polite greetings and acknowledgements are made at the table as the first course arrives, but you can’t bring yourself to eat.

His hand is warm through the layers of tulle, organza, and silk against your thigh, a subtle squeeze every so often that says I’m here, I’ve got you.

Blue eyes, like storm at sea, meet yours as he takes a sip from his drink. And it must be clear from the expression on your face that something isn’t quite right. His fingers twine with yours and rest against his thigh, his thumb rubbing in circles on your hand.

There’s several courses to go, plus the schmoozing present at every industry event. You have a phone hand-off to do with the Loewe girls, and then there’s the after parties. Thank god you’re not performing this year— small miracles.

Picking up your fork, you make an effort to push some food across your plate as Alessandro speaks in rapid fire Italian to your right. You responses are polite and infrequent, you hear him mutter something like, “Cara mia,” before someone approaches your table.

“Sorry to interrupt,” He says, as your blood runs cold. “But could I just borrow her for a minute?”

Alessandro looks at you, dramatic eyebrow raise and everything, while Sebastian sits, seemingly unaffected.

“Well,” Your date replies, “I suppose that’s up to her.”

As if this night could get any worse.

Polishing off your drink, you quickly stand— the sooner you get this dealt with, the better. You give Alessandro an eye roll as you turn to go, pausing to kiss Seb on the lips.

“Be back in five,” You say, thumb grazing against his jawline. “Get me another drink?”

He nods, assured, and drops your hand only when forced, the distance growing between you.

Steve leads you back towards the Rockefeller wing, not stopping his stride until you’re in the Greco-Roman corner, stood in front of the marble statue of Aphrodite.

Your feet ache, your heels this evening weren’t exactly chosen with comfort in mind, and suck in breaths like nobody’s business— the bodice of your gown suddenly feeling tight.

“What do you want Steve?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, and stares at the statue before him. Like he can’t even look you in the eye.

And then, he laughs.

“Are you shitting me?”

His tone is cutting, incredulous, and cruel.

You cross your arms and don’t dignify his question with a response. As if he has any right to ask that of you.

“I mean, he’s not— You’re not—” He keeps cutting himself off, fearing the words may be true if he comes out and just says it.

“Together?”

Steve drops his hand from his hair and turns. Fuck. That was not a good idea.

You look amazing, you always do, and you’re definitely going to end up on a Best Dressed list of some kind for the evening. He’s heard enough rumblings to know you’re wearing something archival and looking damn good doing it.

You don’t take a step closer, nor do you look at him.

And, okay, he can admits that stings a little.

“That’s none of your business.”

Your voice is soft, but echoes in the cavernous wing nonetheless.

“Yeah,” He sighs, “I guess not.”

He just can’t wrap his head around it– you’re, well you, a Grammy-award winning artists who tours the globe and headlines things like Coachella. How can you be with someone like that? I mean, does this guy even know what Coachella is?

“What?” Your voice breaks the uncomfortable silence, “Your face is doing that thing Steve; what could you possibly want to say to me about my presumed relationship?”

“He’s just so…” Steve trails off, there really is no eloquent way to say this. “Old.”

Your scoff is loud and the expression on your face is— well, one he hasn’t exactly seen before. And he can’t say he likes being on the receiving end of it.

“Wow,” You say, stepping back and hitching your skirt in hand. “Sorry I’m not out there fucking every twenty-something that moves, Harrington.”

And yeah, he deserves that.

“But then again,” You toss over your shoulder as you turn to leave, “Babysitting was always more your forte.”

The red bottoms of your heels click as you walk away, back to the party and your date.

Steve feels like an idiot.

The plan was to play it cool and friendly, ask how you’d been and hopefully lead up to some sort of conversation. Instead, he got jealous. Saw the way someone who is not him wrapped his arm around you and how you sank back into him, comfortable, safe.

Saw the way he looked at you, bemused and adoring, the way he anticipated your movements and held your drink. And then, at dinner, how you smiled fondly at something he’d said or done, hands intertwined on his thigh.

