love island! steve harrington x love island! female reader
warnings: 18+ smut: dry humping, some early morning sex, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise kink, cream pie. almost getting caught.
summary: after the bombshell chooses to couple up with steve, you both choose to sleep in soul ties together.
wc: 2.2k
A/N: HOPE U ENJOY !! AND THANK U FOR 400 FOLLOWERS!!! was actually inspired today to finally write this. also let’s pretend y/n is on birth control and can’t get pregnant on the island😍 btw REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!! please send me anything you guys want and if i like it, i will write it. it can be for love island steve, or just any ideas you guys have. im currently writing someone’s request and im having sm fun with it. anyways thank you guys for all the support!
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others parts here ↓
the bombshell
the hideaway
"Can we talk?" Steve asks you.
Your worst nightmare came true. Just a few minutes ago at the fire pit, Molly chose Steve to couple up with, leaving you no choice but to pick Jake to save.
You nod, and both walk over to the dock and sit for a few moments in silence.
You're not mad at him, you're just confused about why she chose him.
"I don't know why she chose me, Y/N. I really don't." He finally says.
"Did you actually set those boundaries, or did you just say that?" You didn't want to accuse him of lying, but you just wanted answers.
"I did, baby, I promise you. Countless times. I'm just as confused as you are." He feels helpless.
Silence overcomes you both once again. Then you remember they have to share a bed tonight.
"I can't be in a room with you sleeping with another girl, I just can't, Steve. I'm going to sleep in Soul Ties tonight." A tear runs down your face.
"You think I'm going to sleep with her?" He looks at you and wipes that tear right off your cheek. "I'll be right beside you, baby. You're not going to be alone." A small smile takes over your face.
Steve tells you to go get ready for bed and meet him in soul ties once you're done. He got done pretty quickly, so he made the bed all nice and comfy for both of you.
You explained to Jake that he'd be sleeping alone and that you would be outside with Steve. On the other hand, Steve didn't tell Molly a thing. He didn't think she deserved to know. For all he cares, she can sleep in a cold bed by herself.
You make your way up to soul ties and notice Steve has set it up perfectly. The comforter and pillows all around, and a small bouquet of flowers that he may or may not have taken from the fake plants around the villa.
"Steve, this is really sweet." You say before getting under the covers next to him. He wraps his arm around you, pulling you into his body. Your cheek is pressed against his naked chest.
“I hope it’s comfortable, cause I think this is where we’ll be sleeping until there’s a re-coupling, babe.” He laughs.
“As long as I’m with you, I’m happy.” You tell him and kiss his bare skin before shutting your eyes.
You wake up from the bright Fiji sun and reach towards your phone to check the time.
7:08 a.m.
The villa doesn’t wake up until 8 a.m., so you put your phone back down and take in the quiet throughout the villa.
Steve is spooning you from behind, both arms wrapped around your hips, holding you close to him.
Your back is against his chest, so you go to move to face him, but his arms hold you down in his sleep.
That’s when you feel it. Steve’s hard cock is right up against your ass.
Sure, in bed you’ve messed around a bit, Steve’s hands sneaking into your panties before bed, but you guys have yet to actually have sex.
There’s just no privacy when you’re sleeping in a room with five other couples.
But right now? You guys basically had the whole villa to yourselves. No one would be up for another hour.
So you decide to tease him a bit, to see if it would lead to anything. Sleeping next to a sexy man for two weeks will make you horny.
You push your ass harder against his hips and slowly start to grind yourself up against him.
From his breathing and slight movements, you can tell he is slowly coming out of his sleep.
You feel his hips starting to match your rhythm, and his grip on your hips starts to get stronger, holding you down.
“Mhmm.” He moans. “Fuck, baby, good morning to me.” He whispers into your ear before placing a kiss on your neck. “What time is it?”
You giggle, “Seven, they won’t be up for another hour.”
“You say that like you’re insinuating something.” He lies on his back before pulling you to straddle his hips.
“Maybe I am,” You say as you start to rock your hips back and forth on top of him. Just boxers, and your panties separating the two of you.
You thank yourself for choosing a slip dress as your choice of pajamas last night.
His hands sneak underneath the silk of your dress, spreading across your ass cheeks as you grind on him.
“Fuck,” You breathe out, his tip hitting your sensitive clit every time. “Feels so good.”
Your eyes shut and you moan out into the silent villa at the pleasurable feeling shooting through your body.
“Yeah, baby, rub your pussy on me. Keep going.” He encourages you.
Your orgasm starts to build, so you pick up your pace to reach your end.
His hands help guide you as you start to get tired.
“Oh my god, I’m gonna come.” You whine. With just a couple more seconds of grinding, your orgasm hits you hard, and you're coming in your panties. “Shit!” Your body collapses on top of his.
“That’s it, baby.” His hands come up and rub your back, as the aftershocks still have you out of breath.
You sit back up and realize Steve is still hard underneath you. It’s quite perfect actually because you didn’t want to stop.
“I want you, Steve.” He can’t believe what you just said.
His eyes get wide. “Are you sure?”
He was a bit scared, knowing that the other couples could wake up at any point and come out here to the two of you fucking.
“Yes, Steve. Do you want me?” You ask. Maybe he wasn’t ready for this. Maybe he thought it was too fast. You start to get insecure and embarrassed for even asking about this on week two, but your overthinking is quickly shut down by Steve.
“Of course, I want you, fuck, I always want you, Y/N.”
It’s like music to your ears, hearing Steve say that. Both of your lips collide, tongues in each other’s mouths. It’s hot and steamy. And it only makes you hornier.
“Can I take these off, baby?” He asks, playing with the band of your lace underwear. You nod, and his hands slide them down. You help him with getting them off, leaving you bare under your dress while straddling his hips.
He hikes your dress up, his eyes meeting your wet pussy hovering above his clothed cock. He wastes no time in lifting his hips to get rid of the last layer of clothing that separates the two of you.
Steve lies beneath you, completely naked. You both decide it’s better to keep your dress on, in case anyone were to come up here.
It pains Steve a bit because he is such a boob guy, but he knows one day he’ll be able to really worship them.
Steve pulls your face to his and kisses you once more. It’s only when Steve pulls your center against his that you realize you were still hovering over him.
“Oh, my god.” You say, breaking apart from the kiss at the feeling of your bare pussy finally on top of his cock.
You both look down between each other.
“Fuck,” Steve moans at the view below him. You start to grind yourself again over him, this time with nothing separating you. Your wetness coats his length. “Holy shit, Y/N. I need to be inside you.”
Heat rushes straight to your pussy at his words. You hover above him and take his leaking cock into your hand.
You spit down on his tip and pump him a few times. Steve throws his head back at the feeling of your fingers around him.
Your hand guides him to your entrance, but he stops you before he’s inside you. “Slap your clit a couple times.” You do as he says, slapping his tip on your clit, and you moan out. “Oh, fuck, that’s so hot.”
He can’t wait any longer, so he takes his cock in his hand and lines himself up before pulling you down on his length.
“Shit, Steve!” He’s big, super big. You feel all of him, being sucked right into your pussy. It hurts at first, but turns into sweet pleasure.
“Such a tight pussy.” He moans while you start to move up and down on his cock.
He meets your pace by thrusting up into you. It’s not too fast, but not too slow.
“I love the way you feel inside of me, Steve,” You moan, and lean down to place kisses up his neck as he fucks into you.
All Steve can do is moan and whisper curses into your ear, your pussy having him in a complete chokehold.
His hips start to slam into you. It’s a sign that he’s close. “Fuck, baby, play with your pussy for me.” He tells you.
You sit up and scrunch your dress up, so Steve can see exactly what you’re doing.
His eyes watch your fingers as they go where he’s fucking up into you. Your ring and middle finger make contact with your clit, and start moving in a circular motion.
The feeling of his cock inside of you, and your clit getting stimulated, has you squeezing around his cock.
“I’m close, baby. Where do you want me?” Steve asks. His eyebrows are scrunched from the pleasure, and him nearing his long-awaited orgasm.
“Inside, please.” You cry.
You’re both about to come when you hear the sound of a door opening from downstairs.
You both freeze as you check the time on your phone, with Steve slowly pumping into you. 8:04 a.m. You show the time to Steve, but he picks up his thrusts again.
“Quiet.” He whispers as he positions you both on your sides, blanket covering you both, backs towards the stairs where people will eventually come up from.
He starts pounding into you, while his hand comes to your clit, determined to get you both to reach your ends.
You quietly whine at the pleasure coming back to you at full force.
“Come for me, baby.” He whispers into your ear, and it’s all it took.
He’s right behind you, spilling straight into your pussy. You both moan as quietly as you can, knowing the others are right below you.
Steve bites down on your shoulder, in an attempt to stay quiet as your pussy milks his cock dry.
You both feel out of it as the aftershocks take over, when you hear sounds of footsteps coming from the stairs.
“Y/N? Steve? You guys up?” You hear Jake call out as he makes his way up the stairs.
Steve and you both have the same idea to pretend to be asleep still. You didn’t feel like having a conversation with someone when his cock and come was still inside of you.
“I think they’re still asleep; let’s leave them be!” You hear Amber say. “They had a long night.” Their footsteps go right back downstairs.
You want to laugh because you guys didn’t have a long night. You both went to bed at lights out, woke up early, and had morning sex.
Once Steve knew they were gone, he pulled out of you.
“Fuck, baby, that was a close one,” He says before looking for your panties and slipping them back up your legs. He does the same with his boxers.
You feel his come starting to leak out of you. “I think I need to run to the bathroom; we have nothing to clean up with.” You tell him.
He laughs, “Are you sure you don’t want everyone to see what we did?”
You playfully roll your eyes before kissing him and getting up to head to the bathroom. You run past the kitchen, explaining you have to pee really badly to the boys making breakfast. They didn’t ask any questions.
Once in the bathroom, you decide it’s best to shower the smell of sex off you. You’re gathering your stuff in the bedroom when Molly walks in.
You and Steve had been in your own little world this morning, so much so that you forgot that she was the reason why you both were in soul ties in the first place.
Molly looks at you, and you continue to get your things just so you can get out of this room.
“He should’ve been in bed with me last night.” She says.
You look at her. Is she really this confident that Steve is going to want her after what she did to him last night?
“Well, he wasn’t.” You normally are never confrontational, but something about Molly brings this part out of you.
“He doesn’t like you; I can tell. It’s all fake.”
You get the last thing you needed and walk to stand right in front of her.
“Hmm, that’s weird. That’s not what he was telling me this morning while he was fucking me in soul ties.” You say and walk past her right into the shower room.
Molly stands in the middle of the room, speechless.
summary - you surprise Garrett after studying abroad for a year
pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader
word count - +2.3k
a/n - lowkey love this duo enough to continue with either a summer series for them or a mom&dad type series!! lmk what you think!
For an off campus party, Garrett Graham seemed pretty miserable.
The party was small and contained. Only close friends of the guys had been invited to celebrate the start of summer. No more exams or schoolwork. Just sun, sand and sex.
Everyone had gathered in the back garden, just outside the house on the decking. Tucker was manning the grill, with Logan supervising. Dean and Allie were attempting to play a game of badminton, but were mostly just arguing. A couple other hockey guys were sitting around chatting, with Grace and Sabrina nearby. And it was Hannah who noticed Garrett sat by himself not taking part in anything.
“You okay?” Hannah asked and sat down on a chair opposite Garrett.
“Yeah.” Garrett gave a fake smile.
“Convincing.” Hannah joked, “What’s up?”
Garrett had become close enough with Hannah to know she wouldn’t take the piss out of him. He was glad that Allie kept bringing her around, because she was one of Garrett’s closest friends now.
Garrett held up his phone briefly, “My, uh, girlfriend hasn’t texted me since yesterday and I’m just a bit worried.” Garrett frowned, looking from Hannah down to his notificationless phone.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah.” Garrett’s smile went wide.
He noted the shocked expression on Hannah’s face.
Garrett rarely told people about you - not because he wanted to keep you a secret, but because he was just terrible at opening up to people about things like that. You were always encouraging him to be braver with his feelings.
“Since when?” Hannah leaned forwards with interest.
“Coming up to three years now.”
“I’m sorry… You’ve had a girlfriend for three years and I’m only just finding out now?”
“Well I didn’t know you three years ago, Wellsy.” Garrett countered.
Hannah let it slide. “Okay, whatever. Tell me everything about her.”
When someone did finally know of your existence, that was one of Garrett’s favourite things to be asked. He could talk about you for hours, days, forever. He was a healthy amount obsessed with you.
Before Garrett could delve into the 101 reasons why you were his favourite person, Dean had to ruin the moment.
“Jheez, Wellsy, are you a witch? How’d you make G smile?” Dean patted Hannah on the back as he came over with Allie in tow. No doubt their game of badminton had gotten too argumentative to continue safely.
“I was just asking Garrett about…” Hannah cut herself short, realising that she didn’t even know your name.
“Y/N.” Garrett added for her.
Dean clicked his tongue and sighed like a man in love. “Ah, mom and dad.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Hannah laughed, looking between Garrett, Dean and Allie for some explanation.
Allie sat on the arm of the chair that Hannah was sitting on, wrapping her arm around her best friend's shoulder. Dean sat on the same bench that Garrett was sitting on.
“Mom and dad.” Allie repeated, “Y/N and Garrett got the label because they are genuinely like the mom and dad of this group.”
“They’re always keeping us in check. They do the shopping for the house. Y/N actually cleans this place, God knows why. They’re just so mom and dad.”
“She sounds great.” Hannah smiled.
“She is.” Allie nodded.
“Agreed.” Dean added.
Garrett just sat there, quietly smiling to himself as he listened to some of the most important people in his life gush over the most important person.
“So how come I’ve never met her?” Hannah asked.
“She’s spent the last year studying abroad.” Garrett said, frowning again when he realised that this whole conversation had started because he couldn’t get in contact with you.
“That’s so cool. Where abouts?”
“Uh, London– Sorry, I’m just going to–.”
Garrett got up and headed back inside, continuing to stare at his phone like it was personally wronging him.
Allie got up off the end of Hannah’s chair and moved to sit down next to Dean - who immediately pulled her close to his side. Hannah was so happy for her best friend finally being with someone who actually cared for her.
They smiled without looking at each other.
“What?” Hannah asked, wondering what was going on.
“Can you keep a secret, Wellsy, ‘cause we sure can’t.”
“Yeah.”
Dean leaned forwards, double checking the back entrance to the house to make sure that Garrett wasn’t loitering close by. Hannah leaned forwards too.
“Y/N’s surprising Garrett. That’s why he hasn’t heard from her, because fuck knows she’d ruin the surprise if she opened her mouth.”
Hannah’s eyes went wide and her jaw dropped.
“When? Today?”
Allie checked her phone.
“Like, literally any minute.”
Hannah tried to control her excited smile as she leant back in her chair. Dean moved back too, raising his eyebrows to Hannah as if to silently say ‘don’t say a word’.
Logan and Tucker came over minutes later, saying the grill was all prepped and the food was ready to be cooked whenever everyone was ready. They were also in on the secret surprise, so were holding off on cooking until you arrived.
Sabrina and Grace, along with a couple of other hockey guys, had also joined the group so everyone was sitting together, when Allie’s phone pinged.
She opened the notification to see you’d texted to say you were outside.
Allie widened her eyes at the group, all of them visibly lighting up with excitement.
“Where’s G?” Logan asked.
“He went inside before.” Dean said.
“I think he was going to try and contact Y/N again.” Hannah added with a sad pout. She felt for the guy - especially when he had no clue that he was about to see you in a couple of minutes.
Allie stood up, telling everyone that she was going to go and get you. Everyone was in agreement that you should go and see Garrett first, so Tucker and Logan returned to the grill to start cooking in the meantime.
Allie wandered through the house, with no sign of Garrett anywhere.
She opened the front door quietly and silently screamed when she saw you.
You looked tired - no doubt from the long plane ride, lack of sleep and jet lag - but you also looked so happy to be back. You had a big Briar U hoodie on that was no doubt Garrett’s and a pair of navy jogging bottoms on.
You had a shit tonne of luggage bags surrounding you, which Allie would make Dean take in later. It was a mystery how you managed all these bags through the airport yourself.
Allie squeezed you in a tight hug, both of you trying to be as silent as possible.
She let you go, knowing you’d be eager to see Garrett.
You both had a silent conversation with hand gestures, which basically translated to you asking where Garrett was and letting Allie know that’s where you’d be going first. Allie rushed you off, not delaying your reunion any longer.
You tried your best to be quiet up the stairs, the familiarity of the house hitting you all at once. Even the feel of your hand on the wooden bannister felt like coming home.
At the top of the stairs you felt a flurry of butterflies start up in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t tell whether you were nervous or excited to see Garrett. It was the anticipation that was causing the feeling, you decided.
After texts and face-time calls, every day for the last year, it was hard to believe you were about to see him in real life again. It sounded weird to say, but it was true. The last year had been so great, but it had also been so hard living away from Garrett.
If that made you clingy, then you’d wear that label with pride. So what?
Garrett’s door was closed over, but not shut entirely.
You pushed the door open to find Garrett sat on the edge of his bed, crouched over with his phone in his hands.
You knocked gently so as not to make him jump.
Garrett wiped his eyes, not so subtly, before sitting up to look at you.
His whole body sagged as he saw you standing in his bedroom doorway. He closed his eyes and let his body pull him back to lay back on his bed, legs grounding him to the floor.
Tears started to fill your eyes as Garrett’s chest visibly moved up and down from crying. His hand went to cover his eyes, probably trying to comprehend whether this was a cruel trick or genuinely real.
You didn’t wait any longer to move closer to him.
“Hey.” You laughed through your own tears.
“Fuck.” Garrett sat up, taking you in. You watched the disbelief leave his teary eyes, as he fully understood you were right here with him.
He wasted no more time pulling you the rest of the way towards him - absolutely no distance between you allowed again - until you landed on his lap in an awkward straddle. Your arms wrapped around his neck tightly and his wrapped around your waist.
Both of you sat there, lightly crying.
Your face buried into Garrett’s neck as you breathed in his familiar scent. That smell alone caused a few tears, because it was so nostalgic and homely to you. Garrett’s head rested just beside yours.
Neither of you said anything for what felt like the longest time, both more than happy to just sit silently in each other’s arms.
“I thought something bad had happened.” Garrett mumbled.
You reluctantly pulled your head away from his neck, blinking away the remnants of tears as you pulled Garrett’s head up to see him. His eyes were red-rimmed and his dark circles were as dark as yours.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t text me for so long. I thought something bad had happened.” His eyes traced over every inch of your face, scanning every freckle to make sure they were all still there.
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did. If 24 hours of no contact is what it takes to be surprised, then, baby, I don’t want it.” He shook his head.
“Okay. Noted.” You brushed your thumb over his cheek back and forth. He melted into your touch, trying to get as physically close to you as possible.
“Can’t believe you’re here.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t kissed me yet.”
Garrett’s hands left your waist instantly to cup your cheeks and bring your lips directly to his, kissing you exactly how one would kiss their significant other after a year apart. The kiss was bruising, barely enough space to breathe between you.
Garrett tilted your head with his hands so he could kiss you deeper, your hips involuntarily rocking over his. The small movement was enough for Garrett to break the kiss, though the distance between you barely existed.
Both of your chests were heaving and your breathing heavy. You leaned in closer with dazed eyes focused on his lips, kissing him again. This time was shorter and with more feeling, before you pulled away with a soft laugh.
“What?” Garrett asked, still holding you close.
“I missed you.”
Garrett smiled, “Yeah, baby. Me too.” He kissed you four times in a row, before breaking off from your lips to kiss your cheeks, nose, eyes and anywhere else he could. The sound of your laughter filled his room for the first time in a year as Garrett kept kissing you.
You forced yourself forwards to make Garrett fall backwards on the bed, because you knew it was the only way to stop him from kissing you for now.
Garrett’s hair flopped around him on the bed, with a little curl falling over his forehead. His hands moved to place over your hips, whilst yours pressed into his bed either side of his head to keep you upright.
“Can’t believe you’re here.” Garrett said.
“You’ve already said that. Have you developed temporary amnesia, baby?” You teased him.
“My brain hasn’t worked since you walked through the door.”
Garrett’s hand tucked underneath the hoodie you were wearing, and traced up and down your bare skin. The featherlight touch made you smile and you rewarded him with another quick kiss.
You moved to sit back up less than gracefully. Luckily Garrett’s arms were there to support you as he mirrored you to sit up as well.
“How was your flight?” He asked, his eyes focused on you. No doubt he wouldn’t be letting you from his sight for the foreseeable future. He was going to attach himself to you like a limpet whether you liked it or not.
“Shall we go downstairs and see everyone so I don’t have to answer that question fifteen more times?”
Garrett grumbled and his eyebrows furrowed, “No.”
“No?”
“I want you to myself.” He said as his hands tightened their grip on your back.
“Baby, don’t be mean.”
“I’m not being mean, I'm being selfish. There’s a difference.”
“Not a good difference.” You argued.
“Did the Brits teach you to be polite or something?”
You tried not to laugh at your boyfriend’s childish behaviour, because, honestly, some part of you understood what he was feeling. You got possessive when he left for a hockey game for just a weekend, let alone you having been gone a full year.
Of course you wanted to just be with him too, but your friends were important to you too. They’d all kept close contact with you, always letting you know how Garrett was really doing and being there for him when he needed people around. You owed a lot to them all.
“C’mon. You’ll get me all evening.” You compromised.
“You’ve finished over there?”
“Yes,” You smiled, brushing a curl back off his forehead, “Finished last week.”
“So you’re here to stay?”
“Baby, I’m back. I’m here for summer, then autumn, winter and spring. Then summer again and autumn…”
“Okay, okay,” Garrett cut you off, “Can we spend summer together?”
“I literally brought all my shit here with me, because I intend on moving in. You’re stuck with me.”
reader and peter watching a movie alone and both getting ridiculously affected by a sex scene that is way too detailed/ explicit ( they picked it by accident)
hopefully leading to them… reenacting it? ;)
I'll remember this anon...
___
What would you like to see in a future A Matter of Time chapter? My inbox is open!
♡ He wanted all of it. And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you.
Warnings: 18+ / MDNI! • Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Female Masturbation (Use of a Vibrator), Dry humping, Voyeurism (Accidental), Steve Harrington Being Hopelessly in Love (and Coming in His Pants)
Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!Henderson!reader
Word count: 6.4k
Summary: Steve Harrington walks in at the worst possible moment. Fortunately for both of you, it forces a conversation you should have had years ago—preferably not with something buzzing between you.
Author’s note: One day I won't accidentally turn a pure smutty request into a feelings fest complete with mutual pining, emotional constipation and a confession. Today is not that day... apologies to you ♥︎
Also, has the quote in the header inspired another idea yes... no further questions, good day ♥︎
The crumpled post-it note hanging from the fridge was the first sign that something was… different. The second was the absence of Dustin's voice—which, quite frankly, should have been audible from three streets away.
"Mom? Dustin?" Your voice echoed through the empty kitchen.
Nothing.
Frowning, you crossed the room and pulled the note from beneath the heart-shaped magnet holding it in place. The bright yellow paper was covered in your mom's unmistakable looping cursive.
Book club at Belinda's. Dustin at Wheelers. Pizza money on the counter. Love you Hunnybuns xxx
You can't remember the last time you had the house all to yourself. No Dustin yelling your name from the other side of the house because he couldn't find something that was right in front of him. No Dustin barging into your room without knocking. No Dustin demanding lifts off of you.
Just peace and quiet. And well, you couldn't possibly let that go to waste…
"Oooo girls, they wanna have fu-u-un..."
You sang (screamed)–dressed in mismatched socks, an old Hawkins High T-shirt and pyjama shorts, your hair tied up and hanging together by sheer determination, sliding across the kitchen tiles with a whisk doubling as your microphone.
