Flipped: A Steve Harrington Enemies to Lovers

Your Own Personal Harrington (18+)

For the most part, despite the bickers, despite the snide digs and the teasing and the flirtatious one-upmanship, Steve is an unbelievably gentle boyfriend. He's sweet. He's soft. He's thoughtful, and remembers even the tiniest details about you. He typically handles you with caution in every sense, ever since your first time together last summer, the night Starcourt burned to the ground.

Tonight, he's far from gentle. And it's exhilarating.

You get home. You slam the door. There's a haphazard toss of the keys in the nearby dish, and a harsh push against the wall.

Every kiss he plants on you is hard, claiming, dripping with jealousy. It's equal parts tender and brutal and so fucking beautiful especially when he knots his fingers in your hair, forcing your head back and moving his mouth against yours as if he were trying to swallow every pretty noise you make.

He wants you to know how he feels, about your heart, about his heart, about certain nuisance, metal-head ex-boyfriends.

He wants you to understand that after all this time, you're still the girl who drives him insane, that when he's with you, it's electric in all the best ways, and the worst. It doesn't matter, he wants it all.

Most of all though, he wants you to feel how much he burns for you. And maybe, just maybe, despite the fact you've not said those three important words back yet, you'll show him you're burning, too.

He hopes it's not just him, choking on the devastating flames he keeps hot for you. He hopes what you feel is an inferno, unbearable and all-consuming. Pathetic, he knows.

He wraps his fingers around your throat, but his other hand ventures elsewhere, popping open your jeans and slipping underneath the waistband of your panties.

It coaxes a moan from you.

He chuckles against your mouth, teeth knocking yours by accident.

"Already soaking," He murmurs. "Get a little excited in the car, did ya?"

"A little." You squirm under his touch, breath hitching when he slips in and curls his fingers.

The sensation causes you to writhe, but Steve keeps you pinned against the wall by your neck, kissing you, slow and passionate - a total contrast to the callous way he sinks his fingers in and out.

"Say it again," He demands. "Say again what you told me tonight."

You cannot respond, unable to string together a coherent sentence, putty in his hands and lost in the fog of pleasure.

"Tell me what you want. Tell me who you want."

"You," You whimper. "I want you, Steve."

"Again."

"You."

"Again."

"You- fuck. I need you."

He grins like a devil, removing his fingers from out your pants and slipping them into his mouth.

"Good girl." He whispers.

Next, he's on his knees.

The sight of it makes you gasp, that you completely forget about the fact you only just made it home, you're still fully clothed, and you haven't even turned on the lights yet.

"I need you, too," He says, tugging your jeans down your legs, slipping them off. "Are you gonna give yourself to me, sweetheart?"

"Jesus Christ." Is all you can breathlessly hiss.

"Is that a yes?" He smirks and God, could he look any cockier?

"Yes. Fuck."

"Ask me nicely." More smirking; it causes a low simmering of annoyance to bubble within you. But that only spurs him on even more.