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doomsdaybby · 8 months

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crown of thorns - werewolf!steve harrington x fem!reader (2.7k)

co-wrote by calicojack11 (who is very very unfortunately not on tumblr) & doomsdaybby

content/trigger warnings: blood & wound description, hurt/comfort, size kink, daddy kink, breeding kink, dubious consent, steve is a teensy bit mean but it’s okay!

Steve is never in the mood the day after a moon, but he knew what you were doing while he was gone. He could smell you all night. He can smell you now, too. By the time he’s done with you, you’ll know not to tease him next month.

You’re awake long before the turn of the front door down the hall causes your eyes to snap open. Hazy morning light sifts in through your bedroom window.

Your apartment always seems to stand still the morning after the full moon, like you’re suspended in time as long as you remain between these old walls.

Maybe it’s just the apprehension.

There’s no telling what will walk through that door come sunrise. Sometimes it’s a naked, blood covered body, on other occasions Steve has returned as causally as if he’d just run out for coffee. More often than not, it’s something in between.

Today it’s something in between. You sit up in bed with your legs hanging over the edge, the hem of Steve’s shirt pooling loosely around your waist. There’s no time for you to get the door for him, he’s already flinging it open before you can even stand up.

“You’re hurt.” You observe with a hitch in your throat. It’s been four years since he was bitten. The two of you were just friends back then, just teenagers trying to save the world. It never gets any easier.

“Barely.” Steve responds, and the shadows on his face melt into the bags under his eyes to make him look that much more ominous.

“You’re bleeding.”

“They’re just thorns, baby.” He limps into the room, shirtless and speckled with blood. His gray sweatpants sit low on his hips to show off the dimples at the small of his back as he surpasses you on his way toward your master bathroom.

You swat your hand out to catch his, and he stops at the corner of the mattress while gazing down at his feet. Thick, nail-like thorns protrude from his ribs. He does this shit every month, this pity party of shame.

Always too proud to ask for help or love or softness, but you give it to him anyways. And of course he adores it, the way you touch him so tenderly, but God forbid he ever admit to that fact.

Steve glances at you out of the corner of his eye with a defeated frown.

“Come on.” He reluctantly gives in, and you take his hand to lead him toward your bathroom.

Once there, you run the bath. He likes it hot on the morning after the moon, as hot as the tap will run. Anything to soothe his tired, overworked muscles.

When the water runs cold, you’ll pull the drain and start it all over again, stroking his chest and scratching his head from outside of the tub while he drifts in and out of unrestful, broken slumber.

Steam begins to fill the small room as Steve stretches his arms above his head. His hands latch onto the top of the doorframe, giving you unbridled access to his injuries. You lower yourself to your knees and begin the reaping.

Steve tenses with the plucking of the first thorn, and a small stream of blood begins to flow freely from his torso. You press your thumb over the hole to stop the bleeding but he jerks away from your touch.

“Don’t — Just get it over with.” He grits between clenched, “It’s worse when you go slow. Just do it.”

His words rip at your heartstrings. You know it’ll hurt him, and it’ll hurt you too, but what sort of help would you be if you were to only give it on your own terms?

Two thorns sit near each other at the lower section of his abdomen. You don’t warn him before yanking them out simultaneously.

Steve grunts, and more blood flows. You continue to pluck the miniature railroad ties from his flesh and his composure never breaks.

The most he gives you is a few pained grunts, a couple of low moans and whimpers, his thick fingers clench the jut of the doorframe and he never offers any indication that it feels like he’s being ripped apart.

By the time you’re done, he looks like something macabre, all stretched out and dripping with blood. Crimson stains the right side of his joggers and sweat clings to the hair on his chest as his lungs heave.

He looks down at you on your knees like he hates you, like you’re the one who caused his suffering, while you’re looking up at him with a palm full of thorns ready to be fashioned into a crown. Like he’s a god. Like he’s your god, and you are here to worship.

He releases the door frame and pushes his sweatpants over his hips, down his thighs until they’re in a pile at his feet. Steve’s cock stands at attention before you, right in front of your face.

Slick with precum, veins throbbing and head just as burgundy as the blood painting his skin. Drool fills your mouth immediately. You try to look away but it’s hard.

Maybe he can smell that you’re fertile, maybe that’s what has him going. In the days leading up to this moon, Steve had been ravenous.