You weren't exactly giving Cyndi Lauper a run for her money, but the half-empty bottle of red wine sitting on the counter was doing a fairly decent job of convincing you otherwise.
You swung open the oven door, immediately being hit by a wave of warm, sugary goodness. Tilting your head, you squinted at the tray of cookies. Misshaped and definitely not done.
You hummed, and with a decisive nod that suggested you had far more baking expertise than you actually possessed, you pulled the rack out slightly and turned the tray around. "There," you informed the cookies. "That'll fix you."
Whether it actually would remained to be seen.
You shut the door and immediately reached for your wine glass, taking a long sip as the next song drifted through the radio. The red wine was pleasantly cool against your tongue, and you leaned back against the counter, swaying slightly to the music.
For a moment, a thought slipped through the haze of music and sugar and warm cookie-scented air. An unwanted thought that maybe, just maybe this wasn’t what a twenty-something-year old should be doing when she got the house to herself. Rather than say, have friends over; you knew the older members of the gang were free tonight bar Robin who had a late shift at the squawk.
Maybe you should, instead, be throwing some crazy party that people would talk about for years or, maybe—maybe you should have invited a boy over.
You immediately shook your head, as if you could physically dislodge the thought from your head. If only it was that easy; because yes, there was a boy… but he didn't want you. Not the way you wanted him.
An annoyingly familiar ache settled itself into your chest, yet again. Unwelcome. Persistent. Stupid, really, considering you'd spent months (years, if you’re honest) trying to convince yourself you were over it. Over him. And his stupidly, beautiful face and stupidly soft hair and stupidly sweet smile and–
The shrill ding-ding-ding-ding-ding of the egg timer nearly sent you through the ceiling.
"Jesus Christ!" You slapped a hand against your chest, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass as your heart launched into your throat. You might have definitely, completely and utterly forgotten that you’d set that.
You flicked the timer off and immediately opened the oven door, a wave of warm air washing over you. The cookies had finally reached that perfect golden colour around the edges, chocolate chips melted into glossy puddles across the tops.
Far better company than Steve Harrington.
The thought slipped in uninvited.
You groaned. Apparently your brain wasn't finished torturing you. Or lying to you.
Because as much as you wanted to deny it—and would, repeatedly. As much as you wanted to roll your eyes and pretend otherwise, given the choice between a tray of fresh cookies and Steve Harrington?
Well.
It wasn't exactly the cookies you were thinking about at night now, was it?
Curled beneath your blankets, a plate of still vaguely warm cookies balanced beside you and your wine glass perched precariously on your nightstand, you watched Ronald Miller grin at Cindy Mancini like she was the only woman in the world through the glow of your television screen.
You hadn’t stopped glaring at it. "Oh, please." As if any man was actually like this, well–
The cookie paused halfway to your mouth.
On screen, Ronald was pulling that awkwardly charming routine that was clearly supposed to make audiences swoon. It made you scoff. Actually scoff. He wasn’t that charming. Okay , maybe a little… but he tried way too hard. Steve never even had to try. Steve could walk into a room wearing a ridiculous sweater, carrying six video tapes and complaining loudly (maybe a little obnoxiously), and somehow every eye would still end up on him anyway.
Not based on true events obviously but who cares. The wine certainly didn't. Because suddenly Ronald Miller wasn't even on the screen anymore.
Instead, your mind wandered to broad shoulders, to hands constantly pushing through impossibly soft hair, to warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. It was deeply unfair.
The man couldn't even complain properly.
Somehow, even when he was whining about Dustin dragging him across town for some ridiculous emergency or being roped into babysitting duties for the kids yet again, he still managed to be annoyingly endearing.
Ronald Miller might have looked good in a varsity jacket, but Steve had spent years making one look utterly unfair.
You could still picture him leaning against his BMW outside Hawkins High, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, letterman jacket hanging open, sunlight catching in his hair while half the female population of Hawkins suddenly found excuses to walk past.
The truly irritating part?
Time hadn't fixed the problem. If anything, it had somehow made it ten times worse.
Because somehow Steve Harrington had traded a varsity jacket for a stupid lime-green Family Video vest and had still come out winning.
You could picture him again outside waiting at the end of the day, one arm hanging out the driver's side window, sunglasses shoved into his hair; though this time he was here for you… and Dustin but that’s beside the current point.
On those rare, glorious days you made it to the car alone, his face would immediately light up. "Hey, Henderson."
Then he'd be out of the car, arms wrapped around you before you could even blink, squeezing you in a quick hug that always lasted just long enough to leave you smiling afterwards. Who are you kidding? Just seeing him made you smile for days afterwards.
If Dustin got there first, however, it was a completely different story.
Steve would immediately become trapped in one of your brother's endless monologues while you trailed behind, rolling your eyes as Dustin launched into a detailed explanation of whatever "disaster" had occurred that day. You'd get a quick smile thrown your way as Steve somehow managed to keep up with the conversation, and then you'd open the back door yourself, sliding into your usual seat while the two of them continued talking/bickering.
But then there were summers.
Summers were the worst.
Long afternoons at the lake with the entire gang sprawled across towels and blankets. Robin and Eddie stretched out in the sun. Dustin arguing with Steve about music. Nancy pretending she wasn't people-watching while reading a book. Or days at the local public pool. Dustin loudly insisting he could swim despite never having taken a single lesson because he'd skipped them in favour of science classes. You and Steve watching his every move.
Steve always so close, yet never really there. Sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes, swim shorts hanging low on his hips, and a permanent tan that appeared every summer without fail. The sunlight always seemed to cling to him somehow, turning his skin golden after mere minutes outside.
It was annoying. It was all very, very annoying.
Especially when he laughed and tipped his head back, exposing the line of his throat, or stretched his arms above his head after a swim like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing to the people around him.
Not that you were paying attention. Obviously.
However, more than once you had caught Max and El whispering to each other, looking in Steve's direction. The second you'd followed their gaze, both girls would immediately start grinning.
Which was rich.
Because at least they had the excuse of being teenagers.
You were a grown woman.
A grown woman who should have been perfectly capable of sitting beside Steve Harrington without becoming acutely aware of every accidental brush of shoulders, every lazy smile, every moment he turned toward you and gave you his full attention.
He was the sun.
And you, despite knowing better, had spent years turning your face towards him anyway.
God, you needed a stronger drink–you were turning poetic.
Or, as Eddie constantly insisted, you needed to get laid. Preferably by Steve, but at this point, you'd probably settle for anyone willing to knock some sense into you. ‘Cause god did you need some.
The man was lucky he was your best friend otherwise you would have hit him. It also helped that he was.. maybe not entirely wrong but whatever.
With a sigh, you reached for your wine glass and took another long sip, determined to focus on the next movie instead of your increasingly embarrassing train of thought.
Let's be honest, if any man was capable of making you stop thinking about Steve Harrington, it should have been Westley.
The man literally crossed countries, fought pirates, survived torture and came back from the dead for the woman he loved.
Objectively speaking, that was insanely romantic.
Steve would do that. Your mind immediately countered.
You groaned. "No, he wouldn't."`like saying it aloud might make that true but, hadn't he already kind of done that.
Not the pirate part. Obviously.
But the rest?
The man had been beaten up, battered, dragged through a nightmare dimension and survived being tortured by Russians, all because somebody he knew needed help.
Because that's who Steve was.
You stared at the television, but your mind had already wandered. To a day you’d recalled more times than you can remember. Back to Steve leaning against a tree, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths as everyone caught their bearings. Dirt streaked across his skin. Dried blood along his cheekbone. His hair shoved back from his forehead with trembling hands.
You remembered the fear first.
Then maybe, a little jealousy. The way Nancy had stood so close to him afterwards. The way Steve had looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. Like seeing her there had made everything worth it.
You weren't necessarily proud of those feelings.
But you did have a pretty good defence, if you say so yourself. You'd been in love with the boy for years and had just survived being attacked by a swarm of murderous bats in an alternate dimension. Emotions were running a little high. Okay?
You definitely hadn't found any of it attractive at the time. You'd been too busy being terrified. Too busy trying not to imagine what would happen if Steve–if any of you—didn't make it home.
But afterwards?
Now, a few years later, safe in your room with a glass of wine and absolutely no sense of self-preservation?
Well. Now your mind could wonder. And god, did it like to.
Steve had looked wrecked that day—hair matted with sweat, jaw tight, his usual charm stripped away—but strong. Too strong for someone bleeding in another dimension.
You remembered the split skin across his chest. The way he'd dragged himself upright despite every reason not to. The way his first concern had been everyone else. Nancy. Robin. Any of you. All of you.
Fuck. Your breath hitched.
Yes, he was hot. Broad shoulders, strong arms, sun-kissed skin and a smile capable of causing minor structural damage to your common sense. Yes, he was handsome. Sharp jaw, warm brown eyes, impossibly good hair and the sort of face that made complete strangers trust him immediately.
But beautiful?
Beautiful was different.
Beautiful was the way kindness seemed woven into him. The way he always made room for one more passenger in his car, one more problem to carry that was never his to begin with.
Beautiful was the way he laughed with his whole chest. The way he looked at the people he loved like they hung the damn moon but never expected it in return. The way he threw himself in front of danger without a second thought if it meant somebody else got to go home.
Beautiful was Steve Harrington, entirely unaware that he was.
God, you needed to get over Steve. Or at the very least get your mind off him. And while you couldn't exactly follow Eddie's advice to a tee, you did have something better than another man.
Something pink, buzzing, and stashed in the bottom drawer of your nightstand—purchased on a whim after one too many late-night fantasies involving a certain ex-jock-turned-bat-wilding-hero. Your fingers twitched toward the drawer before you hesitated, glancing at the still-open bedroom door. A reckless laugh bubbled up—since when did you care about locking doors?
The house was empty. It was only slightly ajar; enough that you’d surely hear if your mom came home early. Though she never did on book club nights; her and Belinda always cracking open a few too many bottles and turning what was supposed to be a two-hour book discussion into an all-night event she needed picking up from no earlier than midday the next day.
Your fingers fumbled against the drawer handle—once, twice—before finally yanking it open with a little more force than absolutely necessary. The vibrator was cool against your palm, its smooth surface already warming as your thumb flicked on the lowest setting then the next.
The first press between your thighs was electric, blunt and insistent through the thin fabric of your shorts.
Your breath stuttered out as you arched into it, your free hand gripping the sheets beneath you. The movie’s dialogue blurred into static, replaced by the low, persistent hum vibrating against your skin.
Fuck, you’d forgotten how good it felt—or maybe you’d just never let yourself just be in the moment, too wrapped up in the fantasy of someone else’s hands, someone else’s mouth.
But this?
This was all you.
Your fingers curled tighter around the toy as you slipped it beneath your waistband to drag it against your already damp panties; shorts discarded halfway down your thighs.
Adjusting the angle of the toy until your hips jerked up on their own accord—until the pressure was perfect, relentless, too much and not enough all at once.
The sound that escaped you was embarrassingly loud—half-moan, half-sigh—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when you were home alone, not when the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter and–
You bit your lip, hard, but it did nothing to stifle the next noise, high and breathless as your hips stuttered against the mattress.
God, you were close—so close you could already feel the tension building, tightening like a spring in the pit of your stomach—but you didn’t want it to end just yet.
Your fingers fumbled for the dial, twisting it down—just enough to take the edge off, to draw it out—and you groaned at the loss.
Your free hand drifted up, fingers skimming over your stomach, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt—your touch hesitant, almost unfamiliar–God, it really had been far too long.
Your breath hitched when your fingertips brushed over your nipples—already peaked beneath the fabric—and you rolled one between your fingers, testing the pressure.
Fuck.
Fuck, you were—
“Henderson?”
Steve knocked twice before trying the handle.
Nothing.
He frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The lights were on. Dustin knew they had plans tonight. Dustin had already forgotten they had plans last week, leaving Steve sitting outside the arcade for nearly forty minutes before he realised the little asshole had completely forgotten–he better not have stood him up, again.
"Dustin?" he called through the door.
Silence. With an exasperated sigh, he pushed the door open. It moved without any fight. "Mrs. Henderson?"
Still nothing.
The house wasn't empty. It couldn't be. Door unlocked. The television was playing somewhere upstairs, faint enough to be distant but loud enough to carry down the hallway.
Knowing exactly how much your mom hated shoes in the house, Steve carefully shut the door behind him before toeing off his sneakers beside the mat.
"Dustin?" he called again as he wandered further inside, reaching the kitchen—which quite frankly looked like a war zone.
Flour dusted the countertops. Mixing bowls sat abandoned beside the sink. A cooling rack crowded with freshly baked cookies occupied most of the available space, and an almost-empty bottle of wine stood proudly amongst the chaos.
Immediately, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
You.
This had you written all over it.
He could practically picture you here. Music blaring. Dancing around the kitchen. Leaving a trail of destruction in your wake while baking something sweet. Without thinking, he reached over and stole a cookie. For investigative purposes. Of course.
"Henderson?" he called again, louder this time.
The smile slowly faded.
Normally he'd have gotten some sarcastic response from upstairs by now. A yell telling him to help himself. A complaint about Dustin. Something.
Instead, the house remained strangely silent.
Then he heard it.
The sound was faint. Barely audible over the television upstairs. Soft. Unfamiliar. His brows immediately pulled together. "Henderson?"
Still no response, but then it happened again. His stomach dropped–you sounded distressed or hurt. And then suddenly every possible worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.
Had you fallen? Burned yourself? Passed out? Those were some of the tamer possibilities.
Steve's mind had spent entirely too much time fighting monsters and interdimensional horrors to jump to reasonable conclusions anymore. "Henderson!"
The next time it happened he was moving–fast–crossing the living room and heading for the stairs.The television continued playing somewhere above him. Another similar sound drifted down.
Softer this time. Weaker. Definitely coming from your room. Concern tightened violently in his chest.
Steve Harrington had never been particularly good at ignoring people he cared about when they might need help. And he was even worse at ignoring you.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his heart was hammering against his ribs. The hallway stretched out before him, your bedroom door sitting slightly ajar at the end.
You'd never been particularly good at shutting doors. Still, Steve slowed as he approached, his stomach twisting tighter with every step.
"Henderson?" he called again, voice softer now.
Nothing.
Then another sound came from inside the room, and Steve's concern sharpened instantly because that had definitely not sounded right.
Without thinking, he pushed the door open and nearly passed out at the sight in front of him.
“Henderson?”
The word left his mouth before he could stop. He stood frozen in your doorway like he’d just walked into yet another alternate dimension. Because this—this—was not happening. Couldn’t be happening. Not with you. Not with him. Not you with your back arched off the bed, pajama shorts rucked down around your thighs, one hand shoved beneath your shirt and the other disappearing past the waistband of your—Jesus Christ—underwear.
His brain short-circuited.
So did yours. Evidently. As your hands stayed in the same place for another half a second.
Steve's knuckles went white around the doorframe. His pupils dilated—dark and drowning—before snapping up to your face. Trying and failing to look like he hadn't seen anything.
Your body locked up, legs snapping shut with a mortified squeak, yanking your hand out from under your waistband so fast you nearly elbowed yourself in the ribs. Pulling your shorts up to recover some form of modesty. The vibrator clattering to the floor—still buzzing—but neither of you moved to grab it.
A sharp inhale. Then—silence. Well silence bar the buzzing. The kind that makes your ears ring. The kind that makes you wish a Demogorgon would burst through the ceiling and swallow you whole.
The wine haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by the kind of embarrassment that makes your skin feel two sizes too small.
Steve cleared his throat. Twice. "So." His voice cracked. "Uh." His gaze skittered away—past your shoulder, over your bed-frame, to the wall—anywhere but down. "Cookies were good."
You wanted to disappear, to fall through the floor all the way to the upside down to–your eyes involuntarily moved down.
Oh. God.
Did your mind make this up? Did your fantasies catch up to you?
But the grey sweatpants. The thick outline pressing against the fabric. The way his fingers twitched slightly—subtle, reflexive.
You needed him to leave. Now. Not so you could finish—Christ, no—but so you could plan your escape from Hawkins immediately. No way were you ever facing anyone again—let alone him. You were going to live the rest of your days at a convent somewhere far, far away until the sheer level of embarrassment overwhelms you and you die.
But your traitorous body didn’t get the memo.
Heat pooled low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively—like you could trap the ache between them and suffocate it. Spoiler: it didn’t help. Not in the slightest.
Not when Steve’s nostrils flared slightly, his grip tightening on the doorframe like he was physically restraining himself from—from what? Entering? Leaving? Dropping to his knees and finishing what you’d started?
No. Your brain screeched. No no no. This is reality. Earth-shattering. Life-ending reality.
Then—movement. Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before stepping forward—not out—into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.
He took another step, then another until his knees bumped against the edge of your mattress, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
“So,” he said again, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it and his fingers brushed against the hem of your shirt, tentative, questioning—shaking.
Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his thumb traced the dip of your hipbone through the fabric. Testing the waters. Giving you time to push him away—to laugh it off—to pretend this wasn’t happening—but your body betrayed you (or, more accurately, did you a favour) by arching into his touch instead.
Hey, maybe you could pretend this was just another fantasy. That the wine had gone to your head. But you knew the wine had left your system the second you heard your name in that breathless, low voice of his.
“Fuck,” Steve breathed before his hand slid down then slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. Warm. Calloused. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t have been possible—not when he’d never touched you like this before. Or really at all.
The TV flickered—Westley’s face melting into static—casting shadows across Steve’s expression. His lips parted slightly as his fingers brushed over your stomach, tracing a line upwards. “Is this okay?” he murmured, and you nodded (a little too quickly).
Steve chuckled lowly, completely not believing that this was really happening and in the glow of the television, you could truly see how red his cheeks were. His hair—always perfect, always soft—was mussed from nervous fingers running through it.
You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat—if he knew how loud it was—how fast—how yours matched the frantic rhythm of his own pulse beneath your fingertips when you finally reached for him.
His breath hitched when your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until his knee pressed between your thighs and the heat of him seared through the barrier of your shorts.
You weren’t sure who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you–it probably was—but suddenly his lips were on yours, hungry and insistent, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every desperate noise you didn’t have the sense to be embarrassed about anymore. He’d seen worse just moments ago.
His knee pressed harder between your thighs—an accident, perhaps, but one that made your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, chasing the relief you’d had to put on pause.
Steve groaned against your mouth, his fingers tightening on your waist as your hips rolled against him—slow at first, then faster—each grind drawing another ragged sound from him, another whimper from you.
"Jesus—" His breath hitched when you arched up again—his praise coming out in rough whispers between kisses—"fuck, Henderson, knew you’d be like this” His fingers tangled in your hair, gentle but firm, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. "Knew you’d be a good girl—god, knew you'd be perfect—"
The words sent a shiver down your spine—how long had he thought about this? How long had he imagined you like this?—but the thought shattered when his thumb brushed over your nipple, sending sparks skittering across your skin.
You gasped and Steve grinned against your lips, chasing the sound with his tongue before pulling back just enough to murmur, "Yeah? That good?" His knee pressed harder between your thighs—without a doubt not an accident—and your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. "C'mon, baby—let go for me."
And you do. So hard and so sudden you didn’t even realise you were that close.
He gently eases his knee back, but his mouth doesn’t leave yours. His thumb traces idle circles against your hipbone as you come down, as your breathing slows. “Sound better than I ever imagined,” he murmurs, voice rough with something like wonder, like he can’t quite believe you’re really here with him, like this—after so many years being so close yet so far.
He’s not the only one.
You blink up at him—dazed, boneless—and Steve’s grin turns crooked, smug in a way that should be infuriating but just makes your stomach flutter instead. His free hand drifts up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead, “You good?”
You nod and his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone before he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your forehead.
Then he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and you both smile. Then laugh. Quiet at first, huffed against each other’s lips, before it bubbles up properly—giddy and disbelieving—until you’re both breathless again for entirely different reasons.
Your fingers tighten in his shirt, wrinkling the fabric further as he shifts slightly but his grin falters when his gaze drifts lower. A slow blink. Then—"Oh." His throat works. "That’s—uh." His fingers twitch against your hip. "Still going."
Your brain catches up a beat too late—the buzzing still faint but unmistakable—and your mortified squeak cuts off abruptly when Steve abruptly slides off the bed. Not to leave, but to scoop the vibrator off the floor with a curious tilt of his head. Like he’s inspecting some alien artefact.
“Huh," he murmurs, thumb brushing over the controls before glancing back at you—your breathing still too fast, your thighs still trembling—and his grin turns certifiably wicked. "Ever used the highest setting?”
Your breath hitches—sharp and punched-out—before you’re lunging for it, but Steve twists away effortlessly, holding it just out of reach.
"Steve—" His name comes out embarrassingly close to a whine, but he just laughs, warm and breathless, before leaning back in. His lips brushing your ear as his free hand skims up your thigh.
"C’mon, Henderson," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement and something darker. "Thought you liked a challenge?"
The man knew you far too well.
You pout because yes, you enjoyed that, but you wanted more. Quite honestly you wanted him. You’d waited long enough.
Your fingers curl into his shirt once again, tugging him closer; peering up at him with eyes so readable Steve hesitates before his grip tightens on your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. "Hey," he says softly, suddenly serious in a way that makes your stomach flip.
"I wanna do this right," he murmurs, and your brows pinch together—confused, impatient—until he continues, voice rough with sincerity. "The first time—our first time—I want it to be right. For you. For us.”
He paused, before seeming to get lost in his own thoughts as he rambled, “I want us to go out on a real date first. Dinner-or-or a picnic. Whatever you want–I mean not whatever whatever. Golden dragon with the killer egg rolls and the duck you love. Then we’d go to the drive-in and see The Princess Bride” - you blush even deeper, eyes briefly flickering behind him,“or Sixteen Candles or honestly whatever cheesy rom-com is on because I know those are your favourites even though you never admit it.”
And he's still going.
"And if it rained, we'd just stay in the car. Bring blankets. Hot chocolate. Maybe sneak in extra snacks because the food at the drive-in sucks. Then I’d drive you home and–"
You wanted him to keep going–forever preferably–but "Steve." You needed him to take a breath.
He blinks, face screaming that he’d said way more than he ever intended. "...What?"
“You thought about this?” You can’t hide the shock and quite frankly awe in your voice as you stare up at him all starry eyed.
"I have." His eyes stay locked on yours, impossibly open, impossibly honest. He pauses. Takes a deep, deep breath before adding, "...A lot."
You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. He’d thought about this. Not, just a brief oh that would be nice–no, he’d planned it. Curated it for you. Remembered your favourite food, your favourite movies.
Steve takes your silence as something else entirely–you can practically see his mind going a hundred miles-per-hour—so, slowly, you reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Then you let your fingers drift through his hair.
You swear your heart does a complete somersault at the look in his eyes–softer than you've ever seen them–and the way he unconsciously leans into your touch. You’d thought about doing this—brushing your fingers through his hair, being this close, kissing him—for years. And now here you are.
You really needed to pinch yourself subtly because there was absolutely no way this was real.
You think if this was all you could ever have of Steve–a quick fuck because he’d caught you touching yourself–you honestly don’t know if that would be better or worse than having never had him at all.
Better because at least you knew, in some capacity, he felt something for you too; even if that was just base-level attraction.
Worse because you knew what it was like to have him so close. You knew how he kissed. You knew the exact shade of brown his eyes turned when he looked at you from this close.
Before you could pretend. Now you knew. And you knew you’d never be able to forget a moment of it.
But here he was. Telling you outright that he didn't want this to be all you had. And not just that—he wanted more. Had planned for more. Planned for all of it.
And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you.
So, could you wait?
Yes. Yes you could.
Especially if you got a free chinese.
"I'd like that," you murmur. The words barely audible–inaudible if his face wasn't inches from yours.
His eyes widened, looking genuinely shocked, as if the last few minutes had been wiped from memory. Or maybe as though he'd never expected you to want this.
To want more.
“Yeah?” The single word is so hopeful, so achingly sincere, that it makes something in your chest squeeze painfully tight.