And it was as if Steve’s chest was caving in. He couldn’t stop himself from walking over there under some false pretense, for just another moment of your time. How unaffected this man was, not even threatened by his current lover’s former lover, how he deferred to you and your decision.

Part of Steve wondered what that must be like, to be so secure in yourself and your relationship. Was that something that came with age, experience, or both? It did nothing to assuage the anger in his gut, even as you followed him out of the mezzanine and to the far corner of the main floor of the Met.

He wanted to say so many things, to ask if this man even knew where or what your favorite piece was in here. It was all he could think about during the red carpet and press line earlier this evening, how the two of you had somehow managed to go incognito one day last summer, before everything fell to shit.

How you’d spent hours at the Met, walking from one exhibit to the next. Talking about artists and color in hushed tones. You had never been much for religion, but you treated museums with more reverence than most penitents in a cathedral. How casually you’d asked his opinion on things he knew nothing about, reassured him that art wasn’t about critiquing schools or technique, but rather how it made you feel.

You’d drug him to the European paintings on that day, fingers slotted against his, tugging him along. Spoke softly about Buoninsegna’s Madonna and Child and it stuck him how small it was in comparison to the larger works, like Degas and Rembrandt. There were scorch marks from candles along the bottom of the frame, and you’d said it was because this was a piece in someone’s home– a personal altar.

People would pass it each and every day going about their lives, lighting candles in commemoration of the Virgin Mother and her Christ child. He remembers how you looked, awestruck underneath your ballcap, as if you were seeing it for the first time.

“Art should be for the people,” You’d said then, “The public. Things like this,” You’d gestured around the room, “Aren’t meant to be bought at Sotheby’s and displayed in millionaires homes alongside a Chagall or Kandinsky.”

And he’d agreed with you, he still does now.

So when he finds himself in front of the very same painting, Steve’s not all that surprised. As he studies the child’s hand, how how to seems to brush aside his mother’s veil, he wonders:

Does he know your favorite piece? How you like to loudly discuss that the artifacts from Greece, Egypt, Africa, and Asia should be returned to their ancestral homes, that it’s nothing more than theft that fills the coffers of museums? Does he, wrongly, assume that you prefer the ballerinas of Degas or a girl with a pearl earring?

Does he know you as well as Steve does did?

He knows he won’t get answers, and that he’s torturing himself by even thinking of them, of you. Steve sighs and leaves the empty exhibit room, wondering what he’d do if this feeling was to ever abate.

Afterall, how can he be homesick for a home that he has no right to call his own?

[rosewaterandivy]

A Hit me like a Hook of the Right joint….Coming Wednesday

Posted here!

👀🏃🏻‍♀️💨

[rosewaterandivy]

ACTOR!STEVE ! ACTOR!STEVE ! ACTOR!STEVE !

Consider this a sneak peek for the next installment 😉

[rosewaterandivy]

Aaaand she's done, clocking in at 2.1k. 🙃

Coming soon a Hit Me Like a Hook of the Right joint…

[rosewaterandivy]

Yes, you get it 😌

girl crush

Summary: there’s more than two beds, but of course you sleep in his.

W.C.: 2.5k

Warnings: y’all know me - it’ll be the usual! Smut, idolatry, devotion, unprotected sex (wrap it up!), pussy drunk Steve— I don’t make the rules 😤‼️

a/n: aka your first time with Steve, who may or may not be your boyfriend?

🎶 I’ve got a girl crush, I don’t get no sleep, I don’t get no peace, thinkin’ bout her 🎶

“Wish I could babe,” his voice sounds distant over the phone, wind whipping every other word through the mic, “But we just started production out here, we won’t wrap for a while yet.” You’d caught him during a break in filming, miraculously.

Several dates in LA after an introduction from Eddie, and here you are trying (and failing) to plan another. He’s back in California after a press tour and you were fresh off of recording your latest album.

“Well,” you drawl out, “I could come to you?” The question is rushed, breathless, you screw your eyes close in fear of fucking it all up.

A pause.

“You sure?”