His hands grabbing you every chance they got, tossing you around this apartment like you were just a chew toy for him to clench between his teeth and shake.

He’s had you every which way, wherever he wanted, whenever that primal need hit him. And you were still thinking about it; his name slipping off of your tongue like a prayer, the metronome of your headboard hitting the wall, how you’d woken up to him already inside of you…

Steve is already stepping past you by the time you shake your head clear of those memories. He settles into the bath water and lets out a groan of relief, one not unlike the sounds he’d been making yesterday afternoon.

Steam dampens his hair and causes it to stick to his face, but you think he looks nice like this — a little vulnerable. He always likes when you sit by the edge of the tub and cup water in your hands to pour over his chest, so you do just that.

You move to the side of the porcelain basin and ease your hands into the water, getting comfortable with the temperature before ladeling a handful of it over his skin.

Steve settles back against the wall, finally accepting your touch. He closes his eyes and allows you to alternate between scoops of steaming water and rakes of your fingernails across his chest.

Eventually you abandon the hand back, instead navigating your palm from shoulder to shoulder, tracing your nails down his sternum and over his stomach, from hip to hip, repeating the process in reverse and then all over again.

You know what the man likes. He’s taught you well, refusing to accept your care on any other terms.

You think he’s dozed off — hell, you’ve nearly done so yourself — when you feel the roll of his hips. Steve shifts against your touch, coaxing your hand further down his abdomen to brush the dark curls that float there.

“Mm… feels good.” He whimpers.

Steve is never in the mood the morning after a moon. He’s always too sore, too cranky. You don’t want to push your luck, so your hand roams back up the trail of hair that leads to his bellybutton, hardly making it halfway before you feel his loose grip circling your wrist.

Your eyes snap up, and Steve’s bloodshot gaze is fixed on you. He looks very much like a wounded animal, ready to bite at the threat of danger but still begging for relief.

Slowly, without muttering a word, Steve leads your hand beneath the surface of the water.

He closes your fist around the base of his cock and then allows himself to relax again, but you feel the strain of muscles between his hips, how tight they’re strung. You want to give him that release.

Beneath the tinted pink bath water, you begin to move your hand. Slowly, ever so slowly, up and down his length. Squeezing just as tightly as you know he likes. And he rewards you with a gentle sigh, a sign that you’re doing good.

“That’s it, baby.” He breathes.

Heat rushes between your legs. This isn’t about you though, so you suppress that need. You squeeze your thighs together and focus on the feeling of his slick skin beneath your fingertips, how velvety soft and warm he is to the touch.

Your thumb drags over his swollen head as you finish your first stroke, and Steve rewards you greatly.

“Fuck…” His voice is deep and raspy, fingers clenching at the edge of the tub as he holds onto his composure. “Fuck, yes. Good girl. Faster.”

Your heart dips in your chest and you stutter for a moment before obeying his order. Then you pick up the pace, your hand moving more quickly down the thick, wet length of him and back up again.

With every dip and curve of his shaft, you can’t help but to imagine how it feels inside of you. He could choose any hole. Wherever he wants you, he could have it.

“Was thinkin’ about this all night, you know.” He muses, his breathy voice that of a siren pulling you beneath the waves. “Could smell your wet fucking cunt from the edge of town. Every time you slipped your hand into your panties I felt like I was going fuckin’ feral. Lucky I didn’t do something we’d both regret.”

That heat between your thighs spreads up your abdomen, radiating throughout your core. Steve can smell everything during werewolf week; when you’re horny, when you’re ovulating, when you’re bleeding. You should’ve known better than to tease him like that.

You twist your hand around his girth, jerking him off just as you typically do when he’s halfway down your throat.

You prefer him in your throat. There’s something cathartic about it — about your eyes welling up with tears as you struggle to take it all, gazing up at him through bleary vision and watching as he pumps himself into your mouth.

“Get in.”

You don’t hear him, you’re too preoccupied with the view of his cock throbbing between your fingers.

Steve’s hand shoots forward, circling the back of your neck and jerking you toward him. Before you realize what’s happening, his lips are smashed against yours. Teeth and all. Tongue slipping into your mouth. It takes you a beat to respond, and then you melt into his touch.

“Get in, angel.” He repeats, words honeyed and saccharine against your lips. As if you need convincing. “Make me feel good. Fucking please. Only you know how.”