“Yeah.”
The smile that breaks across Steve's face is immediate–the kind that made his nose scrunch slightly at the bridge. For a moment, you just stayed like that. Smiling at each other like the lovesick idiots you were, caught somewhere between disbelief and happiness.
Then the faint buzzing seeps back into it.
Your eyes flicked to it simultaneously, the object still clutched in his hand, then back to each other and then you were laughing, breathless and giddy, foreheads bumping as he exhaled sharply through his nose.
His thumb hovered over the power button of the vibrator, his breath still uneven from laughter. "We can stop—" he started, already moving to switch it off, but your hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist with a boldness that surprised even you.
"Or we could..." Your grip tightened slightly, guiding his hand back toward you. "...not?"
Steve’s throat worked visibly. Frozen in place once again, his eyes locked on yours as your legs parted slightly.
Then he moved. Fast and clumsy and perfect all at once. His free hand cradled the back of your neck as he kissed you again, deeper this time, all heat and barely restrained want. You could feel the shape of his grin against your lips when you arched into him, your thighs bracketing his hips as he leaned over you.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts with a reverence that made your breath catch—not tugging, not demanding, just resting there, warm against your skin, waiting. Your hips lifted instinctively and Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before dragging the fabric down inch by torturous inch, his knuckles brushing the inside of your thighs as he went. The air was cool against your newly exposed skin, but the heat of his gaze more than made up for it.
The vibrator buzzed faintly between his fingers as he pressed it against the damp cotton of your underwear, the sensation muffled but still electric.
You gasped into his mouth, your fingers twisting into his hair—soft, always so damn soft—as he kissed you with a focus that bordered on worship. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then lower—to the pulse point beneath your ear, to the hollow of your throat—each touch igniting a fresh wave of heat under your skin.
Your hands roamed over him greedily, mapping the familiar slopes of his shoulders through his t-shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. His skin was warm, taut with muscle that flexed under your touch as he adjusted the angle of the toy, pressing harder just to hear you whimper.
"Christ, Henderson," he muttered against your collarbone, his free hand skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. "You’re su—" The rest dissolved into a groan when your nails scraped lightly down his back, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, the rough drag of his sweatpants against your inner thighs sending sparks up your spine. “–fuck–good girl.” He scraped out.
The tension coiled tight in your stomach snapped all at once. A sudden, shuddering release that left you gasping against Steve’s shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Your second orgasm hits you even harder than your first.
Distantly, you registered the choked noise he made against your neck, the way his hips stuttered against yours, the tremble in his thighs where they pressed against the mattress. But the haze was too thick, your own satisfaction too consuming, to parse what it meant well until your hand drifted lower.
You hummed dazed, still riding the aftershocks and reached for him, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants with clumsy intent. But before you could slip beneath the fabric, Steve’s hand covered yours, peeling it away gently.
You blinked up at him, confused, until you caught the flush creeping down his neck—the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a shaky exhale. Then you looked down.
Oh.
The realisation hit you like a bucket of cold water. The strained fabric. The damp spot. The way his thighs tensed when he shifted slightly.
Steve let out a breathless chuckle, his grip on your hip tightening reflexively as you couldn't stop the little breathless giggle you let out.
His cheeks burned brighter at the sound, one hand coming up to scrub awkwardly at his face as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Christ," he muttered, voice rough with embarrassment and lingering arousal. "That's—uh—never happened before."
The admission made your stomach swoop—equal parts giddy pride and aching tenderness—and you reached for him instinctively, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Steve's breath hitched when your knuckles brushed his stomach, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. And you really couldn't help yourself when you said:
“Better last longer next time Harrington, or I might regret saying yes.”
Steve groaned but caught your wrist gently, pressing your palm flat over his thundering heartbeat. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no bite to it, just a breathless warmth you wanted to hear everyday for the rest of your life.
His thumb stroked over your pulse point absently before he exhaled and rolled onto his back beside you, staring up at your ceiling. The silence stretched, comfortable yet still charged, until he turned his head slightly, cheek pressed against your pillow. "So. Drive-in next Friday?"
The casualness of it—the normalcy—startled a laugh out of you. As if you hadn’t just—as if he hadn’t—
The laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest—hysterical and breathless—and you nodded, pressing your cheek into your pillow as you turned to face him.
“Yeah,” you managed between giggles, the word dissolving into another helpless laugh when Steve grinned and kissed you again, his nose bumping yours awkwardly in his haste. It was messy and off-center and somehow still so goddamn perfect—his lips still curved with laughter as they moved against yours, the taste of shared amusement sweeter than any wine.
Jesus you were down bad. But luckily for you, so was he.
Dividers by @designlikenonsense (aka me hehe… had to do some shameless self promo)
P.S. Did not expect the reaction to the teaser... hope whoever interacted with that is not disappointed...
P.P.S. Playing around with paragraph lengths! I always write longer paragraphs, but thought that made it harder to read on here so I've been chopping them up but... I've seen discourse to the opposite so im trialling (what I call) 'mid-length paragraphs'
Okay… you asked for less than PG requests so here ya go.
Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader where Steve comes over to hang out with Dustin but he isn’t there and neither is their mom. And so reader has the house to herself so she takes it as an opportunity to masturbate. That’s when Steve hears her moan and goes to check on her and boom, you decide from there 
Hey... took a little while but here it is... A Lot.
Turned out to be a little longer and a little more fluffy than intended (don't worry still hit the smutty notes you asked for 😉) but hope you still enjoy!!
Okay… you asked for less than PG requests so here ya go.
Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader where Steve comes over to hang out with Dustin but he isn’t there and neither is their mom. And so reader has the house to herself so she takes it as an opportunity to masturbate. That’s when Steve hears her moan and goes to check on her and boom, you decide from there 
Hey... took a little while but here it is... A Lot.
Turned out to be a little longer and a little more fluffy than intended (don't worry still hit the smutty notes you asked for 😉) but hope you still enjoy!!
summary: After coming off a date with a bad review, Steve sets out to prove that he really is good at going down on girls.
tags: MDNI!! [roommates/friends to lovers] [smut] [oral fem receiving] [mutual pining] [he just needs an honest review] [friends help each other...right?] 2k words
a/n: While brainstorming this fic, I couldn't decide whether I wanted it to be fluffy or smutty, so I had you guys vote. And you wanted me to write both. (Here is the fluffy sister fic if you want to read it!)
It is your deepest held belief that Friday nights are, indeed, best spent in.
You’re on the couch, curled up with a book, basking in the soft lamplight as steam from your favorite tea reflects in the dark windows beside you.
All is peaceful. All is quiet. It’s perfect.
And then your apartment door opens.
You jump, looking over your shoulder just in time to see your roommate, Steve, storm through the entryway. His dress shirt is untucked, tie loose, and his hair is a wreck, like he’s run his hands through it a million times.
That’s not a good sign for a man supposed to be on a fancy date tonight.
He said, if things went well, he’d probably end up back at her place for the night. You thought that might be a little presumptuous, but hey, it’s Steve Harrington you’re talking about here.
Steve looks around wildly, and when his eyes land on you, the intensity in them takes you aback.
“I’m guessing things didn’t go well, then—?” you start, but he cuts you off, his words overlapping yours.
“Take off your pants.”
You freeze.
What the—
He must not register the utter shock on your face, because he’s already moving towards you. The silky tie snaps through the air as he rips it from his neck. God, he must really be wound up. He didn’t even take his shoes off at the door.
“Excuse me?” You manage to choke out.
“Don’t freak out, I just really need to try something,” he grunts, rounding the couch. “Just for a second.”
The moment his knees hit the carpet in front of you, your jaw goes slack.
“Harrington!” You scramble back into your mountain of pillows, nearly knocking your mug off the side table. You reach out and steady it with one hand, suddenly very aware of how your tank top has ridden up with the movement. “What the hell are you—?”
“…can’t believe she said that,” he mutters, ripping back the blanket thrown over your lap.
“Who said what?”
He doesn’t respond, eyes locked on your short sleep shorts. They’re a cute set you picked up recently at the mall. Navy blue with white flowers. Innocent-looking. Sweet.
But he’s staring at them like he’s going to rip them off with his teeth.
Heat rushes to your cheeks.
While you can’t deny what that look is doing to you, there’s something else trapped in his gaze. Sadness? Not quite. Disappointment, maybe? You’ve only been roommates for six months, but you already know him well enough to know when he’s upset.
Reaching down, you grab a fistful of his hair and tip his head back. His eyes snap to yours.
“What did she say?” you ask again, firmer this time.
Steve’s lips form a thin line before he sighs heavily. You drop his hair.
“She said I was bad at sex. Specifically, bad at...this.” He gestures unhelpfully between your legs and your stomach swoops as his finger almost brushes the seam of your shorts.
It takes you a second, but then your brows pull together. “She actually said that?”
“Not exactly,” he groans. “The date was fine. It was our third, so when she invited me upstairs, I figured…well, you know. And then we got to making out and it was hot. I guess…”
You swallow hard and gesture for him to continue, even if the thought of his lips trailing down some other girl’s neck feels like a knife in your side.
“And then I went down on her and she said—” He cuts himself off with a miserable little huff before resuming. “She said it wasn’t doing anything for her. At all. Like it wasn’t good enough or something. Can you believe that? I could’ve lived if she said my thrust game needed work or something, if we had even gotten to that point, but this? This is, like, my thing.”
Oh. Okay.
Yeah, you could’ve gone the rest of your lease without knowing that eating pussy is your hot roommate’s thing.
That is not good for your little crush you have going on that you refuse to talk about. Or think about. Ever.
You nod quickly and clear your throat. “S-so, what exactly does this have to do with me?”
Steve just shrugs. “We’re friends, right?”
“Right.”
“Right.” He levels your gaze, brown eyes soft and playful in the lamplight. “So…”
The moment stretches between you, an invitation, an ask, and a dare all rolled into one.
“So, because we’re such good friends, we just…give each other oral sex?”
Steve sighs. “Look. I just want a second opinion, okay? I mean, this is bad. Really bad. If Cindy didn’t like it, then what if other girls didn’t either? Then I’ve just been lied to all this time—”
Your gaze drops to his fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath you, and despite yourself, a smile creeps across your lips. “Oh my God, this really got to you, didn’t it?”
“What?” He balks. “No! It’s just…I need to set the record straight.” He taps your knees with a knuckle, playful but firm. “Spread ‘em.”
You bark an unbelieving laugh that ends in a sound too close to a whimper when his hands come down on your thighs.
You cannot let him do this to you. If you do, you’ll never be able to get over your secret-no-good-very-bad-crush on your roommate.
You force yourself to breathe. “I…I don’t want thinks to get weird.”
His eyes flick up to yours. “Weird?”
“Between us.”
Steve seems to take a second to understand what you’re saying, and you watch as an emotion you can’t place crosses his face.
Suddenly, he moves to stand. “You’re right. Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. What am I thinking, I just—”
Panic spikes and you snatch his wrist before you even really know what you’re doing, cutting him off. “No, wait. It’s like you said. We’re…friends, right?”
He nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah.”
“So, we don’t let it get weird.” The words spill out of you before you can take them back. But you don’t want to. “I’ll give you an unbiased review. A one time thing.”
You watch as his lashes drop again to your legs, and his pupils widen as your knees fall apart a little on instinct.
“You’re sure?” he asks, voice thick.
In an effort to appear nonchalant, you shrug. But you’re salivating when his tongue darts over his bottom lip.
“Yes,” you breathe.
He doesn’t waste a second dropping back down to his knees, and your legs widen immediately to give him space.
“So, you’ll tell me the truth, right?” he rasps, eyes jumping between your face and your hips. “Be honest. I can take it.”
“Honest,” you agree, but the word comes out in a whisper as his fingers slip under your waistband.
Your face burns as he pulls down your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, baring you to him. His hands gently ease your thighs farther apart, and you fight the urge to squirm under his gaze.
“Steve! Stop looking at it like that,” you gasp.
“Why?” he asks without glancing up. “It’s pretty.”
Shit.
You’re not strong enough for this.
But when he finally looks up, you recognize the silent question in his eyes. He’s asking for permission. You could stop this right now, and he would let you easily. He’s probably never even bring it up again. No harm done.
And you should.
God, you should.
But you don’t want to.
So instead, you just nod, not trusting your voice to speak.
As he leans in, you brace for the feeling of his tongue, but you’re surprised when he starts by just…kissing you.
His lips are soft against your folds, and your breath catches at the tenderness there. His eyes find yours before he goes lower, and the moment his nose bumps your clit, your body jolts in his hold.
He makes a muffled sound and his eyes drift shut, large palms moving to your hips, pinning them to the cloth couch beneath you.
Then there’s that wet heat.
His tongue slides over you with just enough pressure, starting slow and exploring your entrance.
“Oh, God,” you whimper.
His hair is so soft against your inner thighs, and when he makes a sound of encouragement against you, and his tongue swirls higher, catching the underside of your clit, your mouth drops open in a silent moan.
He’s hardly done anything yet, but the way he’s doing it, so confident, and steady, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
“See? Good, right?” he mutters, the words muffled and slick against your core. “I know what I’m—mmm, fuck, you taste good.”
Before you can respond, his hands wrap up and around your thighs, and he hauls you closer. Your tank top rides up even higher as you slide down into the cushions, but you don’t reach up to fix it.
Mostly because Steve Harrington is going down on you, and that thought alone is nearly making you lose your fucking mind.
His lashes flutter shut as he makes out with your dripping cunt, his throat bobbing as sucks gently, swallows, and goes back for more.
You’re surprised to find there’s no performance to his actions, but more of a genuine enjoyment.
Steve eats pussy like he wants to.
You watch, transfixed, and you can’t help but roll your hips once against his mouth, smearing your slick all over his pretty fucking face.
Too pretty for his own good.
A sound escapes his chest, something caught between a moan and a whine, and he nods against you, peeking up from beneath his lashes.
The carpet whispers as rises higher on his knees, mouth traveling up your mound and over the soft, sensitive skin below your belly button.
But you whimper at the loss, pushing his head back down.
His throat vibrates against you with a chuckle, but he follows you obediently. “Oh, yeah? So definitely doing something for you then.”
“Shut up,” you groan, but the sound dies out harshly when his mouth latches to your clit and sucks.
Hard.
You gasp, back arching as your core clenches instinctively.
Then, without warning, he pulls back.
You look at each other, chests heaving. Suddenly, you’re afraid he’s done. That you now have to give a report based on that.
“Is that it?” You squeak.
“What? God, you think I would just leave you like that? No, I was just thinking—” He draws in a breath, like he needs to physically rearrange his thoughts. “Well, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”
You just stare down at him, chest heaving, bare and slick from the waist down.
He takes one look at your face and clears his throat. “Right. Later.” He leans in again, but pauses before glancing up at you one more time. “Yes?”
“Yes, Harrington, I will kiss you, later,” you whine pitifully, canting your hips into his hands.
He seems pleased, and wastes no time picking up where he left off.
And this time, he doesn’t tease you.
Your head hips back, a moan tearing from your throat as two of his fingers spear deep inside and his mouth closes over your clit.
As you threaten to fall apart beneath him, Steve just watches.
Every little whine and whimper. Every jerk and arch of your back. Every wriggle of your hips and curl of your toes.
He studies you like a map, surveying everything that makes you soak his face, everything that makes you clench hard around his fingers, his tongue, and finding new routes to all those destinations.
The tension between your hips pulls tighter, and when he reaches up to palm your breast, slipping his hand underneath your tank top, you wonder if he can feel it.
The way your heart slams against your ribs.
A silent, helpless confession. A call for him to see that this will not, in fact, be a one-time thing.
That you’ve been thinking about this—about him—ever since the day you moved in.
That ache builds like a tidal wave, threatening to break, and your fingers fly to his arms for stability. He’s warm, and strong, and his muscles shift under his dress shirt.
It’s honestly impressive how quickly he responds, how easily he reads every subconscious signal your body gives him. Because when that breathy, urgent whine starts to leave your lips, his thumb replaces his mouth on your clit, rubbing firm, perfect circles that drive you higher. And then he dips lower, tonguing your entrance, devouring you in thick, broad strokes, pushing you to the fucking brink.
“Yeah, you gonna come for me?” He slurs against your aching cunt. “Just like that. That’s it. I’ve got you—mmhm—”
The second his tongue spears deep inside, the tidal wave breaks.
Your moan fills your quiet apartment, and you nearly come off the couch with the intensity of it. The rush is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You have no option but to surrender fully to it as it pulls you under, shamelessly riding your orgasm out on Steve’s tongue.
Steve’s ready for it though. He goes with you easily as your hips rise and fall, strong hands holding you to his mouth, unwilling to let you slide away.
When the pulsing eventually fades to shuttering jolts, he pulls back, but his hands stay on your hips, caressing you softly, bringing you back down to earth.
You bite your lip, looking down at him panting between your knees. Your body aches, but in a good way. Like you need more, but somehow, it still won’t ever be enough.
“God, Steve—” you whine, but you’re cut off by him lunging up across your body and pressing his lips to yours.
You laugh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as he kisses you eagerly.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” He murmurs, pulling back a little.
Something catches in your chest at his confession, and you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down for another kiss.
This one is different.
Deeper, and softer, and…meaningful.
He sinks back down onto his knees, squeezing your thigh, your waist, like you’re something precious.
“So, tell me , honestly, was it good?” He urged, gazing up at you.
You blink dumbly, throughly flushed. “Yeah, uh…no notes.”
He smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Five out of five stars.”
“I don’t know, Harrington. That literally means no room for improvement.” You’re not sure his ego is ready for that.
“Oh?” His lips tilt in a crooked smile that makes you want to kiss him again. “What would you have me do to earn that fifth star, huh?”
His lids go heavy as you tighten your hold on his hair and urge his mouth back down where you want it.
“You could do it again.”
a/n: It's my canon that his date, Cindy, was just hung up on her ex, and Steve was the unlucky rebound that night. Plus, Steve wasn't that into it. Because he was thinking about you, obviously. Also, here is the fluffy version sister fic if you care lol
ᥫ᭡ dividers by @cursed-carmine| steve masterlist | drop by my desk
Please I’m begging you on my hands and knees for pt.3 of slimy Joel. I need to see them lovey dovey & f*ck nasty in the new house
Who's Your Daddy Now?
Summary: As you settle into your new house, Joel grows worried that you'll soon realize you're too good for him. You take offense and remind him whose bed he's sleeping in.
Pairing: Pervy!Joel x Fem!Reader
Content warnings: alternative continuation to "Slimy" (see Pervy!Joel masterlist) mention of Viagra, unspecified age gap (whatever floats your boat), jealousy & insecurity, subby Joel, more dominant reader, dirty talk, angst, one mention of Joel's gut (duh), oral (F receiving), ruined orgasm, power play?, use of handcuffs, protected P-in-V, spanking, orgasm denial, heart-to-heart in the middle of sex, unexpected Daddy kink moment (if you don't want to be surprised, see end author's note)
Word count: 3,758
Read on ao3 here | Pervy!Joel Masterlist
Author's note: SHE'S FINALLY HEREEE!!! this anon has been in my inbox since late March, so whoever that was, I hope this was worth the wait! this is the (overdue) 400 follower celebration post!!! thanks for being here and reading and liking and commenting and reblogging!!!! it means the world to me!!!! also deviating from the one word title theme here because it worked too well and I didn't love the idea of titling it "Jealous" or something, so here we are, referencing Angelina Jolie in Mr. & Mrs. Smith. 500 follower celebration will hopefully be out sometime next week. I was too ambitious to say it could be posted the day after this. it's also the first taste of real angst for the Doctor google universe, and I wanna get it right. anyways again, thanks first and foremost for 400 followers! I love you, please enjoy!!!
Panting, lying on the mattress with no bedframe in the middle of your new bedroom, Joel asks, “The hell is this?”
He just spent the last three hours, hopped up on Viagra, fucking you in all the rooms in your house, finishing here in your bedroom, and you’ve slipped something cool and metal into his sweaty palm.
Joel holds the item up in front of his face and bites back a smirk.
You’ve given him a goddamn spare key to your new house.
Oh, somebody likes him…
“Tell me, darlin’, would this happen to be the key to the shed you got in your backyard?” Joel asks, turning on his side to look at you, your breasts still heaving as you regain your composure.
You just roll your eyes and fix your gaze on the fast-moving ceiling fan above you.
Joel smiles and inches his face closer to yours.
“Or maybe it’s the spare key to your car? Hm? Am I gettin’ warmer?” he whispers in your ear.
You can feel his breath on your skin, but still you study the movement of the ceiling fan rather than entertain Joel.
“No? Hm, well… Maybe–and this is a wild guess–this key is the spare to this very house? Your new home?”
You roll your eyes and look down at the key in his hand. “I’ll take it back if you’re gonna be a—”
Joel immediately lies back and holds his hands up in mock surrender.
“Nope. I get it. This was a sweet thing for you to do. Even I know when to quit,” he says.
But does he?
A week later, you’re in the middle of unclogging your rain gutter. You looked it up; it was supposed to be easy, and it probably is, but it’s so fucking stuck, and you’re pulling so hard.
“Need some help?” asks a voice you don’t recognize.
You brush your hands off on your shorts and look up at a tall, slender man. Probably in his mid-thirties.
“Sorry?”
The man gestures toward the rain gutter. “Is it clogged?”
“Oh. Yeah, I’m struggling with it. I just moved in last week, and the forecast is calling for rain this weekend, so I’m trying to get it together, y’know?” you say, chuckling.
“Well, I’m Nick, three doors down on your right. House with the blue shutters. Anyway, I had the same problem when I moved in. If you’d like some help, I’d be happy to.”
You introduce yourself to Nick and accept his help, which takes the form of directing his leaf blower into the top of it, which does the trick.
You’re in the middle of thanking him when big hands wrap around your waist.
“Howdy, buddy.”
Nick looks up from demonstrating something related to the drain and makes eye contact with Joel.
“Uh, hi,” Nick says, clearly caught off guard, smiling nervously.
Joel extends his right hand out to Nick, but keeps the left one tight on your waist.
“I’m Joel. Gotta say, I find it mighty kind that you offered this sweetheart some big, manly help.”
“Nice to meet you, Joel. I’m Nick,” he says brightly, not quite catching Joel’s meaning as he shakes the man’s hand.
“Uh, I was just helping your lady with the drain pipe, just being neighborly.”
“Joel’s just my friend,” you correct, all too quickly for Joel’s liking.
Behind you, Joel shakes his head and smirks, as if to say to Nick, “Don’t believe this chick; I was balls deep in her just yesterday.”
“Uh, well, either way…” Nick says awkwardly, getting the feeling Joel would like some alone time with you, regardless of the true nature of your relationship. “We actually have a neighborhood get-together every other month. I’m hosting next Saturday at 4:00. You should come. Both of you.”
You smile kindly at Nick and step to the side, forcing Joel to let go of your waist. “I think that sounds great. But I think next weekend is when you have that work trip, isn’t it?” you say, looking from Nick to Joel, hoping to God that once again Joel will “know when to quit.”
Joel puts his hands on his hips and smiles, but you think it might be somewhat forced.
“Well, I’m not sure, but just for you, I’ll check my schedule,” he says. Then he looks at Nick. “Thanks for the invite.”
Nick nods and mumbles a soft goodbye, then picks up his leafblower and heads home.
Without another word, you walk straight into your house, locking the door behind you.
You hear the door rattle, then you hear the key turn in the lock.
Fuck. You’re really regretting that now.
“What?” Joel bellows from the entryway, the sound carrying over to the living room where you sit on the couch. “ You embarrassed by me? That it? Don’t want your new fancy, suburban neighbors to know who you’re in bed with? Hm? Or is it that you got big ole heart eyes for Nick now? You move outta the trailer park and trade me in for a newer model?”
You scoff. Is he really being serious? He’s insecure? Joel Miller? The guy who smokes in his boxers on his front porch?