“S’easier than dealing with your schedule, Harrington,” you say lightly, “Palm Springs is doable enough.”

He’s working on some indie picture out in the desert, you were murky on the details. You hear shuffling from his end and ‘psst’s trying to get someone’s attention.

“Rob… Rob! Can you– yeah, the address?”

A moment later your phone dings with a notification.

“So,” you say, throwing clothes haphazardly into a bag, “What’ve you got planned for us?”

Three or so hours later finds you in the desert and absolutely ecstatic about it. Dressed down in cut-offs and an old merch tank–or, as dressed down as you could get–you breathe in deep, thankful to be out of LA. Little to no paps and tabloids to be worried about–or worse, Deuxmoi acolytes–so you could finally relax.

Steve met you out front with the fattest joint you’d seen in years, he nearly dropped it when you all but tackled him to the ground. You were so happy to be with him again.

“Little soon to be proposing, no?”

“Think I’d do better than some hydro from Arglye,” he grouses, but you take it from him anyway with a deep inhale, “Says ‘hi’ by the way.”

“Tell him I accept and we’re registered at Tiffany’s,” you say finally, exhaling slowly.

He rolls his eyes, “Okay, Material Girl,” he helps to hoist you back up, “Tour time.”

After the grand tour, which was impressive–“Holy shit, do you have Robin on retainer? ‘Cause if not...”--Steve entertained you in the kitchen, making what he called the ‘secret sauce.’

“Oh, that?” you scoff, pouring some wine, “Had that on date number two, if you’ll recall.” You take a sip and continue with a waggle of your brows, “My compliments to the chef, as ever.”

Steve blushes at that, recalling how pretty you had looked with your glossed lips around his cock, all warm and soft under the dim light from the setting sun. A groan rumbles from his chest as he braces himself against the countertop, knuckles turning white.

“You’re a menace,” he said, voice low and gravelly, before he turned his attention back to the pots and pans on the stove.

You shrug and drink some wine, savoring the crisp tart taste against your tongue. Steve flits from one spot to the next while he cooks, stirring the sauce one moment and blanching veggies the next; all the while, remaining loose enough to pour a second glass of wine for you and another for himself.

Infuriatingly attractive that.

The sun had gone down in the desert while Steve finished with the pasta. You’d assigned yourself the task of setting the table and doing the dishes after dinner. Plates and cutlery arranged, you helped yourself to some salad while Steve served the pasta.

You mouth had already been watering at the mere scent of whatever was bubbling away on the stove, and all it took was one bite to have you audibly moaning at the dinner table. His eyes met yours, mischievous and curious, as he sipped his wine.

“Fuck me, that’s good,” you say with closed eyes, savoring the taste.

Steve laughs quietly across the table.

Dinner goes on, you try to reign in your vocal appreciation of the meal. He fills you in on some details of the shoot, set gossip, and the like. You offer up the scant information you have about the upcoming tour and album release. Clearing the table is easy enough between the two of you, knocking hips every so often as you washed and he dried the dishes.

You ended up in his bedroom, collecting the duffle you’d packed from the guest room down the hall. It was a kind thought, that you would opt for a separate room and your own space; he was hesitant like that, never wanting to assume.

Electing to change in the ensuite bathroom, you step out of the denim cutoffs and fold them neatly on the counter. Shoes had been kicked off at the front door earlier in the evening, leaving you now in an ancient Corroded Coffin shirt that had seen better days. He’s sat on the bed, looking all soft and sweet–tousled hair and wire rimmed glasses framing his face nicely, skin flushed from the wine.

He bit his lip when he saw you come out, hair a mess and legs, legs, legs, but a vision nevertheless. He can’t help himself as you step between his splayed knees at the edge of the bed, his hands coming to rest against he curve of your hips.

“Hey honey,” he murmurs as your arms wrap around his neck.

“Hey Steve,” you greet in return, lips pulled tight in an embarrassed smile.

Gently, he tugs you closer to him, the fabric of the shirt rucking up against your skin. His finger skirts against the back of your thigh, the skin shivering involuntarily. “Missed you,” he says, voice raspy and low.