You hardly break your kiss to pull the shirt over your head, losing your panties along the way as you climb over the wall of the bathtub and sink into the water that’s far too hot for your flesh. It burns. You’ll be pink when you get out, but the pain is diluted by the overwhelming pleasure of Steve slipping his hands beneath your ass and moving you exactly where he needs you to be.

His cock bumps against your core, sliding between your slick folds to nestle against your swollen clit. TV static begins to fill your brain and you’re moving on impulse, instinct. Lovemaking is an art that the two of you have perfected together.

“I want it.” You whine with your head laid against his chest, bloodied water drifting up and down your chin with every subtle movement like the push and pull of the tides.

“What do you want? Tell me.” He asks, fingers digging into the meat of your thigh.

Steve grips the base of his cock with his other hand and teases your entrance, sliding the head through your arousal and pushing himself inside of your weeping pussy just enough for you to feel his stretch.

You drag your teeth along his collarbone, hips burning as you hold yourself above him. You know better than to take before being given permission.

“Want your cock, daddy.” You press a chaste kiss to his throat, searching for the artery there that’s pumping with hot, nectarine blood.

A baritone growl rumbles from his chest, it vibrates you so nicely. He pulls his palms from beneath you, encircling them instead loosely around your waist and tilting his forehead down to meet yours.

“Take it, baby. It’s yours.” He whispers, pressing his lips too briefly against yours.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but you’re already sinking down on his cock. Opening yourself up around him. Stretching to your absolute limits just to accommodate his satisfaction.

Steve’s veins drag along your inner walls with every disappearing inch, his nails digging into the small of your back as his mouth parts slightly and eyes glaze over with want.

“Mine?” You repeat, nearing the base of his cock.

You can feel him in your stomach, head stroking that perfect spot at the back of your pussy with every gentle rock of your hips. You’re just waiting for him to say it.

Steve nods. “All yours. Fuck, it’s all yours, angel.”

You need no further instruction, especially when the heat of your clit brushes against the collection of sodden hair at the base of his cock. It’s that tiny fraction of extra attention you crave to dull the ache.

Steve grunts low when he bottoms out, surrounding you with a gentle wave of steaming water as he flexes his hips up, up and up again. Trying to somehow fit even more of himself inside you, bullying his way in, carving out a hole in your abdomen.

You anchor yourself to his chest, pushing as he pulls, the splashing of the now overflowing bath water surrounding you both being a companion to the collective shaky huffs and bitten curse.

Steve sighs, something so sweet, that gentle part of him you miss a little too much during this stage of the cycle. He flexes his arms then and pulls you in real close, chest to chest, your skin tacky against one another.

You place a kiss along the column of his throat, and you can taste the dirt and sweat and blood that’d been brought to the surface the night before. It’s dirty. It’s raw and a little bit feral, but you stick your tongue out anyways just to taste it because it’s part of him.

“Gonna cum inside you…” He bites out your name a little mean, and it’s almost a warning.

You feel your sleek inner walls contract around him at the thought and on instinct try to lift yourself away, but Steve has you in a stronghold.

“No.” He thrusts up again, water spilling onto the floor. “Let me, baby — ah — let me fill you up. I just need to smell your pretty, fertile cunt full of my seed. Lay still.”

Against your better judgment, you do as he says. You lay still against his chest, taking his thrusts, moaning his name into the atmosphere and riding out the ethereal swirl of stars and colors bursting in your vision as your eyes roll back in your head.

The rope in your abdomen is being pulled tighter and tighter with every stroke of his cock, with the slam of his throbbing head against your cervix. You can feel it threatening to snap.

And then it snaps.

Steve grabs your hips and pushes your core as far down as he can, stuffing his cock into your womb, releasing the first of many ropes of cum deep into your cervix.

He lets out a guttural moan that drowns out your shallow breaths, fingers digging into your flesh as his load overflows and spills out around his girth.

You float in that state of Nirvana for some time, longer than you can keep track of. By the time the fog clears from your head, the water is lukewarm and dirty.

Steve is stroking your pink skin with the tips of his fingers and you can feel his steady breaths blowing through your hair like a gentle spring breeze.

He kisses your temple every few seconds, aware that you sometimes need just as much care on these days as he does.

“It’s gonna stick.” He says.

He’s still inside of you, and you don’t have any plans of making him pull out.

“I know.”

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🫶🏻

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