“God, you’re unbelievable,” you groan, leaning forward until your head touches your thighs.
“Well, ya ain’t denyin’ it,” he grumbles. “All I ask is that you’re straight up with me.”
“Okay, straight up? You’re acting like an insecure jerk!” you bite back, your head shooting up to get a good look at him.
That, paired with your angry expression, shuts Joel up for a second. He’s not the most in tune with his emotions, but then he didn’t think you were either. Maybe he did feel a pit settle in his stomach when he pulled into your driveway and saw you laughing at another (much younger) man’s joke. This man, who lives in a nice neighborhood instead of a trailer park and wears polo shirts instead of t-shirts and plaid, is probably a more appropriate choice for you now that you’re moving up in the world.
Aside from that, why is the prince unclogging your rain gutter and not Joel? Joel, who is admittedly rough around the edges, foul-mouthed, but incredibly capable of doing all kinds of arduous labor. Why not just ask Joel to do the simple task of unclogging your rain gutter?
“You fucking–”
You raise your eyebrows in response. “What, Joel? You never have a problem talking. What cat’s got your tongue?”
Joel narrows his eyes and picks up the throw pillow at the end of the couch, and throws it at your lap.
“That one!”
Your brows crinkle in irritation as he throws a fucking pillow at your crotch. You grab it and throw it back at him, hitting him in his soft gut.
“Fuck you!” you whisper-shout, now standing at your full height.
“My fucking pleasure,” he growls, pulling you to him by looping a finger in the elastic of your cotton shorts.
Joel tugs your bottoms and panties down, then shoves your thighs backward, causing you to lie back on the couch again.
He doesn’t waste any time; he starts licking at your pussy, but harder than he ever has before. It almost feels scratchy, like an animal’s tongue, but you’re too angry to say anything. You just lie back, your head resting on the arm of your couch, and let Joel work his frustrations out on your cunt. If nothing else, you know you’re at least getting an orgasm out of this.
Usually, Joel blubbers on and on with his lips moving sloppily against your pussy while he eats you out, but you don’t hear a peep from him besides his heavy breathing.
Obviously, he’s genuinely upset about something, but he’s a grown man of 47 years of age. If he wants to have a mature conversation with you, he can, but you won’t force anything out of him.
Even angry, the man can eat the fuck out of your pussy, alternating the length of his licks, the shapes he draws on your clit with his tongue. He squeezes your thighs around his head and practically breathes you in.
“Fuck, I’m close,” you whine.
Joel sucks your clit in between his teeth, and just before that coil in your lower belly has the chance to snap, he pulls away, wiping at his chin with the back of his hand.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!” you shriek as Joel stands back up.
“No,” he says, a bit of a bite in his tone. “I ain’t fuckin’ kiddin’. You have fun at your neighborhood block party.”
Joel storms out of your house, leaving you with your shorts around your ankle, and you don’t hear from him for a week and a half.
//
You end up going to the get-together that Nick mentioned, hoping to make a good impression on your neighbors. They all seem to be nice people, if a bit boring. Just a bunch of polo and khaki-wearing PTA presidents. Not really your kind of people, but there isn’t anything wrong with socializing with them.
Nick asks you where Joel is, and you tell him that he did end up having a work trip, which puts too bright a glint in the man’s eye for your liking.
You’re one of the first to leave, and when you get home, you sit on your couch with a rom-com on the TV with a half-finished pint of ice cream in your hands.
What you need right now is to get fucked, what you want is Joel, but you don’t want to let him think he can get away with taking his insecurity out on your pussy and leave without speaking to you for over a week.
So you press the call button on his contact and wait for him to pick up.
“Does somebody miss me?” His voice is smug, and he’s obviously fucking pleased you were the first to break.
“Joel.” You feign worry as you speak. “Fuck, my bathroom sink won’t turn off. I don’t know what happened. It’s gonna flood the whole damn house, and I just spent a lot of money moving in here; I don’t really have the funds for a plumber or–”
“I’m on my way,” he says, the smugness in his voice immediately gone before he hangs up.
Perfect.
As you wait for Joel to arrive, you head to your bedroom after turning off the television and putting away the ice cream, where you light a candle to set the mood. You remove your clothes and freshen up in the bathroom before checking your drawer to make sure the item you need is there.
Shortly after, you hear the rumble of Joel’s truck approaching your driveway, the slam of the driver’s side door, and then the turn of the key in your front door.
“Baby?” he calls out.
He thought he’d hear running water, maybe a few frustrated shouts from you if your sink is on the brink of flooding your house.
When he turns the corner to your bedroom attached to your bathroom, he stops dead in his tracks.
You’re naked, posed on the bed like you’ve been lying in wait to seduce him.
“Oh… I take it someone got lonely?” he teases as he approaches your bed. “Somebody miss their daddy?”
You don’t say anything; you just smile softly and watch his hand wrap around your ankle and pull you toward him.
Joel smirks down at you and leans forward, balancing on his hands. He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, which you reciprocate, but otherwise you stay still.
He keeps kissing you and lets his hands roam your body like he’s trying to memorize it.
After a few moments, you bury your hand in his hair and tug gently so you can look him in the eye, then whisper in his ear, “I wanna ride you.”
A smile creeps up Joel’s lips, and he stands up straight, unbuttoning his cotton button-down.
You arrange the pillows in a comfortable setup for him while he shucks off his jeans and kicks off his shoes.
Once he’s comfortable, sitting up against the headboard, you throw a leg over his lap and start grinding your cunt over his erection.
“I think you missed me, Joel,” you whisper.
He huffs and raises an eyebrow, but for once in his goddamn life, he lets you do the talking.
“I think you felt real stupid leaving my house last time. I bet you thought about this pussy,” you continue, grinding against his shaft a little harder as you say “pussy.”
You take his hands and cover your breasts with them, and he instinctively squeezes.
“Bet you missed these, too,” you purr.
He only moans in response and rubs his thumbs over your nipples.
Then you take his hands by the wrists and hold them up.
“I want you to close your eyes for me,” you say.
“...Why?” he asks skeptically, raising an eyebrow.
“‘Cause it’ll be fun,” you sigh, trying not to get annoyed.
Joel rolls his eyes, then shuts them with a huff.
“For you, maybe,” he grumbles under his breath.
You take hold of both his wrists with one hand and, slowly and as quietly as possible, reach into your bedside table’s drawer. You pull the item out as quietly as possible and push Joel’s joined wrists to rest against the headboard.
Joel shivers when he feels the metal of your headboard’s spindles brush against his skin, and then he hears a clicking sound, and he blinks his eyes open.
He tries to pull his hands away, but he can't. He’s stuck.
You fucking bitch.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he demands.
You shrug and reach back into your drawer for a condom.
“I’m not the woman you ghost for a week because you got insecure,” you say as you rip the condom wrapper open. “That’s a start.”
Joel rolls his eyes and pulls on the cuffs again, but it’s no use.
Even in your anger, neither of you is a monster, so you ask, “Is this okay?”
He glares at you, but still nods, mumbling, “Yeah, do your thing.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, then roll the condom on Joel’s cock and pump your hand over the length of it a few times.
Once he’s whining and practically huffing like a bull out of the sheer effort it’s taking him to not run his fucking mouth, you line him up and sink down on him.
Joel swallows his groans and keeps his lips pursed into a tight line while you moan at the stretch of him, throwing your head back and exposing the column of your throat to him in a way that looks all too enticing.
“Listen,” you begin, placing your hands on his chest to balance while you slowly begin raising your hips before lowering them back down again. “The fact that you thought even for a second that I’m the kinda woman who falls for guys in polos is insulting in and of itself. Got it? The mere thought, Joel.”
He doesn’t say anything, so you reach out and pinch his nipple, which finally pulls a curse from his mouth.
“Oh, Jesus, fuck! Fuck, I got it! Goddammit!” he growls.
You beam down at him and lean forward to kiss the nipple you pinched, soothing his skin with your soft lips, then you look up again.
“Good. Know what else I gotta get through that thick skull of yours?”
It’s a rhetorical question, Joel knows it, so he just keeps glaring at you while you bounce up and down on his cock.
“I am not the kind of woman who receives ruined orgasms,” you state with all the poise of a politician. “Do you understand, Joel?”
He huffs through his nose, but this time, he nods. “I understand.”
You smile at his compliance and lean down again to kiss his collarbone and neck, growing more and more pleased with yourself with each breathy sound Joel lets out.
“Good boy,” you murmur against his skin.
You’re surprised to hear him fucking whimper in response, prompting you to look straight at him.
“You liked that,” you whisper teasingly.
Joel just pants in response. You’ve been slowly fucking yourself on his cock for about six minutes now, and he hasn’t had an orgasm in ten days, with the exception of masturbating to old nude photos you sent him yesterday because he got restless.
“Joel,” you croon, tilting your head to the side. “Admit it.”
His chest is rising and falling rapidly now, clearly struggling to keep it together.
“Fuck,” he pants. “Shit, I-I liked it,” he whispers.
“What was that? Didn’t quite catch that, baby boy,” you say, furrowing your brow like you really don’t know what he said.
He rolls his eyes and pulls on the cuffs again like a petulant child.
“Fuck me, I liked you callin’ me a good boy,” he whines.
You smile and clench your pussy around him, which pulls a throaty moan from him.
“Who’s your daddy now?” you murmur, holding back a laugh at how silly the words feel coming out of your mouth.
“Fuck, honey, please just fuck me, so I can come, please,” he begs pathetically.
“Not yet.”
“Please.”
“No!” you groan. “You come when I say you can.”
Joel whines and tugs on the cuffs again.
“At least let me touch you,” he begs. “Please, I gotta feel that sweet body, baby, I missed it!”
You can’t deny that you’ve always loved his hands on you–his calloused palms coming down on your ass, the rough pads of his thumb and index finger pinching your nipple, his fingers tugging on your hair, his arms around your body–it’s all amazing.
After too long a moment of deliberation, in Joel’s opinion, you unlock one of the cuffs, his left one.
“Just the one,” you say sternly.
Normally, Joel would argue, but he can tell you need whatever tonight is, so he keeps his mouth shut and immediately brings his left hand down on your ass.
You let out a clipped shout of pleasure, then immediately grind your teeth together.
“Little fucker,” you mutter under your breath.
Joel smirks for the first time since he walked in here and spanks you again, pulling a blissful moan from your lips. “Yeah, well, you’re the one who cuffed me to your bed and is lettin’ me spank you.”
“Mm!” You catch his wrist before he delivers a third spank. “You’re just pissed; you’re not even spanking me for either of our pleasure, asshole!”
That stops Joel, his wrist going limp in your hand.
“I wanna be good enough for you,” he says, like it’s some scary admission, and it honestly is.
Your gaze softens, and he continues.
“You were right. I was insecure when I saw you talkin’ to Mr. Polo Shirt. Ain’t proud of it. Just…couldn’t stop thinkin’ about the key…” Joel glances over at his jeans on the floor, the key in the back pocket. “I wanna be worthy of that key,” he whispers, his free hand dropping from your hand and reaching up to gently caress your cheek.
You huff out a sigh and lean your head back, looking up at the ceiling fan spinning clockwise.
“Wouldn’t have given the key to you if I thought you were unworthy, in any way. I’m not an idiot,” you murmur, looking back down at him again. “I don’t wanna fuck the guy who wears polos; I wanna fuck the guy who wears too much plaid and never knows when to shut his fucking mouth. I want old and comfortable and familiar, not new and shiny and boring. So, if you can get over yourself, I’ll reward you by uncuffing your other hand.”
Joel mulls everything you’ve said over for a moment. It’s reassuring to hear that no one else trips your trigger the way he does. It makes him feel a sense of hope for himself that he hasn’t felt in a while.
“I can get over myself, but I don’t want a reward,” he says, his voice low and gravely.
You smirk and put his left hand on your breast. “Yeah? This enough for you?”
He shrugs and rolls your nipple between his fingers. “Absolutely not, but I ain’t ever been the one cuffed before… It’s interestin’.”
That makes you giggle and pull your bottom lip in between your teeth before finally resuming your bouncing on his cock.
“I think I’ll have fully forgiven you by the time I come,” you say, the tension in the air finally seeming to dissipate.
Joel chuckles softly and continues working on your nipple, pulling more and more breathy whines from your throat. “That right, darlin’?”
You nod and grind on him just a little bit harder. “Uh-huh!”
He smiles and leans forward to kiss you, and you bury both hands in his hair, gently tugging, earning appreciative groans from Joel.
Joel’s cock twitches inside of you, but he holds himself back, which results in some strained breathing on his part.
“You can come, baby,” you coo against his lips. “Been such a good boy since I put you in your place. Go ahead, honey.”
To your surprise, he whines against you and bucks his hips up into you. “Yeah, Daddy?”
That shocks you to your absolute core. While you do manage to keep rolling your hips into his, your mind goes blank. One thing is for sure, though: you liked it.
“Yeah, baby, you come for me,” you whisper.
And he does, and the noises and the feel of him and his fingernail brushing against your nipple all send you over the edge with him.
Once you get your breathing steady, you uncuff his right hand and kiss his wrist, then rub it to make sure the blood keeps flowing.
“You okay?” you whisper.
He nods and cradles your face in his hands.
“I’m sorry I was an insecure ass,” he mumbles before kissing you.
You shrug. “Didn’t mind reminding you of your situation.”
Joel smirks and leans back against the pillows, his hands rubbing up and down the tops of your thighs.
“Didn’t mind either, darlin’. Not one little bit,” he says, voice content and with a smirk on your face that tells you he won’t be feeling insecure for at least six months. “You forgive me?”
p.s. if you would like to be added to/removed from the taglist for this series (Pervy!Trailer Park!Joel) ((different than Pervy!Trailer Park!DILF!Joel)), just leave a comment asking. you can also ask to be added to the general Joel Miller taglist, or the general Pervy!Joel taglist, or even my all works taglist
end author's note: Joel calls reader "Daddy" and it's funny to me because (TMI ALERT) I told a guy I hooked up with that I felt like "big daddy" after I jerked him off and accidentally aimed his cum to land on his face and the wall. I was having a bad night, and that was a funny pick me up.
coach!steve harrington x single mom!reader
(18+; MDNI; 13.5k words)
And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”
(Your five year old daughter wanted to sign up for the newly established Hawkins Little League Softball team. To your surprise, the coach is your old high school fling, Steve Harrington.)
cw: pregnancy/shitty exes/custody; mentions of family death in a vague way; masturbation; p-in-v sex; sort of unprotected sex (reader has an IUD); tit worship; body worship; creampies; pussy eating; porn with plot!!!; reader has stretch marks from pregnancy; soft!steve; big dick!steve; yearning; reader and steve graduated high school together are both 25
masterlist || divider by @/saradika-graphics || ao3 link
Your life wasn’t meant to turn out this way.
Not that you would necessarily complain, but when you were eighteen and fresh faced, ready to take on the world, you’d had a very clear plan in your mind of how life was supposed to go.
College, then a career, marriage, and after several comfortable years, maybe children could enter the picture. You were, after all, eighteen, and the prospect of kids had felt astronomically far away.
(Isn’t life funny sometimes?)
Then the car crash happened.
You don’t remember much of it—bits here, pieces there, some flashes if you thought hard enough that it makes your head hurt—just that one moment you were in the backseat of your family’s car, buckled in and drifting to sleep, and in the next, you were staring up at the ceiling of Hawkins Memorial.
You had survived with some broken bones and a nasty concussion.
Your family did not.
You were eighteen and alone, having graduated high school only a few weeks prior. And between all of the injuries that you’d sustained (it wasn’t as though dorm halls were exactly wheelchair accessible) and the sudden lack of family to help pay for tuition, you were forced to drop out of college. Your days were instead spent planning funerals from a hospital bed, handling lawyers and life insurance and inheritance. You threw yourself into physical therapy and, once your leg healed, forced yourself into a car, refusing to let yourself vomit from the anxiety of being behind a wheel once more.
You survived it all, and you came out a stronger person on top.
Different, maybe, but stronger.
And throughout it all—through the long hours in the hospital and longer hours rebuilding your strength—was your boyfriend, Mark Lewinsky.
Mark was sweet. Mark was kind. He filled your recovery room with flowers, and once you were discharged, his parents allowed you to stay at their house as you recovered.
But Mark also had a life outside of yours completely crashing down around you, and in August of ’85, he swept off to Purdue without a glance backwards.
The two of you went long distance, with the onus on you to make the hour and a half drive to Lafayette to visit.
And life moved on. Injuries healed, you moved back into your family’s home, and your days were spent with sorting through their belongings, figuring out which items you wanted to keep and which items would be better loved in another home.
Mark called often. Of course he called often! He was your boyfriend, the love of your life, and was even starting to talk about rings and weddings and marriage, and even if your life hasn’t gone the way that you thought it should, at least you could still have the other parts, right?
It was just as things were starting to feel normal again, that you were settling into your new existence, that the earthquake happened.
Mark spent the summer of ’86 bouncing between his parents’ house and your place, filling out the copious amounts of paperwork that the military required for him to be released to go back go college, and before you could wrap your head around it, he was gone.
He was gone, and you were left in this new, strange world by yourself. No Mark, no family, no friends.
Alone.
And it was fine. It was fine.
It was fine up until the military doctor informed you, during one of the mandatory checkups, that you were pregnant.
And then, suddenly, everything wasn’t fine, because it was October of 1986, the military was breathing down everyone’s necks, and you were scared and pregnant and alone and all Mark could say over the phone was, “Babe, are you even sure that it’s mine?”
You seethed. Of course you seethed—you were faithful! You’d been nothing but faithful for two years! You hadn’t even looked at another man, not since Mark asked you out during your senior year! And now you were pregnant with his baby, stuck in a nightmare scenario, he changed his phone number, his parents had moved from town, and you were alone.
Mark, clearly, did not care.
In fact, he didn’t really seem to care until long after you gave birth, not until your daughter, Mia, was nearly two, and he came skipping back into Hawkins after he graduated college, demanding a paternity test.
He demanded a lot of things, really, that you were too exhausted to fight him on. Not with the money behind the Lewinsky name. Not with the way you hadn’t slept for a full night since giving birth. Not with living through a military occupation, abandoned and scared, with a baby who depended on you for everything.
So you got the test done, and wouldn’t you know it? Mark Lewinsky was, in fact, the father. Except Mark Lewinsky was no longer your boyfriend, and he had a nice, new woman at his side with a nice, new shiny ring on her finger and a nice, new lawyer to demand shared custody.
The only thing you refused to budge on was changing Mia’s last name from yours to Mark’s. You were, after all, the person that carried her in your body, the only parent she knew for the first two years of her life, and you were the one she cried for after nightmares. You were the one that snuggled up next to after you rented Cinderella from Family Video for the umpteenth time and you knew exactly how she liked her pancakes made.
She was yours in every way that mattered and nothing was going to change that.
And before you knew it, years passed, and Mia grew faster than you could keep up with. She developed thoughts and feelings and opinions—god, so many opinions that it makes you laugh—and, suddenly, an interest in sports.
(You’re not quite sure where that one came from, seeing as Mark’s athletic prowess had been comical at best and you were too busy in high school with other extracurriculars to even try.)
Which is how you find yourself here, the early June sun beating down on your neck, at Hawkins Middle School with an excitable Mia clutching your hand, surrounded by the newly formed Hawkins Little League Softball Team.
A team that had been spearheaded by none other than Steve Harrington, a familiar face that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
Shock spreads across your body at the sight of him jogging towards your ragtag group, and the first thought that crosses your mind is that he looks good. Better than he did in high school, back when the two of you spent a summer fooling around with one another like there was nothing better to do with your time. His hair is a bit shorter than it was back then, a little less styled with the tips curling from humidity, and a white shirt already drenched with sweat sticks to his chest.
Your throat goes dry at the sight of what should be considered indecently short athletic shorts and hairy legs stopping in front of the crowd, and not for the first time, you find yourself regretting that the two of you drifted apart once Mark became a more stable presence in your life.
(Were you ever really friends? You’re not sure, but you gave a piece of yourself to him that summer, and you’ve never once regretted giving it away.)
You rip your gaze away from his legs, tracing the line up his body—which is both so similar and so different from your memory—and find that he’s smiling sunnily at you, recognition crossing his face.
And then, he greets the kids and practice is started.
You make yourself way to the stands with the other parents, watching with no small amount of amusement as Steve corrals a gaggle of five year olds who want to do nothing more than sprint in dizzying circles around him. He takes it all in stride, however, and you find yourself impressed at the everlasting patience he has for the girls with no attention span.
It would be a lot for any person to handle, you think, but somehow, Steve has a knack for getting the kids to listen to his instructions.
The first practice goes fine. Great, even, for a bunch of hyperactive, uncoordinated give year olds. And even though there isn’t a single kind who actually manages to hit the ball with the stupidly expensive softball bats, but afterwards, Steve gives each and every girl a high five, tells them that he’s proud of them, and reminds them all to drink plenty of water once they get home.
You watch Mia bound over to you, her twin braids flying as she yells, “Did you see? Did you see?”
“I saw!” you laugh, catching the bundle of energy in your arms as she babbles on excitedly about how much fun she had and how much she can’t wait for the next practice.
Your heart sinks, because despite how uncomfortable the metal bench was, you really enjoyed watching her tumble her way across the field. But… the next practice is next week, Mark’s week, and he was already reticent to pay for half of the fees. Would he even stay to watch? Would his wife—a lovely woman in her own right—stay to watch? Will there be anyone to cheer Mia on as she runs in circles? You’re not sure, and it makes your chest hurt to think about that.
Before you can dwell on it too long, though, a shadow crosses over the two of you, and you look up, up, up, to find Steve Harrington in all of his sweaty glory, your name dripping from his lips, and he asks, “Hey! It’s been awhile. How are you doing?
“I’m good,” you say at the same time that Mia, a clingy child on the best of days, does her best to burrow her way into your skin. “I was actually a little surprised to see you here. Didn’t know that you were moonlighting as a coach now, but it looks good on you.”
“Yeah?” he says, a little bashful as he pushes the hair from his eyes. “I coach the baseball little league, too, and was kind of annoyed that the girls didn’t have their own sport, so… yeah. Anyway, is this your niece?”
You open your mouth, ready to respond, but it’s in this moment that Mia chooses to peel herself from your arms and beat you to the punch.
“Uh, this is my mom, Coach Steve. Duh.”
“Mia!” you scold. “God, Steve, I’m so sorry, she’s a little—I mean—”
A booming laugh cuts you off. You watch, stunned, as his head tilts back, the evening sun catching on the column of his throat, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the force of his mirth. Everything about him screams All American Boy as the delight spills from him, and a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there eases.
“You’re right, Mia,” he says, holding a hand out to her as a peace offering. “I should’ve known better. Will you ever forgive me?”
Mia sniffs imperiously, eyes him a little warily, but clearly decides that he passes some invisible test when she places her little hand in his large palm. “I guess.”
You take this moment to pry her from your lap, instructing, “Go get a snack from the car, sweets. I’m going to talk to Steve real quick.”
She grumbles something under her breath, shooting you a sour look, but does as told, scampering towards your old sedan.
“So…” Steve starts, hands placed firmly on his hips and his gaze firmly trained on your daughter, as though he’s making sure that she doesn’t run into any trouble in the perilous twenty foot distance between you and her. “Daughter?”
“Long story,” you offer.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
You pause, thinking, and realize dimly, Oh, he should know. Especially if Mark drops her off next week. “Well… no, actually.”
You give Steve the abbreviated version—as abbreviated as it can be, anyway, for a tale that is both short and rather uninteresting. Knocked up at nineteen, gave birth at twenty, share custody with her father, Mark Lewinsky, so he’ll be the one at practice next week.
If possible, Steve’s brows raise higher at the mention of Mark.
“The bench warmer?” he asks, then flushes as if he wasn’t supposed to say that.