His soft gaze lingers on you, warm hazel eyes looking up through long lashes. “Missed you too,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?” he asks, fingers grasping at the flare of your hips before he leans back on the bed, “C’mere then.”

As you clamber onto the bed, he lays back against the cool cotton of the duvet pulling you down with him. Substantively seated in his lap, you rest your head against his chest and let out a sigh.

“Comfy?” he says, a hand trailing lazily up and down your back. You nod, fingering the fabric of the shirt between your fingers. Softened by time and wear, paint and lettering disintegrating each time you wore it. It smells comforting like you–cardamom and sandalwood with a hint of something boozy–smells like home.

“I’ll keep you close then.”

His other arms falls against your hips while he continues to trace shapes against your back. You feel his lips leave at the crown of your head before his head falls back against the mattress. It’s quiet and he can tell from the rhythm of your breathing that you’re a few minutes from falling asleep.

The nation’s favorite spitfire in his bed, face nuzzled into his chest, bit by bit chiseling your way into his heart.

Steve lets his teeth worry his bottom lip, willing his nerves not to get the best of him. “Y’know, I really like you.”

“Mmm,” your drowsy moan comforting, the lazy smile tugging at your lips setting off the butterflies in his stomach. “I really like you too.”

Fuck, he hadn’t been this nervous in a while. And yeah, you’d been seeing each other for a minute but not long enough to have the ‘what are we’ conversation.

His hand tangles in your hair, loose and windswept from the drive, fingers scratching lightly at your scalp. A muffled moan pours from your lips and vibrates his chest.

“Sorry, sorry” you slur sleepily, “M’not normally such a lightweight.”

Steve, for his part, doesn’t think anything of it. You’d had, what, one glass of wine at dinner— maybe two? But you could be tired from the drive.

Maybe he’s misreading this thing entirely. A brief flicker of panic licks up his spine; maybe it’s too soon, maybe you just want to sleep—

“Can hear you thinkin’ up there,” you mumble and pull him from his downward spiral. A brief movement as you settle your chin to his chest and glance up. Your eyes are half-lidded and sultry, lips pulled in an enticing fashion.

He grunts when you shift your weight until you’re practically sitting on his chest to keep him breathless. He’s smiling up toward the ceiling, one side of his lips curled upward, jaw slack, easy and yielding because Steve offers himself to everything like this: headfirst and wide-open.

It’s be infuriating if he wasn’t crashing headlong toward you. It’d be irritating if he wasn’t so damn earnest about it.

After a while of feeling out each other's atmosphere, eyes catching every so often before flitting away to focus on something else, Steve arches up to request a kiss, all warmth and need.

You lean down to touch your lips to his gently, brushing your nose with his along the way— a wholly delicate gesture he never would’ve expected from you, but has grown to adore.

“We can go slow,” you breathe against his lips. “Don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Steve’s stomach swoops. He reaches up to cradle the back of your neck, drawing your forehead to his. “That so?”

You're smiling— so big and beautiful it hurts. And his heart is so loud he thinks you must hear it.

The kiss was clumsy, you chalked it up to too much drink, but the touch of your lips to his burned down his throat, like whiskey and joy— warm and smooth and cataclysmic as his hand cupped your face. You kiss him and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush in excitement because you’re not letting go, so he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning all the ways you like to feel him there.

“Steve,” you breathe, and it lights him up. “Steve,” you say again, and his eyes slip shut. Even now, he’s crushed with longing.

You press the heat of your core into his groin, grinding your hips into his.  

When your tongue touches him again, he thinks he might go blind. His eyes flutter open as much as they can, to savor the moment of your face so close to his. Your eyes, shut. Your skin, flushed. Your hair, a silky, folded curtain against his chest.

You are straddling Steve’s thigh now, sitting on your knees and moving against his thick limb in slow orbits. The underwear sitting against your hips is still there but does nothing to keep the slickness between your legs at bay. His thigh is moist from it, and it catches a shine in the fading light.