But it’s your turn to laugh. “Yeah, him.” Glancing to make sure that your daughter is still out of earshot, you add, “Wouldn’t have been my first choice in fathers, but I got Mia out of it, so… Worth it, in the end.”
“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. “Picked up on what to do faster than the other kids. And I’m not just saying that to, like, stroke your ego or anything. She’s smart.”
“Yeah,” you smile. “She is, isn’t she?”
Life persists and summer continues to grow, the heat swells until it presses into every corner of your life, and the humidity wraps itself around you like a second skin.
As always, Mia is at your house one week, goes to her dad’s the next, and inevitably she returns with her light a little dimmed and a trembling smile on her face, climbing into your bed every Sunday night after her dad drops her off.
(It breaks your heart, but what can you do? It’s not like they’re mistreating her or anything. She just doesn’t like going out over to Mark’s house, especially not since Mark’s wife announced her own pregnancy.)
And, against all odds, Mia sticks with softball, throwing her tiny little body into practice and drills. She takes to spending every evening with her bat in the backyard, swinging it around wildly as she asks, “Do you think Coach Steve can tell that I’m doing this?”
“Of course,” you reply amiably from your spot on the deck, a book propped open on the table next to you. “Coach Steve is very smart, you know.”
She preens under the thought of praise, and you heart clenches with gratitude that you get to be her mother.
Practices get bumped up to twice a week, too, meaning that every other week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your evenings are spent in the stands at your old middle school, watching your daughter flail across the field with the grace of a newborn kitten.
There’s a certain amount of affection that wells up in your chest whenever you watch Steve interact with her. He corrects her with a gentle efficiency, lifting her elbow into place, showing her how to stand. It’s hard not to notice just how much she blossoms under his roaring cheers from across the field when she manages to hit the ball, her little legs pumping as she sprints to home base.
And then—faster than you can process it—she slides her way to the home plate. Tries to slide her way to the home plate, and it’s immediately evident that it completely went wrong when a shrill cry pierces the air. Your blood freezes, and in the next second, Steve’s at her side before you can even stand, scooping her sobbing form up. His big hand settles on her small back as he jogs towards the first aid kit.
You scramble from the stands, forcing your way through the other parents, and as you make your way closer, you hear him say, “I bet it hurts a lot, Mia, but it’ll be okay. See? It’s just a little cut, don’t worry.”
“But—but—” Her lower lip wobbles, fat tears falling from her eyes. “What if I can’t run anymore?”
If this shocks Steve, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches out gently, dragging a thumb across her cheek as he wipes the tears away, promising in a soft voice, “You’ll be able to run again, I promise. You think a little scrape can prevent that? Come on, Mia, you’re a strong girl. You can do anything you want.”
Your heart melts at the assurance as you slip onto the bench next to her, tucking Mia into your side as he finishes cleaning and bandaging her skinned knees, saying, “There, all done. Look! No more blood. How about you sit here with your mom for a bit, okay? If it hurts a little less, you can come back out, but no worries if not.”
She nods, presses her face into your shirt, and Steve offers you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the rest of the team.
You offer her soothing words and squeezes, smoothing a hand down her back throughout the rest of practice, trying desperately to ignore the way your stomach flips at the mental image of her coddled against Steve’s chest.
It’s inappropriate, you think, to feel so electrified after seeing how kind his is with your daughter.
(But is it really your fault? You’ve seen Mark with her when she’s injured, the way he tends to hand Mia off to his wife when all she needs is a hug, a kiss to the forehead, and an assurance that all will be well. Because Mark is awkward and never quite adapted to fatherhood, and Steve—)
(Steve just seems so naturally step into that role, even for kids that aren’t his own.)
After practice, you stay sitting on the bench, watching as the rest of the team disappears in the parking lot and drives off. It’s only once the last family has left that Steve makes his way back over to the two of you, checks on Mia’s knees and opens his arms up. “Will you ever forgive me, Mia?”
She giggles and throws herself at him, wrapping herself tight around his neck as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.
“I guess,” she says in a way that you know, from experience, means yes.
Your throat tightens at the sight, trying to remember the last time you’d seen her actual father treating her with so much tenderness.
Steve’s eyes, warm and brown, meet yours, and he asks, “Can I make this up to you? Both of you? There’s a new diner nearby that’s supposed to be good, and it’ll be my treat. I should’ve shown Mia how to safely slide before she ever attempted it, and…”
“Oh, Steve,” you say. “You really don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he says firmly. “Please?”
“Please, Mom?” comes your daughter’s muffled voice.
You glance down at Mia, at her face still filled with baby fat tucked into his shirt, and find yourself nodding. “As long as Mia wants to, I’m fine with it.”
The smile Steve sends you is blinding.
He leads the two of you towards his car, having insisted on driving, with Mia held close to his chest after she demanded that he carry her as payment—where she learned that phrase, you’re not quite sure—and you find yourself shocked to find a silvery blue pickup in place of a maroon BMW, and you blurt out, “You got rid of the Beamer?”
Steve pauses where he’s opening the passenger door, glancing back at you with something unreadable on his face. Carefully, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, he says, “Figured that it was time for something better.”
“Still, we had some good memories in that car,” you say without thinking.
Steve coughs.
You freeze, face burning.
“Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry, that just—”
“It’s fine,” he wheezes, his cheeks turning a rosy red. “Can’t say you’re wrong, can I?”
And Mia, ever the nosy child, finally puts two and two together. “Mom, did you know Coach Steve before softball?”
“I did, sweets,” you say. “We were friends in school.”
(Which isn’t exactly the truth, but, well, you’re not exactly about to tell your five year old that you and Steve hooked up between relationships, are you?)
“Your mom was the prettiest girl in our grade,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, easing Mia onto the bench seat and nudging her towards the center.
“Mom’s the prettiest girl now,” Mia asserts.
“You’re right,” he seriously replies. Then, as your brain struggles to catch up with the conversation, he turns to you with a hand held out, saying, “Alright, Prettiest Girl, let me help you in.”
Your face feels hot as you slip your hand into his, an electric shock racing up your arm at the contact. His palms are warm and calloused, assured in the way he grips your fingers as his other hand settles on your lower back, helping you up into the passenger seat.
He lingers for a moment, peering up at you, the setting sun making his eyes appear more honey than brown, and he says, “Not so bad, is it? Not as nice as the Beamer, but she’s a sturdy gal.”
And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”
You blink, and you’re twenty-five once more, with Steve Harrington—who has long since fallen from his throne—giving you a shy smile as his hand slips from your back, and for a moment you have the delirious thought that he still sees you as you, not the role you’ve filled for the past five years. He sees you as the teenager you once were, stealing kisses in the summer sun, making the windows of his Beamer fog up. He sees the person who once stole seven of his shirts in one night—shirts that still sit in your closet—and the person who once snorted lemonade out of your nose in his backyard.
And then your daughter shifts next to you, clearly antsy, and his gaze dips down to her, reminding you of the person you are now, before meeting your eyes once more.
As if he can sense your thoughts, he quietly asks, “You alright?”
You force yourself to nod, saying, “Yeah, of course. Just, uh, hungry.”
Because if you don’t, you’re going to ask him, Do you still see me as me? Or do you only see me as a mother like everyone else does?
(You’re not sure if you could handle the answer, no matter what it is.)
The drive to the diner is filled with endless chatter from your daughter as she fills Steve in on how she’s starting kindergarten in the fall, every thought and excitement and fear she has pouring from her body, and you watch. You watch the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, you watch the way he leans over to ruffle Mia’s hair. You listen to the low, soothing timbre of his voice when he assures her that kindergarten isn’t hard, that she’ll have no problem making friends, that she’ll be okay no matter what.
And for a moment—
For a moment, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve looked like, in another universe.
But you don’t let yourself dwell on that long, because in another universe, Mia wouldn’t be your daughter, and the thought of that makes your chest crack wide open from pain.
Steve helps the two of you out of the truck, doesn’t comment when Mia grabs his hand as well as yours, and holds the door open to the restaurant, ushering you both in and settling you into a corner booth.
Mia orders a stack of waffles—and you note the anguish that flashes across Steve’s face when she announces this to the waitress, wondering but not asking—and you order a sandwich, cautious of not spending too much despite his insistence to not worry about it.
It’s… it’s fun. It’s fun in a way you haven’t felt in a long time, a burden that you didn’t know was there easing from your bones.
Steve, clearly, is phenomenal with kids, never flinching when Mia’s voice gets too loud or her stories too rambley. He meets her at her level like it’s the most natural thing to do, and you know from experience that it’s not. She’s a precocious child, too smart for her age and always getting into something, and it’s a common complaint you’ve heard from her father when he drops her off at your house. That she isn’t always controllable, as if it’s a crime to let a child roam free, as if a child is meant to be controlled.
(You can’t think about that one without righteous indignation burning through your veins.)
And when the food arrives, he waves you away when you move to cut up Mia’s waffles, saying, “I got it, just enjoy your meal.”
You think that you could cry.
Dinner passes without incident, and you’re nowhere close to surprised when Mia nods off onto your arm, her snores filling the space between you and Steve. He huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh, goes to pay the bill, and when he comes back, he leans down to gather her into his arms, asking, “You ready?”
He’s quiet as he takes you back to your own car, contemplative, and he wordlessly helps buckle Mia into her car seat, biceps flexing as he protects the top of her head from bumping against the roof of the sedan.
It should be odd, you think, to let him do this. To let him take care of your daughter without question.
But it’s not like you don’t know him. It’s not like he’s never treated you with the same gentle reverence, either.
(Because you remember high school. You remember your first big breakup, sophomore year, and Steve finding you crying behind the bleachers in the outfield. You remember him sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling some napkins from his coat pocket to dab at your mascara stained cheeks. You remember his kindness, back when he was King Steve and you were someone on the outskirts of his universe. You remember him driving you home afterwards and helping you into bed. You remember coming into school the next day to see your ex with a black eye and fat lip, and the warmth in your chest that, for the first time, someone had taken care of you.)
“Thank you,” you say, even if it falls far short of anything else you really want to say. “This… this meant more than you know.”
Steve straightens, gently shutting the door. “It’s no problem, honestly.”
“Still,” you say. “You don’t need to be so nice, Steve. I know I’m just your…”
Your former fling. Someone you filled your afternoons with before Nancy Wheeler broke your heart. A person you probably haven’t thought about in years.
“My friend,” he gently finishes. “You’re my friend.”
You blink, taken aback. “But we haven’t—”
“I know,” he interrupts, still in that soft, soothing tone of his. “But I never once stopped considering you a friend. And…” He pats around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good time to give this to you.”
You take it, looking down to find a phone number scrawled out.
“I live in a place up near Forest Hills Park now,” he continues on. “Up in northeast Hawkins? Not the trailer park that has the same name, it’s on the opposite side of town. So my number’s obviously changed, but if, you know, you ever want to talk, I’m almost always home around eight. To catch up.”
“Oh.” Your throat feels uncomfortably tight. “Oh, this…”
“You don’t have to,” he quickly says. “Just figured I’d offer.”
Something in your chest warms at the thought. Catching up. Even if you’re confident that there’s nothing in your life interesting enough to catch up on, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so ardently, that you can’t deny him.
“I will,” you promise. “I will. And—my phone number never changed, so if you still remember that—”
“I do.”
You pause, smiling. “You can call me anytime.”
A shy, sheepish grin peeks from his face. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah. And for what it’s worth, I’m still living in the same house I did in high school.”
“Really?” he asks, following you around the car as you reach for the driver’s side door. “What’s the story behind that?”
“I don’t know,” you say coquettishly, slipping into the seat. “You’ll have to call and find out, won’t you?”
Sunday comes, and Mia gets whisked off to her father’s house like she always does, and you’re once again left wandering around your house, trying desperately to fill up the time and space that’s usually allotted to parenting. It’s never easy to ignore the way that being a mother has been hardwired into each and every one of your molecules, a small tick tick tick that’s sounding off in the back of your brain like you’re somehow doing something wrong by curling up on the couch, watching reruns on the television instead of reading your daughter a bedtime story.
A few days pass, and Mia calls like she does every night when she’s at her dad’s, telling you about softball practice and feeling the baby kick and what she ate for dinner.
“I don’t think Dad likes Coach Steve,” she whispers over the line. “He always sits in the car at practice and never says ‘hi.’”
This doesn’t surprise you, but you’re not about to tell her that Coach Steve and Dad once got into it over Dad not being good enough at basketball to get off the bench in high school.
“I’m sure he likes Coach Steve just fine,” you instead say. “Anyway, what else did you do today?
She continues to ramble, you continue to listen, and eventually, Mark takes the phone, saying, “Hey, listen, I had a question for you.”
You sit up straighter. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“I know this is short notice,” he begins. “But my parents bought plane tickets for me, Lisa, and Mia to visit them in Florida next week. They wanted to see everyone before the baby comes, you know? Anyway, I told them that it was your week, but they insisted on it.”
Something in your gut curdles.
And here’s the crux of the issue:
You don’t dislike the Lewinsky's. Sure, they did threaten to sue you into oblivion had you not agreed to the current custody arrangement between you and Mark, and sure, they ignored your calls when you were pregnant, trying to get in touch with Mark after he changed his number. But you can’t forget how they took care of you after your family’s death, either, nor can you forget that they’re your daughter’s family.
(As much as you might think they’re reprehensible people, that’s for Mia to decide when she’s older, and you do your best to keep your opinions away from her.)
You stay silent long enough that Mark says, “And so you don’t lose your time with her, I figure that when we get back, you’ll get the next two weeks before we go back to our normal schedule.”
You purse your lips together. “I’m not happy about this.”
“I didn’t think you would be,” Mark replies.
“I’ll agree this time,” you say. “But don’t make a habit of it. Have you told Mia? She’s going to be upset.”
“Wanted to ask first,” he says. “Could you pack a bag for her, by the way? I’ll swing by Friday evening to pick it up, and she can say bye to you then.”
“Fine,” you tell him shortly. “Please take some pictures of her while you’re there and send me the copies.”
“You got it,” he says. “I’ll make sure to set some time aside for her to call while we’re down there, too.”
That’s the least you could do, you think bitterly, but force yourself say, “I appreciate it. Give her my love.”
And the line goes dead.
You let out an aggravated sigh, too annoyed to keep sitting. You make your way to the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing the scant dishes you’d left from breakfast. Laundry gets thrown into the wash before you climb upstairs, looking around your daughter’s room as you find a bag, tossing in clothes that Mark’s parents are the least likely to judge, tucking her favorite book in alongside in the fabric, and for a moment, you’re lost.
Adrift.
You’ve never spent two weeks away from your daughter. You had never gone more than seven days without her wrapping her small body around your chest, without hearing her mumble as she dreamed or watching her sleepily walk into the kitchen for breakfast.
Your life, since May 1987, has entirely revolved around the role of Mom.
Who are you when you aren’t that?
You aren’t sure, and that scares you more than it should.
The rest of your evening is spent aimlessly, listlessly, as you try to find something to fill your time. Your time away from Mia is generally spent catching up on laundry and cleaning and getting ready for her to come back, making sure you have enough food in the house for her lunches and some new books from the library.
What did you do for fun before you were a mother?
You genuinely can’t remember.
Before you can consider it too deeply, your keys are in your hand, sandals are slid onto your feet, and the next thing you know, you’re in the parking lot at Family Video, easing your way inside the familiar store and nodding at the bored teenager behind the register.
For a moment, you stare at the red curtain in the back, illuminated by the neon sign proclaiming ADULT above it, and you’re tempted. Really tempted. Honestly, when was the last time you had time for yourself like that? But the last time you’d been behind that curtain was the summer that Mia was conceived, when you’d snuck behind it with Mark, giggling like the children as you whispered the names of different titles, mocking and young and so, so in love.
If you go back there now, you’re not sure that you won’t meet the ghost of your former self, still being spun in a circle and covered in kisses with not a single care in the world.
So you pivot left, in the opposite direction of the pornos, towards the new releases and ignoring the door opening behind you as you search for something to fill your evening.
Rows of tapes surround you, some sticking out, movies you would’ve rented without second thought for Mia like 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. Films that are kid friendly, ones you can enjoy alongside her as you wait for a re-release of The Little Mermaid and fight half of Hawkins to snag a copy.
Just as a copy of Father of the Bride catches your eye, a warm voice behind you says, “Hey.”
You jump, spinning around, coming face to face with none other than Steve, who’s smiling down at you like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.
“Oh! Hi, Steve,” you say, clutching your chest. “What are you doing here?”
The second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like a complete idiot. What are you here for? What else would someone go into a video store for?
But he only shrugs, saying, “I caught sight of you walking in as I was driving home, so I figured I’d stop in. I was just about to call you, actually.”
Your heart beats harder than it should at the admission as you thump his arm softly. “Okay, creep.”
He laughs, and your gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he tilts his head back, carefree in a way you haven’t felt in years.
“You got me there,” he admits. Glancing around, he asks, “Is Mia at her dad’s this week?”
“Yeah,” you say. “And, uh, next week, too. Last minute vacation to Mark’s parents’ place in Florida, apparently, so she won’t be at practice.”
There must be something in your tone—a sadness you can’t force away—because Steve catches your wrist, his thumb pressing comfortingly into the pulse point where your heart flutters against your skin, his voice full of empathy as he says, “That sounds rough.”
You nod, blinking back the torrent of emotions threatening to overpower you. “It’s kind of weird having no kid around, if I’m honest.”
“Hence the movie?” he asks, tilting his head towards the racks.
“Yup,” you say. “Hence the movie.”
An idea pops into your head, then. And, well, Steve is the one who said that he still considered you a friend, right?
“Hey, uh,” you flounder for a moment. “Would you want to come by for dinner on Friday? If you’re free? I can cook, you know, to make up for you buying our dinner. We could, uh, watch—” Your eyes cut to the tape next to you, and you snatch it from the shelf. “—Father of the Bride together. Maybe drink beer or something?”
His shoulders soften, and he fixes you with a look that has your knees weak and your stomach flipping as though you were a teenager once more.
“I’d love that,” he murmurs, his thumb worrying a path down to your palm. “But let me get the beer, alright? I’ll feel bad not bringing something.”
“I can agree to those terms,” you say, suddenly giddy. “You said you’re usually home by eight, right? Or—if you want to come home—I mean, come by earlier—I get back from work around four.”
“Is five okay?” he asks. “I’m helping a friend build something during the day, so I want to make sure I can shower before I come over.”
“Five’s perfect!” A grin stretches across your face before you can stop it. “You haven’t developed any allergies since high school, right?”
He shakes his head. “No, and before you ask, I do still eat anything that gets put on a plate, so just make whatever you’d usually eat.”
You already know that you are going to make something nice, and you’re pretty sure he can tell, too, but you lead him towards the register, slapping the tape down on the counter and digging through your purse.
But while you’re pulling your wallet out, Steve’s already handed a ten dollar bill over, telling the cashier, “Have a good night, man.”
“I was going to pay,” you say as he leads you from the store. “Seriously, Steve, let me give you money for it.”
“No can do,” he says. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman, honey. She’d rip me a new one if she knew I made someone as beautiful as you pay.”
You stumble, heat coursing through your body, and his hand quickly puts you right, a steadying presence as you choke out, “Hold on, are you flirting with me?”
“I’ve been trying to since I saw you without a ring on your finger,” he confesses. “But I’m glad it’s working now.”
You splutter incoherently. “Steve!”
Embarrassment flushes at your skin, and in the next moment, it feels as though your entire being is overpowered by him. He leans down, his nose brushing against your own as the smell of his cologne, something deep and woodsy, fills your head. Fingers skim down your arm, and you can practically taste the sweat on his skin as he murmurs, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you were the prettiest girl. And, well…” His gaze very obviously drops down to your lips. “I’d like to rectify that and say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re just saying that to be nice,” you breathe, heart beating erratically against your rib cage.
“Am I?” he asks.
For a moment, you think he might do something more, and you feel like that sixteen year old who spent her summer wrapped up in his arms, but the only thing he does is press a chaste kiss to your cheek.
You touch it gently, blinking up at him, and he whispers, “See you Friday?”
And then you’re left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Father of the Bride clutched in your hand as you watch him drive off.
You don’t remember much of the drive home. You don’t remember much of anything, really, just that the second your front door is locked, you’re climbing the stairs to your bedroom, arousal burning it’s way through your entire body.
It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—since you had the freedom to feel this way—that it crashes into you all at once, almost blinding you with how much you want. Want Steve, want pleasure, want something.
Your shirt gets shed first, your bra is thrown towards the hamper in the corner, and you kick your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before collapsing onto the bed.
There’s no slow buildup the way you might have once done it, no teasing of your breasts, no swirling around your clit, because god, you are wet and aching in a way that you haven’t felt in so long. Too long.
While one hand roughly grabs your own tit, your other creeps down to the apex of your legs, drifting through the thatch of pubic hair to swipe through your slit, gathering slick on the pads of your fingers.
You remember, suddenly, the first time you ever slept with Steve, a few months after that breakup in tenth grade. How he had gripped your hips with his big, warm hands—hands that were soft and free from callouses at the time—and brought his mouth down to your cunt, licking a stripe from your hole up, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks in a way that had you seeing stars. How you had never felt such pleasure before, how you’d never had someone pay so much attention to you wholeheartedly before, and it’s the image if him peaking up at you from over your pussy that has you plunging two fingers inside, using the heel of your palm to grind into your clit.
It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s mesmerizing, becoming reacquainted with a part of your body that has long lived dormant inside you, to have the thrill of desire run so freely through all of your senses. To have your breasts peak in the cold air of the bedroom, to be able to moan loudly and freely, to so unabashedly become reacquainted with yourself once more.
You pinch a nipple between two fingers, twisting it in a way you once remember Steve doing, gasping breathlessly as your hips jerk up into your hand.
It’s intense, and your orgasm builds fast, faster than it usually does in quick, stolen moments. Your toes curl as heat pools in your stomach, your core aching, and with one more circle of your clit, everything explodes.
You lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of pleasure fissures through your limbs, pulling your soaked hand from between your legs.
If there is one thing that you know, you cannot wait for Friday to arrive.
The rest of the week passes quickly, and you find yourself thrumming with anticipation at the thought of Steve coming over.
(Not that you’re expecting anything, but you can’t even find it in yourself to feel guilty for fantasizing about the feelings of his hands against your thighs.)
Mia still calls every evening, and any happiness of the thought of seeing Steve gets doused when she quietly admits, “I wish I could spend the week with you.”
“I know, sweets,” you tell her. “But you’ll have so much fun with Nana and Grandpa. And I’ll take a week off of work, so we can have a whole week to ourselves when you come back, okay? Plus I’ll give you such a big hug and so many kisses when you come to get your bag tomorrow that you’ll be set for a whole week of hugs and kisses.”
“Mom, I don’t think it works like that,” she whines. “Don’t be silly.”
“Uh, it absolutely works like that,” you say. “Are you questioning me? The same person you called the smartest person in the world?”
“You’re not being smart when you’re being silly!”
You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. “I love you too, Mia.”
It isn’t until later in the night when you’ve finished washing your face and have slipped into pajamas that it hits you.
Mark is coming over. Tomorrow. When Steve is going to be at your house.
Fuck.
You scramble for the phone on your nightstand, punching in the number to Steve’s house that’s sat by your alarm clock since he gave it to you, and you hope and pray that it isn’t too late for you to call.
And for once, luck is on your side.
His voice is a little rough when he answers with, “Henderson, I swear to god, I love you, man, but I haven’t gained any opinions on quantum physic theories since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”
“Well, good for you,” you wryly say. “I’m not here to ask your thoughts on quantum physics.”
There’s a silence, a spluttering, and then Steve chokes out, “Yeah, you weren’t who I thought was calling.”
“Clearly not.” You sit down on the bed, running a finger along a fraying thread on your quilt. “I, uh, needed to warn you about something.”
“Ominous,” he says. “Hit me with it, honey.”
Your face warms at the epithet, and you quickly explain the scheduling blunder you made, rushing to say, “Just—if you’re here when Mark and Mia come over, could you—uh—stay hidden? I’m not embarrassed or anything, but, well, you are Mia’s coach, and Mark has been kind of weird when I’ve had men over before—and you two do have a history—and you can park in the garage and everything so Mia doesn’t see the truck, and I’m so sorry to ask this of you, and—”
“Honey,” he gently interrupts. “I get it. You don’t need to worry about offending me.”
“Are you sure?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth.
“Am I sure?” He huffs out a laugh, soft and full of affection. “I was sure when we were sixteen and you pushed me into my pool. I was just an idiot back then, but, you know, I had to thump my head a few times to figure it out.”
“I just…” You press your eyes shut. “I haven’t… it’s been a long time, Steve, and I don’t want to mess this up, but… I’m not the same girl you knew then. ”
“You won’t,” he assures. “And I’m not the same boy you knew, either. I want the woman you are now, in whatever way you’ll let me have you.”
Something in your chest eases at the admission, and you whisper, “Okay.”
You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “Maybe we can talk more about this tomorrow? In person, over some beers?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. Of course—just—I’ll leave the garage door open for you, okay? And you can come in through the side door. Just shout so, you know, I know when you’re in my house.”
“Anything for you, honey,” he says. “See you then?”
“See you then,” you promise.
The next day passes slowly, and you end up taking a half day, feigning illness convincingly enough that your boss lets you go without complaint.
Your house gets scrubbed from top to bottom, new bedding gets spread across your mattress, dinner is prepped, and you take a gloriously long shower, scrubbing every inch of your body until you’re satisfied.
You make your way back into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your body, digging through your dresser to find something, well, sexy to wear.
(Not to be presumptuous or anything, but… you didn’t want to be caught off guard, either.)
It’s as you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears when you hear the creaking of the screen door. Seconds later, Steve’s voice calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”
You roll your eyes, affection blooming in your chest, and you call back, “One moment!”
With one more glance in the mirror to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, you make your way down to find Steve in the living room, a six pack of beer in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, smiling nervously as you make your way closer to him.
“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers towards you.
You take in the sight of him slowly, savoring it as your fingers brush against his, accepting the bouquet. His hair’s curled at the ends, like he’d taken a shower and didn’t dry his hair all the way afterwards, and he has a nice, linen button down tucked into dark wash jeans, clearly having put effort into looking nice.
For you.
“You look handsome,” you say shyly.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You look beautiful.”
You shake your head, moving past him towards the kitchen. “You have to say that,” you say. “I made you dinner.”
“I’d say that even without the promise of food,” he tells you, falling into step behind you. “But I won’t lie, the food is a motivator.”
It should be a little awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but the only thing you feel is safe.
It’s easy, you think, to share a space with Steve. Even if you hadn’t talked to him in nearly a decade, even if the shape of your life has changed so much since you first befriended him, he still knows you at your core. He knows what makes you laugh and what you like. He remembers how to work your oven, preheating it for the ziti that you prepped, and he slides an open beer across to you without prompt, bumping his foot against yours underneath the breakfast table you’re both sat at as you wait for the pasta to bake.
It’s almost enough for you to forget who you are outside of this small bubble you’ve created, for you to forget the person you’ve become in the years you didn’t see Steve.
Almost, up until the doorbell rings, and Steve hangs back as you bring the bag of Mia’s clothes to the front porch, easing the door shut behind you.
You’re not shocked when Mia throws herself at you, tears already streaming down her face as Mark taps his foot impatiently behind her, blubbering incoherently about missing and sad and Mom in a way that has your heart shattering into a million, tiny pieces.
“Oh, sweets,” you murmur into her hair, holding her tightly to your chest. “It’s just a week, sweet girl. You’ll be home before you know it, and you’re going to have so much fun.”
“But I don’t wanna,” Mia sobs, little hiccups bubbling from her. “I wanna stay here, Mom, I don’t wanna go to stinky Florida!”
Mark scowls. “Amelia, honestly. This behavior is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that we’re visiting Disney. Don’t you want to meet Minnie Mouse?”
You shoot Mark the nastiest glare you can manage.
“Not without Mom!” wails Mia, gripping your shirt even tighter.
“Baby,” you try again. “It’ll all be okay. You won’t even have time to miss me!”
“You’re lying,” she shouts, though her words are muffled from the way her face is pressed into your throat. “I always miss you!”
(And if that doesn’t make you want to pull her into the house and lock the door.)
Mark lets out an exasperated noise, glancing towards the idling car, and you know it’s time for them to go. Forcing yourself to stand, you gather Mia up in your arms—even if she’s just a bit too heavy for you to comfortably carry—and make your way towards the backseat.
She screams the entire way, tiny fists pounding on your back as you pull open the door. Mark’s wife, Lisa, gives you a sympathetic look when you’re forced to pry Mia’s hands from the fabric of your shirt, choking back your own tears as you buckle your daughter into her booster seat. You capture her face between your hands, pressing kisses to every surface of her face that you can reach, even as she screeches in protest.
You barely manage to utter out one final I love you so much, sweets before Mark nudges you out of the way, slamming the door shut as he says, “If you didn’t coddle her so much, she wouldn’t act like this.”
There are plenty of things you want to say. You could say, words that have been simmering under the surface for years. Insults, injuries, all sorts of horrible thoughts you’ve buried ever since Mia came screaming into the world on an early May morning, but you choke all of it back, snapping, “Have you considered that, maybe, if you’d wanted to be a father when she was born, she would have more of an attachment to you, Mark.”
“The town was in lock down,” he argues.
You shake your head, not pointing out the fact that he changed his god damn phone number so you couldn’t to reach him. “You could’ve tried, asshole.”
“Yeah, well,” he snips, stomping his way over to the driver’s side. “At least I’m not an uptight bitch.”
The only thing that stops you from losing it entirely is the knowledge that your daughter will hear it, and you refuse to be the parent who does that to her. Instead, you say, “You better call once you’re settled at your parents’ house. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, slamming the car shut, effectively cutting the conversation off.
You stand there, waiting in the driveway as he pulls out, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face pressed against the window, the way her little fingers claw at the glass, and you hold yourself tightly, trying desperately to not let her see just how much pain this situation is causing you.
(You would do anything to prevent her from shedding another tear again, and it kills you to be the cause of her anguish now.)
Once his car disappears from sight, and you force yourself back into the house, kicking the door shut behind you.
Steve looks up from his place on the couch, takes one look at your face, and opens his arms up in the same way he had for your daughter just a few weeks prior. It’s easy, then, to crawl onto his lap the way you once did in high school, to let yourself be held tightly, to press your ear against his chest and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, dragging a hand down your back.
You sigh, pressing your eyes shut. “Mark’s just an asshole, and Mia hates spending more time with him than she has to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s still so young, and even if I had the money to take him to court for full custody, it would be hard to when the courts wouldn’t take her opinion into consideration. I try my best, but… but seeing her cry, I don’t know. Makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not letting her choose now, you know? But despite everything, they’re her family, and she should know them.”
“What a douche bag,” Steve bluntly says.
A laugh bursts from you, unbidden. “Did I ever tell you that he accused me of cheating on him when I announced that I was pregnant?”
A scandalized noise erupts from his throat. “No.”
“Yes!” You sit up, meeting Steve’s eye. “And because he was at Purdue, I had to call him. He asked, ‘are you sure it’s mine?” then changed his number so I couldn’t contact him! He only showed up when Mia was two and demanded shared custody after the paternity test said that he was the father.”
“Seriously?” Steve scoffs. “What an asshole. You know, he never watches Mia at practice, either, and always looks annoyed when she tries to talk to him about it. I’ve even told him that she was really good and he just glared at me! Glared! He doesn’t deserve her.”
“No,” you agree. “He really doesn’t.”
“You know…” A small smile crosses Steve’s face. “I bet the reason he’s so pissy about it is ‘cause he’s mad that she’s better at softball than he ever was at basketball.”
“I bet you’re right,” you say. “He can’t handle the blow to his ego.”
A beat passes, his grin widens, and before you can stop it, giggles spill from your lips as all tension leaves your body.
It feels good to talk to someone about your daughter’s shitty father, to have Steve so easily validate every annoyance you’ve ever felt towards the man. It feels like you’re not as crazy as you're left feeling half the time after interacting with the man, to know that you’re not as alone in the world as you felt even five minutes prior.
The timer on the oven goes off, and the two of you make your way into the kitchen. Steve pulls plates from the cabinet, talking about the baseball team he coaches as you pull the baking dish from the oven, putting it on the breakfast table while he sets silverware down.
And dinner is…
It’s nice.
It’s simple, and it’s easy, and you feel like you, but in a way that doesn’t feel at war with your role as a parent. Like Steve sees both sides of you, understands that they are two sides to the same coin, and he likes you that way.
He talks about his life since high school. A shitty job at the mall, a shittier job at Family Video once the mall burnt down. The years spent working weird jobs, taking care of a gaggle of kids you vaguely remember seeing him with in high school. He tells you how he lied to his parents about how he couldn’t get into college, having not known what to do with his life and not wanting to disappoint them.
“I guess I thought they’d find it easier to accept that I was too stupid to be accepted,” he explains. “Though, as it turns out, they wouldn’t have had an issue with me just saying that I wanted to take a gap year.”
“Did you end up going?” you ask, sipping at your beer. “To college, that is.”
He leans back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. You don’t miss the flash of tummy, the trail of hair leading south that had not been there the last time you saw it.
“I did,” he says with no small amount of pride. “Graduated this past May, actually. Got a degree in physical education from Ball State. I’m starting at a gym teacher at the middle school in the fall.”
“Holy shit!” You reach over, squeezing his leg. “Congrats! That’s huge!”
He beams, but shrugs bashfully. “It’s no big deal.”
“Don’t be modest,” you scold. “That’s amazing. Mr. Harrington, gym teacher. Has a nice ring to it.”
“You think?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden tabletop. “So… you told me to call and ask why you’re still living here. Do I still need to do that, or can I ask now?”
“Hm.” You pretend to contemplate it, dragging your gaze across the kitchen, your eyes catching on the fridge covered in your daughter’s drawings. “I guess I can tell you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a fun story.”
“Not everything has to be,” he says.
And that’s all the assurance you need.
He listens attentively as you describe the car crash you don’t really remember, the one that ended the lives of your family just a couple of weeks after you graduated high school. The physical therapy, the fact that you lost your spot in college from all the medical issues. The way you planned to go once you healed, just somewhere closer to home, somewhere more affordable so you didn’t blow through the money you inherited. But then one thing led to another—the earthquake, the quarantine, the pregnancy—and your life had once again flipped upside down.
You talk about the early years with Mia. The labor that had lasted for thirty-one hours, the nurse who all held your hand as you pushed, the one for whom you named Mia after. The exhaustion, the late nights and early mornings, how you felt so, so much love for the tiny creature that you created from nothing, who felt so alien and so familiar at the same time. You tell him about her first laugh and first words and first steps, her propensity to get into trouble even from such a young age. How you bawled at her first birthday party, an event that was only attended by neighbors because, at that point, all of your friends had moved on with their lives while yours was completely centered on Mia.
You tell him about the day that Mark came crashing back in, the fury that you felt, how you had screamed at him so loudly that a neighbor came over to see if they needed to call the police on him for trespassing. The way you felt so small when his parents came in with money and lawyers and more things than you could ever hope to provide your daughter on a meager salary, how you’d been bullied into giving up more of your time with Mia than you ever wanted.
You tell him everything that you can think of, and when you’re done, you steel your nerves, look Steve straight in the eye, and say, “There’s another thing.”
He nods. “Yeah?”
“I can’t…” You chew on your lip. “I won’t do anything to hurt her, Steve. I can’t have you in my life as… as someone who’s flirting with me, or doing something more. Not if you don’t understand that we’re a package deal. She’s everything to me, and I would rather die than have her hurt over a choice I made. And I know this is a lot, and I know this is intense, but—I’m telling you right now. You’re either all in or you’re out. We can be friends, and we can hang out, but if you want anything more… you have to understand that she will always come first.”
“I know,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honey. Whatever you’ll let me have, whatever parts of your lives I can be in, I want that. I want you. Both of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”
Something in your chest eases at the admission, a nervousness dissipating.
Slowly, he leans in, the gap between the two of you closing, and he whispers, “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.
And his lips crash into yours.
Your fingers scramble up, gripping his chin as he pulls you forward, off your chair and onto his lap.
It feels as though you’re on fire, sparks shooting across your skin with every rough drag of his lips, with every nip of his teeth. You tilt his head so you can have a better angle, and when he lets out a wanton groan, you feel alive.
His calloused palms skim their way under your shirt, settling on your waist as you moan into the kiss, open mouthed, drawing his tongue in.
It’s messy, and it’s a little clumsy, but you find that you don’t care. Not when you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, and not when he whimpers against your lips as you tug on his hair.
“Honey,” he whispers. “Don’t torture me.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, pulling away. A trail of spit connects the two of you, and you take in just how incredibly wrecked he looks already, with his pupils blown wide and a heavy flush on his cheeks. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”
You stand and capture his fingers between your own, tugging him through the house and up the stairs.
It isn’t until you enter the expanse of your bedroom that the nerves start to get the better of you, and you put your hands on his chest, stopping him from ducking down to kiss you once more as you say, “I have something else to tell you.”
“What is it?” he asks, pressing his forehead into yours.
“Just… I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment flooding your system.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me, honey. Are you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do anything—honestly, I wasn’t expecting—”
“It’s not that,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s not—it’s just that—I’m different now. My body—it looks different from how you remember it. It’s softer, and I have stretch marks, and—I’ve had a baby. I don’t look the same.”
A kiss, gentle yet effervescent, is pressed into your temple. “That doesn’t matter to me at all. You grew a person. You think I’m supposed to feel anything other than awe over that?”
“I’ve had—other people have told me it’s gross,” you confess. “I just… I wanted to prepare you, is all.”
“Oh, honey.” It’s said so softly that you barely hear it. “I could never be grossed out by you.”
Your eyes fly open. You see the honesty on his face, along with the unbridled desire as his gaze dips down, and before you lose your nerve, you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off and tossing it somewhere out of sight.
The reaction is immediate.
It’s gratifying, honestly, how clearly he wants you. How clearly he desires you, and everything that comes with it. Enough so that you’re pushing your pants down, asking, “Am I the only one getting undressed tonight?”
He grabs the end of his shirt with a fervor, completely and utterly uncoordinated, and you can’t help but giggle from his enthusiasm.
That is, however, until you see his chest. The way a forest of hair has completely taken over, yes, but the mottled silver scars that cover the tanned skin, tracing down his sides and stopping mere inches from his boxers.
You want to ask, but when you look back up at his face, you recognize the situation for what it is: A conversation for a different time, a different day, where you have the time and space to become reacquainted with one another on a deeper level.
He steps closer, then, and you remember thinking how much of a man Steve had seemed back in high school, back when you were just a girl yourself and he was the most grown person you’d slept with. All confidence and bravado and hard lines, a tendency towards your pleasure before his own like it was his solemn duty. But you had been utterly wrong about whatever masculinity that you assumed he had back in high school.
The boy he was then has nothing on the man he is now, the kind of man who has grown into his own body, who is comfortable in who he is above all else. One that’s softer, less toned, but somehow more powerful than before. Covered in the kind of hair that can only come with life experience and age, a surety in his hands that no one else has ever had as he reaches for your hips.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he warns, his lips brushing over your own.
You tilt your chin up, grinning, and he presses forward.
It’s softer now, less frenzied. He takes his time mapping every part of your face as he presses you back into your sheets, covering your body with his own. You reach behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it away, desperate to feel the wiry hair on his chest brush against your nipples, and you mewl at the sensation.
Steve huffs a laugh into your mouth, planting his lips down your chin, ghosting his teeth over the column of your beck and down to your collar.
He pauses, then, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging over the peak, and he whispers, “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more beautiful than you are.”
“You’re cheesy,” you say.
“Only for you,” he replies.
A kiss is pressed onto your sternum, then a little bite, and before you can process it, your entire nipple is sucked into his mouth, his tongue lavishing circles around the bud as his hand comes up to play with your other breast.
“Fuck, Steve,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair.
He peeks up at you, his brown eyes glowing in the darkness of your room, and grins with your tit still in his mouth.
It’s obscene, yet you feel so, so hot, especially as his hand travels down your body, making its way to your wet, aching core.
“So pretty for me, honey,” he murmurs, releasing your breast with a pop. “So, so pretty.”
He traces a path down, his tongue leaving a trail of spit as he goes, and for a moment, you think he’s going to just dive in, ripping your panties off and feasting the way he once did, but he doesn’t. He stops at your stretch marks, and carefully, begins to plant a kiss on every single one that he can find, mumbling beautiful and gorgeous as he goes.
Your entire head goes fuzzy at the sight, and you think he can tell by the dopey grin he shoots you as he asks, “Do you still think I don’t love this?”
“You’re a perv,” you moan, his thumb pressing down on your clit through your panties. “And a freak. I can’t believe—”
“Only for you,” he promises. “Only for you, honey.”
Fingers come up to the elastic of your underwear, and with your permission, he begins the torturous process of peeling them down your legs, tossing them to the side without a care before spreading you open once more.
You aren’t surprised when he pampers kisses along your inner thigh, easing his way towards your core, to where you want him the most. You can feel the mess you’re making despite the fact he’s barely touched you, and you see the delight on his face when he makes his way home, stroking a hand through your pubic hair before spreading your lower lips apart.
“I missed this,” he says, then dives straight in.
The next thing you know, his tongue is everywhere. Dipping inside your cunt, swirling around your clit. He flattens it, licking a long stripe up as he peers at you through the thatch of hair, and you feel completely and utterly incoherent as pleasure builds faster than you’ve ever felt before.
Two fingers nudge their way inside, curling, finding the spot that has your thighs squeezing Steve’s head. You can feel his laugh, rather than hear it, as it vibrates against your pussy in a way that has your hips jerking up, desperate, chasing—
“That’s it,” he says, twisting his hand. “Come for me, honey.”
And you do.
Loudly.
A moan is ripped from your throat, bouncing around the walls as you tangle your fingers into his hair, stars shooting across your eyes as he holds you in place.
You feel like you’re on fire, like you’ve somehow been born anew as he works you through your orgasm, brushing a thumb against your clit as you shake and shake and shake, coming down slowly from the highest high you’ve ever felt in your life, until slowly, finally, your limbs stop trembling, and every single one of your muscles goes lax.
“Wow,” you whisper, forcing your eyes open and down towards the man still planting kitten kisses against your pussy. “Wow, Steve. You got—a lot better at that.”
“Yeah?” He shoots you a lopsided grin. “I’m glad.”
You tug on his hair once more, pulling him back up your body. “Come here.”
He follows, and you pull him towards your mouth, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply.
It’s perfect.
You reach down, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, and he pulls back suddenly, saying, “Uh, when I said I wasn’t expecting anything—I meant it. I don’t—I didn’t bring protection.”
“It’s alright,” you say. “I have an IUD.”
His eyes blow wide open at that, and the next thing you know, his lips are crashing into yours once more as he helps you shuck his underwear. You take him into your hand, finding him warm and somehow bigger than you remember, but still so utterly him and utterly real.
His hips stutter as you give a few, testing pumps, and he whimpers against your mouth, pleading, “Don’t tease.”
“Not teasing,” you say. “Just feeling.”
His forehead drops to your collar as you continue to stroke him, up and down and up and down, dragging your nails across sensitive skin, soaking in the way he moans so beautifully under your ministrations.
“Honey,” he groans. “Please, please, may I fuck you?”
“Well,” you giggle. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
You yelp when he catches you under your knees, pushing up, up, up until you’re practically folded in half, the tip of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering wetness. He looks up, locking his eyes on you, before slowly—torturouslyslow—he pushes in.
Your mouth drops open as a loud moan is punched from your throat, savoring the feeling of how he drags against your walls, filling you up in a way that you could go crazy over.
He eases out, testing, and gives a shallow thrust, testing, teasing, as he carefully fucks each and every single inch back into you until finally, finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with your pussy.
And for one, small, excruciating moment, you know what it feels like to be home.
He leans over your body, capturing your hands in his own, winding your fingers together as he presses your foreheads together, the obscene sound of him fucking you gently filling your head.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your open mouth. “So, so beautiful, so mine—so lucky, honey, I’m so lucky—”
Tears of pleasure spring in the corners of your eyes, falling down your cheeks, and you let out a breathy laugh when he licks them up, loving the feeling of his tongue against your oversensitive skin.
It’s never, not in any of your years of sleeping with people, made you feel as whole and complete as you do now, with Steve making space in your body for himself, with the unbridled pleasure he gives you with each and every thrust.
It almost slips from your lips—an inappropriately timed expression of love—and you think he can tell, because he whispers, “I know, honey, I know.”
“Steve,” you gasp. “Steve.”
He picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, punching the air from your lungs as bliss lays claim on every single one of your senses.
“Please,” you babble, “please please please, come in me, please—”
“Fuck,” he grunts, then captures your lips so roughly that they’ll no doubt be swollen by the time morning rolls around.
He gives a last few, harsh, stuttering thrusts as warmth spills inside you before collapsing on top of you entirely.
It takes a few minutes, ones you spend stroking a hand down his muscular back, becoming reacquainted with the feeling of his skin, before he pulls out and rolls off, saying, “I could do that every day.”
You tilt your head, giving him what is no doubt a dopey smile.
“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”
It takes a bit for the two of you to clean up, with Steve insisting on carrying you to the bathroom and laughing when you slip from his sweaty grip.
He finds a wash cloth in the linen cabinet, taking care to be mindful of any sensitivity on your end as he drags the cloth through your folds, washing his spend from your skin.
He also, in the years apart, has apparently lost all sense of shame and insists on staying in the bathroom as you pee, holding your hand like you were at risk of flying away if he were to turn away for just a single second.
It should be embarrassing, but you find that you’ve long since moved past any sense of shame when it comes to Steve Harrington.
Back in your bedroom, he tugs soft pajamas from the dresser and insists on dressing you, kneeling on the ground as he helps you step into underwear, his hands warm against your legs as he pulls up the fabric.
The two of you move back to the bed, crawling under your old quilt, and instinctively you reach over to the alarm clock, flicking on the radio as Jimmy Lee’s Late Night at the Squawk plays.
“You know,” Steve murmurs against your cheek. “One of those weird jobs I mentioned earlier? One of them was at the radio station.”
“Yeah?” you ask, a little too sleepy to say anything else.
He nods, his hair ticking the soft skin of your face. “Uh-huh. Back during lock down, in ’87. I did the late night set at the Squawk, Monday through Friday.”
Everything in your body stills. “Are you serious?”
His eyes peel open, fixing you with a curious look. “Yeah. Robin—my best friend, she handled the morning show—always said that she had to put me late at night, ‘cause my music choices were too boring.”
“No, it’s not—” Your heart pounds erratically, and it feels as though flowers have wound themselves around your ribcage, blooming under the admission. “Steve.”
“Yes?”
“Mia was born in ’87.”
“I know,” he says.
“No, no, you don’t—”
A laugh bubbles from you, and he hitches himself up on an elbow. “I’m missing something.”
“That was you!” you say between giggles. “Oh my god! No wonder she likes you so much!”
“Honey?”
“After Mia was born,” you start, grinning like a madman. “When it was just me and her, the only way I could get her to sleep was by tuning the radio to the Squawk whenever your show was on. But I had no idea it was you—I was so exhausted, you know?—and your voice—oh, god, your voice—it was the only thing that ever soothed her to sleep without fail.”
“Are you…” He licks his lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Are you serious? She…”
There’s something in his expression—hesitation, wonder, affection—that brings tears to your eyes, because you know that look. You know it intimately, because it’s the same way you feel every single time your daughter does something that surprises you, every time she grows just a little more into her own person.