“Need you, baby,” you plead. “Any way you want.”

You glow like a full moon in the night, divining his animal desires with phosphorescent eyes.

Too eager now with permission. Too eager now with the fiercest kind of lust—of love—he lets it go. All for you, and you all for him. He nips at your collar, drowning deeper and deeper. Fingers meandering to hook into the gauzy and damp fabric hiding you from him and pulls. Wants you bare and shuddering beneath him. Hip bones against hip bones, the noises you make—ragged and hoarse—sending tremors down his back.

Steve grips your waist and moves you from his leg. A whimper escapes before it turns into a gasp as he turns you around, back meeting the cool of the sheets. “You call it, sweetheart.” Comes his husky voice in your ear. You know he means it completely.

A moan slips forth when he dives into the back of your shirt and tears it off, does the same with his. He wants to hear that noise again. The two of you are entwined like real lovers, pulling apart only to breathe and whisper to each other.

He falls onto his forearms, touching foreheads together, noses together, lips hovering until you meet him in a sloppy half-kiss, tongue slipping over his, spit and sweat shimmering across your mouth.

Steve doesn’t bother taking his boxer-briefs off completely, crumpling them down just below his cock is enough for him to slide in like he was created for you. He tells you as much, as you whimper and cry out beneath him.

“Look at me,” He prompts, tilting your face so you see where he’s connected to you. He’s searing hot as he thrusts upwards. “You were made for this.” He’s delirious with it, the heavy thrum that flows through the union of your bodies, “You were made for me.”

Like a prayer, he repeats your name.

Inside of that deafening miasma, Steve is still awake and a part of him knows that this is what he’d been longing for. His cock is throbbing inside of you and every time he pulls out and thrusts back in, your cunt wipes any shred of doubt from his mind.

Your head tips backwards and he catches the base of your skull in one giant hand. “So good,” you praise, “You’re so good, Steve.”

God, he’s so hard. Cramming himself inside your body, torso to torso, as close as he can get because he needs it—he needs it so bad.

He’s blind with it, drunk off it, beginning to rut like he’s in heat, surprised at the confessions he burns into your neck g’na marry you, fuck— that have you gasping and clenching in equal measure. Catalogues and litanies of honey, baby, fuckfuckfuck, god—growling devotions sinking into your throat, your shoulder, your chest. Sucking inscriptions in the common tongue of love as they slip past his lips.

You take all of him again and again, matching his pace, eyes squeezed shut, opening briefly but dazed. Panting and pleading his name, sudden waves of orgasm making you shake and shiver. Then he starts again— easier, kinder, letting the beast work its way back through his skin. Tongue sweeping lines. Canines pulling flesh.

You sigh and smile. A sacred dream of flesh and blood wrapped around him. “Wanna see you, baby,” you say, “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

So he does, blinking through the darkness and finds you like a beacon, as you always are, as you always will be. His hair falls to one side, lighter from the summer sun, suspended and rocking along.

“’S that good? Like this?”

“Yeah. Yes,” he babbles, “Wanna give you everything.”

“Come with me, Steve—come on, baby.”

And it’s all so fast. Your words. His words. Your hands. His hands. Hips moving in heavy thrusts and hair falling over his face and endless moans of god, fuck, 'm gonna come at the last minute before his eyes roll back behind his lids.

Steve buries his face into your neck, groaning. “Mine,” he whispers finally coming back to himself. Raspy and slow and again when you gasp. Your nails dig into his back reflexively, thighs squeezing him tight.

He’s smiling like an idiot because he doesn’t know what else to do about it. His heart is fluttering and filling up. He looked at you for too long, thought about you too hard even though you’re right here and his, and maybe that’s what launched itself into his dizzy head.

A hard kiss that makes you whimper. Mine. Another to the line of your open jaw. Mine. Your throat. Your collar. Your chest. Mine. Mine. Mine.

You smile into his temple, rubbing your cheek on him, too. 

“Keeping me all to yourself?”

He nods eagerly, heart full, then overflowing. “Keeping you forever.”