And it’s a look that you have never, not a single time, seen on Mark’s face when he looks at her.
Something in you bursts, a swell of tenderness, of hilarity, over the fact that it took so long to find someone who might even remotely feel the same way about Mia that you do. And that person—that man—the one who so carefully cleaned her scraped knees, is the same man who once applied the same, careful precision to wiping tears from your face when you were nothing but a stranger to him.
It took so long, and he’d lived so close the entire time.
“You know,” he says, sounding rather choked up. “I—don’t kill me for saying this, but—I wish I’d run into you sooner.”
You find his hand in the dark and squeeze, hoping and praying that it conveys every single thing that you feel.
He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes back.
“I’ve wasted so much time that I could’ve spent with you, with her,” he whispers. “I… I was serious earlier, when I said that I’ll take the two of you, in whatever way you’ll have me. I’m all in, honey. She’s just—god, she’s an incredible kid, and you—I don’t even know where to begin, but—fuck.”
imagine you’re dating spencer and instead of him not being able to keep his hands off you, he can’t keep his hands on you. during sex he’s always to scared to put it in because he doesn’t want to hurt you, so he substitutes by sticking his pretty little face between your thighs and cleaning your messy cunt with his tongue and running your a warm bath afterwards. on your honeymoon, you guys had p in v sex for the first time and he did not hold back. it felt so amazing, but he ended up bruising your cervix and he wouldn’t touch you for like 3 weeks afterwards. he always muttered ‘i’m sorry- i’m so sorry-’ whenever he even thought that he was going too hard inside of you, he promises to be gentle at first but the pace he goes is always too underwhelming for him so he ends up fucking the lights out of you, only to feel guilty about you being cock drunk; barely being able to form a coherent sentence. he always tells you how pretty you are afterwards, begging you to forgive him. and you love it.
Just read the sequel to Nasty and I NEED to know what pervy!joel would be like if reader *did* get pregnant by him!!
Full
Summary: The morning-after pill that Joel, your neighbor from your trailer park days, gave you the day you moved out didn't work. Joel, perverted as he is, has chosen to make the most of it.
Pairing: Perv!Joel Miller x Pregnant!Reader
Content warnings: Joel's got a pregnancy & lactation kink, unspecified age gap, pregnancy, description of pregnant body, pregnancy symptoms, Perv!Joel is capable of vulnerability?, dirty talk, smut, Joel has an exhibitionist thought, fingering, tit/nipple play, eating during sex, orgasm denial, food play, short labor scene, nondescript and brief birth
Word count: 6,864
Read on ao3 | Pervy!Trailer Park!Joel Masterlist
Author's note: as much as I loved writing this, this is not canon in the Pervy!Trailer Park!Joel universe. This is just gonna be a fun little "what if?" b/c I don't have any plans for a pregnancy plot in this universe (at least atm), but I feel like it is lowk known on this blog that I am a slut for making a man into a DILF, so this was fun to write! (I went ahead and tagged everyone who wanted to be tagged for Slimy and future pervy!Joel works, but I know pregnancy can spook some people, so if you want to make a caveat to your being on the taglist, lmk) okay I hope everyone enjoys! <3
The “U up?” texts from Joel slowly evolve into texts that say “I’m 5 mins away. U better not be wearing panties when I get to ur place” as time goes on with you living in your new house.
It’s around two months after you move into your house that you start getting fatigued, throwing up in the morning, not to mention how swollen and tender your breasts are.
Joel catches on and shows up at your house one night with a pregnancy test.
“Seriously? Joel, it’s just a bug,” you insist as you shove the box back in his hand.
Joel shoves it back in your hand so hard you stumble a little.
“Of course, I’m serious. Now quit bein’ a brat and drop your fuckin’ panties and piss on this thing.”
You roll your eyes and snatch the box, then turn toward your bathroom.
Joel’s on your heels.
You turn around and glare up at him. “What, you got a piss kink all of a sudden?”
He rolls his eyes and pushes you into the bathroom with a gentle hand on your shoulder.
“If I really knocked ya up, I wanna be there when we find out they’re real,” he says, and it’s so surprisingly sweet, you almost drop your frown.
With a mumbled “whatever”, you get on the toilet and go about your business with Joel leaning against the counter across from you, watching intently as you aim your stream on the plastic stick.
As you wash your hands and wait the instructed five minutes, you lean against the counter next to Joel, side by side.
After a moment, he says, “Of course, whatever we do here is your decision. I don’t know if just now I came across as ‘Oh, of course we’re keepin’ the baby.’ I ain’t the one doin’ the damn thing, but I’ll tell ya right now: if you are pregnant, I’ll take good care o’ you and the kid if you decide to keep it. You have my word.”
You don’t respond. You’re too emotional. You just keep staring at the window inside your shower and calmly cover Joel’s hand, which he has braced on the counter with yours.
You hadn’t given much thought to kids before, but maybe it’d be a good thing. You’ve never been opposed, so if the test is positive, why not take a chance?
Joel may be the most perverted man you’ve ever been with, but you know for a fact he’s capable of more.
When the timer on your phone rings, Joel takes a step back from the counter. It’s like he’s giving you the space to do this alone, but also near enough that you know he’ll come closer if you ask.
Joel doesn’t have to look at the test to know. The hitch in your breath and the hand over your mouth give you away.
He shifts his weight uncomfortably, then clears his throat.
“Whatever you wanna do, we’ll do,” he murmurs, his voice gruff. “Don’t let what I want fuck things up for you.”
You look up at him with bleary eyes and shake your head.
“I wanna keep it,” you croak.
Joel’s brows shoot up to his forehead. You’ve only been living in this house for about two months. He thought maybe that was enough big life changes for you in one year.
“Baby, are you sure?”
You nod, placing a hand on your stomach, then glancing down at the test on the counter.
“I had more than enough for this place and the furniture, so I’m…good. And I don’t know, it just feels right,” you explain, your voice wet with emotion.
That’s enough for Joel.
He grabs you by the hips and pulls you in for a hug.
A fucking hug.
You don’t think you’ve ever gotten hugged by this man.
Surprisingly, he’s a good hugger. His arms are secure around your body; his chin is resting on top of your head. You feel safe.
As he loosens his hold on you, he gets down to his knees and kisses your stomach, right below your belly button.
“Your tits are gonna get so huge,” he moans against your skin.
The first trimester is awful, but according to all the research Joel’s been secretly doing, that is to be expected. As you get over the morning sickness and head into the second trimester, Joel realizes he hasn’t even driven by the trailer park in almost two weeks.
You’ve needed him so much just in these first three months. He can’t imagine how much you’ll need him by the end.
His trailer isn’t the place he wants to raise his baby. Yours would’ve worked; you just have this ability to make anywhere feel like home.
Joel’s is worse than a typical bachelor pad. He never married and managed to avoid accidental pregnancies until this point. He’s got a couch, a table with two chairs, and his bed. That’s pretty much it.
In all honesty, you’re the first woman he’s seen consistently for more than a month in maybe twenty years. The last woman was a girlfriend who left him for the president of a fucking biker gang.
In between her and you, it’s exclusively been hook-ups and flings.
Technically, you’re still a hook-up.
At least officially.
He’s 47 years old, and he’s been practically living with the younger woman he got pregnant.
Maybe you already consider you and him as more. Maybe he doesn’t need to bring it up.
Although you’re growing his baby and letting him practically live here. He probably owes it to you to be the one to bring it up.
He’s getting back to your house late one night after a job ran late.
He’d never had to text someone to tell them about having to work overtime. No one’s ever been waiting for him for that to be necessary.
You texted back, telling him not to worry, but to bring you home French fries for your troubles.
So, Joel walks into your bedroom, sawdust clinging to his clothes, with a paper bag full of French fries from your favorite fast food restaurant in one hand and a milkshake in the other hand, figuring you’ll want something sweet to go with the fries.
He hears you finishing up in the bathroom, so he calls out that he’s here.
You open the door and walk out to the bedroom, ravenous for your snack, wearing only panties that have begun to dig into the meat of your hips and a tank top that emphasizes the slight swelling that’s happening in your middle.
“Hi,” you practically chirp as you take the bag of food from him.
“Hey, darlin’. How’s the kid?”
You crawl into bed and pull the covers over your lap.
“Probably fine. Y’know, I’ve still got a month or two before I can feel them,” you remind him as you pop a French fry into your mouth.
You nod at the milkshake in his hand.
“For me or you?”
Joel shakes his head and hands it to you. “Figured you’d want somethin’ sweet, too.”
You smile and gladly take the cup.
He’s a little tense as he stands near the foot of your bed.
“What, are you working up the nerve to tell me you want a night to yourself?” you ask softly.
It’s probably just the hormones, but recently, the thought of sleeping in an empty bed makes you upset. You’ve gotten used to waking up with morning wood pressing against your lower back. You’d miss it if it were gone.
Joel breathes in sharply and shakes his head.
“The opposite,” he mumbles.
You furrow your brow.
He sighs and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.
“My place ain’t the one we wanna raise this kid,” he begins.
You nod.
“Yeah, it’s pretty unsalvageable in the way of child safety,” you murmur, smiling so he knows you’re not judging him.
Joel smiles right back, making the crinkles near his eyes all the more noticeable, which you only find more and more attractive as your pregnancy progresses.
“Anyway,” he continues. “I haven’t been by my place in about a week, I realized today. And we are havin’ this baby together. I don’t know, darlin’. I…I want us to be a family. I didn’t have the best childhood, and I want us to give this kid a real shot. Maybe tryin’ to be a nuclear family is the way to go, maybe it isn’t, but… I think, if you’re up for it, I would like to try.”
You smile and lean back against the pillows.
“I’ll do the math tomorrow and let you know what your half is,” you say.
Joel furrows his brow and cocks his head to the side.
“For the mortgage. And utilities and shit.”
You helped Joel with his taxes last year; you know he’s living below his means in the trailer park and that he has a fat retirement fund as well as some nice savings. He can afford to live in a house; he’s just chosen to stay at the trailer park.
There wasn’t anything pulling him out before. Now there is.
“Honey…”
Joel stops. He doesn’t really know what he could possibly say here. He meant to ask if he could stay with you while he looks for a house nearby, but if you’re offering…
Instead, he leans over your body and kisses you, tasting the salt from the fries on your lips. Then he leans down and kisses your belly.
He moves the two whole boxes of stuff he cares about into your house that weekend.
Once Joel’s moved in and he’s introduced you to his brother, Tommy (who you didn’t even know existed until you were sixteen weeks pregnant), as his girl, the pregnancy goes pretty smoothly.
Granted, Joel’s going through more viagra than he’d like to in order to keep up with your heightened libido. Other than that, he’s never been happier.
Sometimes, your hormones are a lot, and your insecurity about the changes to your body makes its way out, but Joel has honestly never been more attracted to you.
Your breasts, which he loved more than life itself before the pregnancy, have gone up a cup size. The fucking rack on you now is so fucking impressive that he has a hard time not grabbing them even when the two of you go out in public.
Every time the two of you fuck now, he has to see them. As long as he’s gentle with your sore breasts and lowers them carefully when he removes your bra, you don’t mind.
He’s determined to make you lactate before you give birth. He read up on it; apparently, it’s possible if all the stars are aligned. Plus, it’ll get you ahead on milk storage if you decide to pump in addition to letting Joel suck on your nipples. He suckles on your nipples when he’s balls deep in you while you clench and gush on his cock, hoping that the consistent stimulation will produce lactation by the third trimester.
And don’t get him started on your belly.
Seriously. Just watching you grow rounder and rounder while you grow his baby has been a fucking spectacle. He fucking loves your bump.
He’s insisted on taking as many pictures, naked or otherwise, of you as he possibly can. Sometimes, he’ll even set a timer on the camera so he can join. He’s just fucking obsessed with your body.
He was obsessed before; the photos he has saved on his phone from your previous text messages are a good indicator, but now he’s got his baby growing inside of you, and apparently, that’s a big turn-on.
And at this stage of your pregnancy, it truly does match his beer belly in size, just as he predicted on that last night in the trailer park.
At the 20-week ultrasound, he cries.
He’d been nervous all week. The 20-week scan is where you learn the sex, sure. And that’s really exciting, but it’s also where you find out if there are any abnormalities.
You haven’t been too nervous beyond what you’d expect from a woman who’s had a smooth pregnancy so far, but Joel is a wreck.
So when the doctor says the baby is perfectly healthy and right on track, a few tears fall.
You don’t look at him when you feel a warm tear fall on the skin of your chest. You just squeeze his hand tighter and keep your eyes glued to the screen.
“Alright,” the doctor says. “Do the two of you want to know the sex?”
You open your mouth to answer, but Joel, in his excitement, beats you to the punch.
“Yes,” he says emphatically.
The doctor smiles and looks at you to double-check.
“Yes, we would like to know,” you say softly.
The doctor moves the probe on your belly to the side a few more times, then says, “Congratulations. It’s a girl.”
Upon hearing the news, you smile so wide your cheeks hurt, but Joel drops his head on your chest, still holding your hand with both of his.
His shoulders start to shake, and your eyes go wide.
The doctor quickly prints off the ultrasound photos and leaves the room.
You reach for a tissue and wipe the gel off your stomach. The movement jostles Joel, and he looks up at you with red-rimmed eyes.
“What? Don’t tell me you wanted a boy,” you murmur softly as you reach up to wipe his eyes.
He shakes his head.
“I ain’t worthy of a girl,” he mumbles.
Your gaze softens, and you sigh.
“Yeah, you are.”
“No, girls are sweet and dainty, and they need their daddies to be the kinda man who didn’t use to sit on his porch in his boxers, drinkin’ and smokin’.”
He sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
“If you’re worried about deserving her, I think it means you already deserve her,” you whisper.
Joel sniffs, and you reach a hand out again to stroke his cheek. He leans into your touch and sighs.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
As soon as the two of you finish up at the doctor’s office, Joel drags you to the store to pick out pink swatches for the nursery. He picks ten and takes them all home.
You pick your favorite, and he heads back to the store for the appropriate amount of paint and gets to work. He builds the crib himself over the course of three weeks and carves in the words “You are so precious to me, baby mine” on the back rail.
It makes you cry when you see the finished product in the nursery, but Joel kisses you until you’re whimpering from desperation rather than being overwhelmed with awe.
“Yeah? Like seein’ me be a daddy?” he teases in your ear, his hands roaming your belly and your ass. “You know I’m gonna be the best daddy, don’t ya? Yeah, you do. You’re so fuckin’ happy to make me a daddy.”
He fucks you on the floor in the middle of the nursery, which you have some feelings about, but Joel insists it’s some sort of full-circle moment.
As your pregnancy progresses into the third trimester, there are only four things on your mind: eating, sleeping, dreaming about the day this baby is out and you can comfortably take a deep breath, and Joel’s cock.
You go through the motions at work, but your days off and the evenings are spent as hedonistically as possible.
Today, you had a half-day at work. Joel said he’ll be stuck in the office doing paperwork most of the day.
Perfect.
You show up at lunch time with burgers and milkshakes in a dress that barely covers your ass.
“What is your pretty little ass doin’ here?” Joel asks with a smirk plastered on his face as he looks up.
“Half day at work,” you say softly as you set the food down.
The “office” isn’t private. It’s a trailer with a few desks inside. Anyone could walk in. They probably won’t, but they could.
For some reason, the idea of one of the guys on the crew walking in and seeing Joel fuck his heavily pregnant girlfriend is incredibly appealing to him.
“Does my baby mama need some company?” Joel croons as he stands to grab a chair for you.
You bite back a smile and don’t say anything. You just let him help you sit and go about eating your burger.
Under the desk, you let your flip flops slide off your feet. You start caressing his shin with your foot.
Joel looks at you through his lashes but doesn’t say anything.
He undoes his belt, holding eye contact with you while you chew, then shucks his jeans down mid-way down his thighs.
He pats his lap, and you wordlessly round the desk and straddle him, your burger still in hand.
Joel rubs his hands over the expanse of your belly, the fabric of your dress soft on his palms. One hand travels lower to palm your cunt, and when he’s met with your damp pubic hair, he cocks a brow. The other hand moves up to circle his thumb around your nipple through the fabric of your dress.
“You’re pretty slutty for a pregnant woman,” Joel whispers, the smirk from when you walked in still present on his face. “No panties, dress barely covers your ass, can see your nipples through your dress… What kinda mother-to-be are you?”
You lean down and kiss his cheek.
“The horny kind,” you mumble against his skin.
Joel pushes a finger into your entrance with ease, given how wet you are. You moan softly, increasing in pitch when he abruptly adds a second.
He moves his fingers in and out until he can feel you’re close. That’s when he takes them out and sucks them clean.
Carefully, he lowers your dress, exposing your swollen, engorged tits. You whimper softly, and he immediately dives in, peppering them with kisses.
“I don’t know how you expect me to share these with the baby,” he mumbles around your nipple as he begins to suckle on it.
You scoff and pull him off by yanking his hair.
“Don’t be a dick.”
Joel huffs and pinches your ass in retaliation for the hair pulling.
You huff right back and lean forward for a kiss, though it’s more bite and growl than kiss.
He pulls back with a low grunt and sighs.
“Eat your food and lemme fuck you,” he says, and he’s not asking.
Joel positions his cock at your entrance and pushes you down on it by your hips.
You cry out, and Joel immediately starts thrusting up into you.
“These baby hormones must have you fucked up, huh, mama?” he rasps, keeping a firm grip on your ass as he ruthlessly fucks up into you. “They got you puttin’ on your skimpiest clothes, comin’ to my office to fuck in the middle of my goddamn work day. You need your baby daddy bad, huh?”
You whimper and moan, “Mm, the dress wasn’t skimpy before you knocked me up.”
He laughs softly and leans forward to take a bite out of the burger.
“Point still stands,” he mumbles around the food in his mouth.
Joel takes the burger from your hand and tosses it on the desk behind you.
“Need you focused,” he says.
“Focused?” you gasp, your hands scrambling for purchase on the collar of his plaid button-up.
He doesn’t respond; he just dives back in on your chest, wrapping his lips around your nipple, which has you throwing your head back in pleasure.
“Joel, you’re gonna…”
“Gonna what?” he mumbles around your nipple.
Your breasts suddenly feel heavier, and you swear they’re tingling.
“Joel.”
A warning, but to what, you don’t know.
You say his name so quietly that he doesn’t hear you; he’s too enraptured by your tit in his mouth, and he swears your skin is flushing.
Joel scoops you up, his hands firm under your thighs, and sits you on the edge of his desk so he can get a better angle to fuck you.
In the midst of all the movement, Joel doesn’t realize what’s just happened, but you do.
You pull him off you by his hair, and it’s all over his face, dripping down your breast.
You’re not sure what to say. You’re already extremely aware that Joel was waiting for this to happen, and if the half-lidded look in his eyes is any further indication, it’s safe to say he’s pleased.
“You’ve got a milk mustache,” you mutter softly.
Joel lets out a laugh so loud, you’re almost tempted to cover his mouth.
He looks down at the white liquid dripping down your body, and the smile is almost fond, like he’s laying eyes on an old friend.
“You’re amazin’, y’know that?” he says softly.
You give him a sweet smile.
“Can I keep fuckin’ you?”
You nod, and Joel’s thrusts pick up again while his hands fondle your breasts, teetering on the edge of practically expressing your milk with his hands.
“D’ya want a taste?”
Your eyes practically bug out of your head, and Joel laughs again.
“I guess we’ll work ya up to that.”
He doesn’t harp on it; he just starts fucking into you so hard, you swear your cervix will be bruised by the time you walk out of here. He hikes the skirt of your dress up so now the fabric is bunched up at the top of your belly. Joel keeps groping your breasts and rubbing your belly and thrusting in and out of you.
Joel is determined to make this a good experience for you, especially after you just lactated for the first time.
“You’re a fuckin’ dream, y’know that?” he croons. “This rack, and now it’s makin’ milk. This belly… God, I swear there ain’t a hotter pregnant woman in the whole state of Texas, darlin’. Hell, probably the fuckin’ country, if not the world.”
“Oh, the world?” you scoff, smiling.
He nods like it’s very important business that the two of you are discussing.
“Oh, yeah. Baby, the way you look all full o’ me,” he hums, his hands gliding over your gravid stomach. “Jesus H. Christ… Knowin’ ya look like this because I blew my load in this sweet pussy… I swear, if I were 20 years younger, I’d be rock hard all the time just thinkin’ about it.”
You can only whimper in response, and that’s when Joel finally brings his finger to your clit.
“Joel, I’m gonna… Jesus, fuck,” you whimper.
“Yeah, I know. That’s kinda the point here, mama,” Joel grits through his teeth. “I’ll go with ya.”
You come with a shaky gasp, and Joel’s right behind you, filling you up to the brim.
Once Joel starts softening inside of you, he pulls out and cleans you up with the takeout napkins you brought. He kisses your breasts and your belly before he readjusts your dress.
He sits down and leans back in his chair, admiring the view of you perched up on his desk.
“I’ll just keep ya like this,” he declares with a contented sigh as he tucks his now soft dick away. “All swollen and full. It’s a good look on you, sunshine.”
You let out a breathy laugh. “That sounds sadistic. I mean, you saw me waddle in here.”
Joel smirks and shakes his head.
“You love bein’ all full o’ me. Don’t sit there and say the cons outweigh the pros,” he says, reaching his hands out to caress the tops of your thighs.
He leans forward and kisses your belly, then his chair scrapes against the floor as he gets even closer to the desk, now wrapping his arms around your hips and rubbing his face against your bump.
“Say you love it. Admit it,” he mumbles.
You sigh and run your hands through his soft hair.
“Say. It,” Joel says again, his voice muffled by your stomach.
“I guess there are worse things,” you mumble softly.
“Worse than what?”
He won’t give up.
“There are worse things than…carrying your baby,” you mutter through half-closed lips.
“Mm, you’ve almost got me pleased,” he hums, raising his head to look at you more closely. “Be more specific, honey.”
“I…love being full of you. I love carrying your fucking seed inside me, and I love that everyone knows it’s you who made me this way,” you say, speaking softly and breathily.
Joel smiles, a real toothy grin, and squeezes your hips.
“Good girl. I could really feel that one,” he says, bringing a hand to his heart.
You huff out a breathy laugh and shake your head.
“I gotta go home. Baby wants a nap,” you say, sliding off Joel’s desk.
Joel scoots back, getting out of your way, and grabs your purse for you. He helps you down the steps and keeps his hand at the small of your back as he walks you to your car.
Once you’re in the driver’s seat, Joel leans his head down and kisses your bump.
“You be good to your mama, baby girl. Take it easy on her. Love you.”
Another kiss, then he straightens up and kisses your cheek.
“Drive safe.”
The rest of your third trimester is relatively the same: filled with naps, food, sporadic deep breaths, and Joel fucking you at your whim.
At the final checkup, which falls on your due date, your doctor informs you that it’ll probably be another week before the baby decides to make her appearance.
“More than half of first-time moms go past their due date,” your doctor tells you. “In this pamphlet, there is a list of a few methods used to induce labor, sex being the most effective.”
The doctor hands you the pamphlet, and you don’t even have to look over your shoulder; you can feel how big Joel is smiling at that news.
As Joel drives you home, you go through the list.
Membrane sweep. You literally got that done today.
Eating dates. Joel got some yesterday after reading about them inducing labor. You ate five this morning.
Nipple stimulation. Joel literally hasn’t stopped groping your tits since the day you started lactating.
Sexual intercourse. You haven’t let Joel get in your pants in a week. You’ve been too uncomfortable.
But right now, with your unborn daughter getting way too comfortable and way too big for your womb to contain her much longer, 15 minutes of slight discomfort paired with an orgasm sounds pretty damn good.
Joel pulls into the driveway and parks next to your car. He kills the engine and hops out, rounding the hood to open your door and help you out.
Once the two of you are inside the house and Joel’s got his back turned while he locks the door, you blurt out, “You have to fuck me.”
He turns around, his brows pinched, and you can tell he’s fighting back a smirk.
“Oh, do I?”
You nod, already pulling your sweatpants down.
“Joel, we’ve tried everything else. I’m not going overdue. If this kid isn’t out of me by tonight, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
He was ready to tease you and make you beg for it, but the look in your eyes right now and the echo of how hard it is for you to even get off the couch these days make him change his mind.
Joel takes a few steps forward, then gently reaches out to grab your chin and put your gaze right on him.
“Get naked and on the bed. I’m in charge of gettin’ this baby outta you. Got it?”
You can’t tell if you’re nodding of your own volition or if Joel is moving your head for you. Either way, when he lets go of your chin, you head to your bedroom, and Joel stays behind for a moment. Either to build anticipation or actually do something productive.
When Joel joins you in the bedroom, he’s got the bottle of chocolate syrup from the fridge in his hand.
Your eyes widen, and Joel just smirks as he steps further into the bedroom.
“I’ve been havin’ this milk straight up for weeks now, darlin’,” he begins, kneeling on the edge of the bed now. “And don’t get me wrong, mama, it’s good. But a man can want a little variety, can’t he?”
You’re stunned.
You’re actually fucking stunned.
Here you are, asking for what is essentially a mercy fuck with the sole purpose of inducing labor, and your baby daddy wants to, what, pour chocolate syrup on your nipples so it mixes with your breastmilk?
He’s crawling up the bed, hovering over you, and popping the cap off the bottle.
“We should have some fun before we become responsible parents. One last kinky hurrah before we’ve got a screamin’ baby interruptin’ us every five minutes,” Joel murmurs softly.
Surprisingly, you’re on board with what he’s saying.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” he coos.
You nod your head, and Joel leans the bottle against your hip while he gets out of his clothes. When he picks the bottle back up and angles it over your left nipple, he looks at you one more time. When you nod again, he gently squeezes the bottle, and the two of you watch as the chocolate syrup lands on your areola.
Joel clears his throat and furrows his brow just a little, obviously fighting the urge to forget about everything and start licking you. His cock, hanging heavy between his legs, is twitching.
You let out a soft whimper and feel the telltale signs that you’re about to start leaking, even though it’s obvious that’s exactly what Joel wanted here.
He pours syrup over your other nipple, then shuts the cap and puts it on the nightstand.
His cock is throbbing and aching, and he can’t take his eyes off of you.
“Baby, this is… Wow,” he husks.
You’re breathing heavily and staring at Joel’s erection, and then you feel the milk start to leak from you, and Joel lets out an impossibly pathetic whine.
“Can I…? Baby, please?” he whimpers.
You nod, and he doesn’t waste any time diving in.
Joel wraps his lips around your nipple and groans against you. The chocolate syrup mixed with your breastmilk is everything he imagined and more. It’s sweet, it’s rich, it’s a little tangy, somehow.
He can feel your chest heaving beneath his mouth, and he’s so fucking grateful he’s making you feel good.
He sucks your nipple clean, then moves onto the next one, and the process is the same.
Once Joel has licked your chest clean, he kisses down your belly, worshipping it, as if he’s saying goodbye, and you hope to whatever God there is that he is.
You hope he fucks you so good that your water breaks on his cock.
“Baby, your milk mixed with chocolate… Holy shit,” he mumbles against your belly. “Best fuckin’ thing I ever tasted. The fact that you… Mm, shit, sunshine. You’re incredible. Gonna miss this when it goes.”
“Miss what?” you ask, your hands now playing in his hair.
Joel sighs against your skin and presses a kiss to you before peeking his head over your belly.
“You, all pregnant and full and swollen and leaking… In all honesty, I once watched a porno where the lady was expectin’. I don’t know why, but at the video store, that’s what looked most enticin’ that night. It was, like, ten years ago. I don’t know, the way this woman carried… I had never really given pregnancy much thought before. The way her, I guess, scene partner fucked her and talked to her really got to me. I never… I don’t know, honey, I never thought I’d have this. Never thought I’d get to bear witness to this, a beautiful woman, my beautiful woman, growin’ life. It’s amazin’.”
That last part chokes him up a little, though his erection is still maintained.
This fucking guy.
“Joel, how do you manage to say the grossest stuff and follow it up with the sweetest shit?” you murmur, wiping your eyes so tears don’t fall.
He smiles softly and braces his hands on either side of your head, then leans down to kiss your lips.
“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. A real goddamn smokeshow. You’re carryin’ our baby so pretty. But I know ya ain’t taken a deep breath in about a month, so I’m gonna fuck this little girl outta ya now. Okay?”
You nod, and he kisses your cheek, then starts rubbing your clit.
When he inserts two of his thick fingers, it doesn’t take long for you to climax.
Joel then lubricates his cock with your arousal, then swipes up some of the breastmilk that’s leaking down your chest to add to his shaft.
He slides in with ease, then reaches for one of the pillows and shoves it under your hips.
“Comfy, mama?” he asks, his voice raspy.
You can tell he’s holding back, his desire to keep you comfortable battling with his instinct to pound into you as hard as he can.
“I’m good, daddy,” you reply, smirking when his gaze darkens at the sound of the moniker on your lips.
“Can I move?”
When you nod, Joel begins to slowly rock his hips back and forth. His hands caress your thighs and squeeze your hips.
Your hands palm your breasts and tweak your nipples.
“Joel, you feel so good,” you whine. “Fuck, I can’t believe this cock put a baby in me.”
Joel lets out the most pathetic whine. He seriously sounds like someone just reached through his ribs and grabbed his heart.
His breathing speeds up, and the grip he has on your hips tightens.
“Don’t say that,” he pants, bringing a finger to your clit.
“Why?” you moan breathily.
“Because I’ll finish before this is over, and I’d rather die than do that right now,” he grits out.
You sigh and don’t respond. You’re just here for the ride.
“God, woman… Can’t wait to put another in you.”
That’s the last straw, what snaps the coil inside of you. You gush around Joel’s cock and feel your breasts leak more milk as Joel fucks you through your climax. The thought of doing this again, for him, despite your current discomfort, is fucking thrilling.
He follows shortly, coming with a rough grunt, spilling his seed deep inside of you.
He leans down and kisses your belly, and his lips are met with the poke of a hand or a foot.
After Joel pulls out, he heads into the bathroom for a washcloth to clean you up, which he does as gently as possible. Once he’s finished, he sits on the edge of the bed beside you, his hand roaming your stomach.
“I bet that’s what’s gonna do it,” he says softly.
You smile and cover his hand with yours.
“I hope so. Will you help me up? I wanna shower.”
Joel obliges and even gets in with you, doing all your washing for you.
Once the two of you get out, he rubs lotion and oil on your body while you handle your skincare.
It’s not even noon yet, and it’s a Saturday. Joel drags you downstairs and parks you on the couch while he gets started on lunch.
All he can think about is getting some good food in you, in hopes that you’ll go into labor soon, and his food will be enough to sustain you.
He doesn’t like feeling useless, and the more he thinks about your imminent labor, the more useless he feels. All he’ll be able to do is hold your hand and tell you how good you’re doing and how proud he is of you.
You say that’s enough, but Joel disagrees. He thinks he should snap his fingers and make the baby just magically appear in your arms, automatically shrink your stomach back down (though the latter is more for you than him), and save you the trouble. That would be enough.
He sits and eats with you on the couch, watching you balance your plate on top of your bump. It’s the cutest fucking thing Joel’s ever seen, and he’s beside himself that he won’t get to see it after today (hopefully but not hopefully).
Joel takes the dishes to the sink when you’re both done, and as he helps you stand from the couch, it happens.
It’s not a big splash; there’s just a wet spot in the crotch of your sweatpants, and it’s getting bigger.
“It’s not piss,” you murmur softly.
Joel’s first instinct is anxiety. His second is to say, “Well, ain’t my cock a miracle worker?”
You look up at him and glare, scoffing as you shake your head.
“Asshole. Go get me some clean pants.”
Joel rolls his eyes and heads to the bedroom to retrieve some clean pants, as well as a towel.
When he gets back to the living room, he kneels in front of you.
He’s eye level with your crotch, and as he helps you get your feet through the pants and pulls the elastic up, he gets the impulse to kiss your mound, like he’s sorry he came inside you and that the morning-after pill didn’t work, and now it has to spread wide enough to deliver his baby.
You laugh softly when he kisses your crotch, but you don’t say anything.
In the car on the way to the hospital, Joel keeps both hands on the wheel. Normally, he keeps one on your thigh, but right now he’s so nervous about crashing or swerving, so he’s got both hands on the wheel at ten and two.
As soon as you get settled in the room, the contractions start. Your breathy moans of pain make Joel’s stomach churn.
He holds your hand and whispers in your ear how strong you are, how good you’re doing.
The nurse suggests that you go for a walk around the maternity ward. Joel keeps his arm steady as you hold onto it, sometimes burying your face in the sleeve of his plaid flannel when the contractions peak.
After the second lap, you steer the two of you toward the nurse’s station and request an epidural. The charge nurse informs you that the anesthesiologist just has two patients ahead of you, so it’ll be a 20-30 minute wait.
You nod and start to walk another lap, Joel’s bicep still clenched in your hand. It’s not that long. Your contractions are five minutes apart, so a 20-30 minute wait will only be around 4-6 contractions, but that’s 4-6 times where Joel gets a lump in his throat and feels utterly useless as you breathe through the pain.
After about ten minutes, you head back to the room. You bend over and brace your hands on the edge of the bed. You let out a soft groan, and Joel puts his hands on your hips, rubbing his thumbs into your lower back.
It’s only for a moment, and he can’t help it, but he almost thrusts his hips against your ass. Thankfully, he catches himself in time, but he can’t help the smirk on his face at the thought, even though you’d probably kick him out of the room if he hadn’t stopped himself.
Once you straighten up and sigh, Joel leans down and kisses your temple.
“Doin’ so good. Just a few more minutes, and you’ll be all loopy and happy.”
Joel ends up being more scared of the epidural needle than you are. He kneels in front of you while you sit on the edge of the bed. He keeps your hands in his and keeps his gaze on your eyes.
Once the epidural is administered, you lie back and finally begin to feel better.
Joel settles in the chair beside your bed and holds your hands for hours.
At 11:00 PM, the doctor tells you it’s finally time to push. You’ve heard that pushing can take hours, so you’re convinced the baby will come after midnight, technically being a day late, but to your surprise, she’s born at 11:48 PM.
You finally loosen your grip on Joel’s hand and let out a sob when the doctors place her on your chest.
Joel lets silent tears roll down his face as he leans down to kiss your sweaty temple and place a hand over yours on your daughter’s back.
“She’s perfect,” he whispers in your ear.
Your baby is still wailing, but she’s beginning to calm down on her mother’s chest with her father nearby, willing to do anything to protect his girls.
“I got you. I promise.”
You look up at Joel through bleary eyes and smile.
“I know,” you whisper, nodding your head.
When Joel leans down to kiss his daughter’s head, her cries finally die down to soft whimpers, like she already knows there aren’t any other people in the world she’d be safer with.
taglist: @person-005 @marty-mccunt @saralovesjoelmiller @svrgs-blog @upintheclouds95 @pleurspetal @wildthyng @hystericalanduseless9 @exstazeey @bisexualmiserybaby @chewie-bars @mabelmiller @hoziersguitarr (if you would like to be removed from or added to the pervy!Joel taglist lmk)
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Chapter Eight - Good Thing
{best friends to lovers, fake dating over Christmas}
or: After a smoking confession, Steve can't keep his hands off you.
6.8k words ✻ go to landing page
CW: just a fuck ton of smut. MDNI [premature ejaculation (bc it's Steve)] [it's hot though (bc it's Steve)] [no refractory period] [p in v sex] [multiple orgasms] [dirty talk] [msub to mdom and I mean that] [ big dick]
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The Beamer is a sight for sore eyes.
The snow’s really coming down as you pull into the inn’s parking lot beside Steve’s car, the maroon and silver illuminated in your headlights.
Looks like the Ivory Inn got a fresh coat of paint since the last time you were here. Probably Anya’s doing now that she’s managing the place.
The windows glow a warm amber from inside, matching the icicle lights strung up along the roofline. A small light-up deer stands by the front door, frozen mid-step, shimmering faintly through the falling flakes.
It’s so cold outside that the top layer of snow has crusted over, and it groans under your weight after you step onto it, so you round the car carefully, one hand braced against the cold metal. You only slip once, but you catch yourself on the back of Steve’s trunk, then proceed to claw your way to his window.
You find him slumped over in the driver’s seat.
His face flashes orange, then fades as he flicks a lighter open and closed, staring into the flame absently, like he’s somewhere far away.
You clear your throat loudly.
His head snaps toward you. The lighter slips from his hand. You bite your lip as he fumbles around for it, then rolls his window down. You look down at him—heart on his sleeve in the driver’s seat with a half-burned cigarette between his fingers.
“What are you doing out here?” You ask, hugging your jacket tighter as the wind picks up.
He shrugs. “Just waitin’ on you, Ace.”
In more ways than one.
He rolls the window up, unfolds himself from the car, and suddenly he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from him, see his breaths cloud up into the night. His red jacket smells like smoke, and for some reason, that pulls at something sharp beneath your ribs.
You shuffle your weight, angling yourself towards the inn. “You wanna go inside?”
You expect him to jerk his head towards the door and fall in step behind you like he always does. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he just leans back against the car door, arms crossed, ankles loosely hooked.
“Okay,” Steve says, sniffing once, then crooking two fingers. “Give it to me.”
“What?”
He lifts the cigarette, eyebrows raised. “My lecture.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “What are you talking about? I don’t—”
“Oh, my mistake,” he says, “Must’ve gotten you confused for some other girl who always gets onto me for smoking.”
The inn’s light catches on his lashes as he looks down and nudges at the snow with his shoe. It’s falling hard now, dusting his shoulders, catching in his chair.
“Well, this girl, ” you start, swallowing thickly. “I’m sure she only lectures you because…well…” the world stills around you, even the snow seems to fall quieter as you whisper, “…because she loves you.”
His eyes snap to yours. You watch the rise and fall of his chest, your own heartbeat picking up to match.
“Oh yeah?” he says, taking a step towards you. Then another, snow crunching under his shoes. “She tell you that?”
You shrug, blinking back the snowflakes hitting your lashes as his hand finds your waist.
Steve looks down at you, hair hallowed by the Christmas lights. It reminds you of the way he looks under that flickering orange lamppost back on campus.
“‘Cause she hasn’t said it to me,” he says softly.
Your breath catches, heart fluttering in your throat. You know what he means. What he’s asking for.
He needs you to say it first.
He doesn’t move an inch. Doesn’t close the gap. Instead, he waits for you. He’s good at that.
He always has been.
And all of a sudden, there’s nothing holding you back.
“I love you, Steve.”
The confession slips from your tongue, barely louder than the silent night surrounding you.
He smiles. “I know.”
The world narrows to the space between your lips, the frost creeping into your toes—alive in your own personal snow globe.
“So,” Steve murmurs after a long moment, “we plannin’ to freeze to death out here, or are you gonna kiss me, Ace?”
You shrug, a soft smirk tugging at your mouth. “Sorry. I don’t kiss smokers.”
“Well,” he sighs, then without breaking eye contact, flicks the cigarette onto the ground. The ember flares, then dies with a soft hiss in the grey snow. “Good thing some girl convinced me to quit—”
You cut him off with your lips on his.
It’s a gentle kiss. Sweet. Soft.
But Steve doesn’t keep it that way.
His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in, deepening it instantly. Hungrily.
A nostalgic ache settles deep in your ribs.
Your body remembers this feeling — Steve’s mouth against yours.
Granted, however brief, and tasting of marshmallows and beer that kiss was, it’s still exactly how he kisses today.
God, you must be a masochist. How have you been depriving yourself of this? Of him? For years?
You open your mouth to say as much, but the second your lips part, his tongue slips past like he was waiting for it. A soft sound escapes you, eyes squeezing shut as your fingers fist in his jacket. He tastes like smoke, and those peppermints he always keeps in his car, and maybe, if you try hard enough, you could find a way to bottle this feeling up and keep it forever and ever.
Keep him.
You move to press even closer, but as you shift your weight, your foot slips. You squeak, mouth falling from his, but his arms are already around you, hauling you upright before you can hardly react. You barely catch your balance before he’s kissing you again.
“Inside,” he mutters against your mouth, voice rough.
You shiver, but this time, it’s not from the cold as he grabs your sleeve and tugs you toward the inn.
A bell above the door jingles as you stumble through together— a tangle of mouths, hands, and no muscle memory between you whatsoever.
The entryway is narrow, lined with wreaths and candle sconces. A staircase curves up along the right wall, banister worn smooth by decades of hands. Past it, a small dining room sits quiet end empty, waiting for the breakfast rush come morning.
To the left, a tall mirror stretches nearly to the ceiling, and when you catch your reflections—him pulling you forward, your hand in his—it almost doesn’t feel real.
Amazingly so.
“Hey, stranger,” the girl behind the counter says, voice like honey. You recognize her instantly.
Dark curls spill past her shoulders with a natural volume you’d definitely kill for, and her warm brown skin seems to glow under the soft lighting.
God, you almost forgot how stunning she is. No wonder Dallas can’t get over her.
“Anya!” You say, nearly tripping as Steve keeps you tucked against his side. “Merry Christmas! Sorry, we just—God, it’s been, what, three years?”
“Something like that,” she says softly, twisting her full lips to hide a smile as Steve pulls you in for another kiss.
And another. And another.
Laughter bubbles up in your chest and you smile against his mouth. You’re equally unable to let him go now that you finally have him.
Anya clears her throat.
Right.
“Oh! Steve, wait—” you rush to get the words out. “Wait. Hold on a second—Anya she—” was almost a part of the family. “—knows our family, and—”
“Introductions later,” he says against your jaw. “If she knows your family, then she’s not surprised by this.”
Anya shakes her head. “Yeah, I’m really not.”
“See?” Steve gestures vaguely toward her without looking, then grabs your belt loops and drags you back against him.
“Besides, Kristy called,” Anya adds, amused. “Said you might show up like…this.”
“Room.” Steve says, distracted, and still kissing you. “Key. Now. Please. Thanks.”
“Sorry, Anya, he’s—”
Steve shuts you up again, tongue tangling with yours. You’re vaguely aware of a ledge pressing into your ass, but you’re too busy making out with him to really care.
“—eager,” Anya finishes for you, one brow raised at the display currently happening over her counter. “Good lord. Alright, well, listen, go crazy. But I just need a card, a receipt signature, and then you can…”
“Shit—too long,” Steve mutters. Before you can even reach for your wallet, he’s slamming down two crumpled hundreds from his back pocket.
The same ones your dad gave him for fixing the sink.
Your mouth drops open in protest, but his hand tightens on your hip, a quiet don’t start. And honestly, you’re too breathless to fight him at the moment.
Anya smirks, pocketing the cash. Then she grabs a key from the board behind her and sits it down on the counter.
“Third door on the left,” she says. “And try not to ruin the sheets.”
You scoff and reach for the key but Steve’s hand blindly beats you to it.
Anya eyes him, unimpressed. “Or make a baby.”
Steve’s mouth drops open against your neck, a choking sound escaping him and his hand slips. The key skitters across the floor with a sharp clink clink clink.
He drops you immediately to go after it, cheeks flushed.
You bite back a laugh and turn to Anya, who leans over the counter, tugging her lavender sweater sleeves over her fingers.
“Hey, uh, this might be weird of me to ask, but…” she says, soft and meek, tucking a curl behind her ear. The light catches on the piercings lining the shell of her ear, each boasting a small glittering jewel.
Steve returns to your side, hand wandering back to interlock with yours and bring it up to his lips, like he couldn’t stand to be away for two seconds.
“Anya,” you say, “I promise you—nothing you say right now is going to be weird. My boyfriend is currently making out with my hand.”
Steve groans against your fingers the second the word boyfriend leaves your mouth. No ‘fake’ in front of it this time.
“Right,” she says, smiling a little. “Um, sorry, but I just heard that Dallas was back in town? And well, I guess…I was just wondering. If that was true, I mean.”
“Yeah,” you say softly. “He is.”
She nods, tracing a finger along the counter and squinting down at it like she’s suddenly found something very interesting in the wood grain. “Okay. Thanks.”
“You should call him.”
You don’t know what just possessed you to say that. Some unseen cupid’s arrow has shot through you, making you lovesick all of a sudden.
Her dark eyes meet yours, something unreadable swimming in them.
“Maybe,” she says.
Then her eyes shift to Steve, who’s already pulling you toward the stairs, one arm tight around your waist.
“I swear, if I get noise complaints…”
“You won’t!” You say quickly.
Steve huffs a quiet laugh, glancing down at you like he doesn’t believe you for a second. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Ace.”
Anya groans, covering her ears. “Oh my God. Get a room. Literally get in your room. Before I start hearing it from here.”
“Okay, okay,” you laugh, “And you should call Dallas! Seriously. I think he’d love to hear from you. I mean, I don’t know, but—”
“Ace,” Steve groans. “Please.”
You don’t resist as he pulls you up the stairs. And if you’re honest with yourself, you’ve never really been able to resist anything when it comes to your heart and Steve Harrington.
─── ✻ ───
The second the bedroom door thuds shuts, he’s on you.
Hands up your sweater, tongue tangling with yours. Your head swims with the realization that…you’re really doing this. Kissing your best friend. About to have sex with your best friend.
“Steve—” you gasp as his mouth finds your collarbone, heat curling low in your belly. “Maybe we should talk about—”
“‘nough talking,” he mumbles against your skin.
“Okay, but I just—mmmph.”
He captures your mouth again and you melt into his kiss. Is second-hand nicotine a thing? Can it be transferred this way? Surely that’s why you’re lightheaded and absolutely addicted to him already? That must be it.
Your hands find purchase in his hair, dragging him closer, and he gasps.
“P-please,” he stammers, pulling back just enough to let the words spill between your mouths. “Keep doing that. God, I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”
“What?” You tug on his hair gently. “This?”
His head tips back with a whimper. You’ll tease him mercilessly for that later. But for now, you just press further into him, standing on your tip toes to plant hot kisses down the column of his throat.
His hands tug on your sweater and your arms lift automatically. Cold air rushes over your lace bralette and something in your chest tightens.
Steve doesn’t know why you’ve changed your mind so suddenly like this. If you were him, you’d want to know the reason for this total shift in behavior.
“Hey,” you whisper, catching his biceps and holding him back.
A lock of hair falls over his brow as he stares down at you. “What? What is it, Ace?”
“I’m sorry, I just—” Your forehead tips onto his shoulder. “I just need to explain.”
“No you don’t,” he says. “Not for me.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you.”
You shake your head. “But—”
He sighs. “Here. Let me guess. Can I guess?”
You nod. Mostly because you can’t imagine stringing two words together right now.
“You talked with your parents. Or, your Mom. Yeah?”
His head dips, eyes trying to find yours, but you burrow into him further. A soft chuckle ghosts over your ear as he tucks you into his chest.
“I knew you’d come around eventually,” he whispers. “I mean, c’mon…who could say no to all this?”
He leans back to gesture at his body and you laugh despite yourself, eyes welling with tears. He tilts your face up and the tender, understanding look in his eyes unlocks something deep inside your chest.
“I…I don’t want to ruin this,” you whisper.
The confession feels like ripping an arrow from your chest. Your deepest fear served to him on a silver platter.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just leans in again.
“Ruin me,” he whispers against your mouth, punctuating his words with a soft kiss. “I don’t care.” Another. “I’m all yours.”
No, it doesn’t erase your fear. Not entirely. But maybe, just maybe, you can let yourself believe him. That whatever you have to face, you can do it together.
Steve feels the moment you give in, the soft sigh into his mouth.
Because the next thing you know, your wrists are pinned against the door above your head with one of his hands, the other flying to undo your pants. You cant your hips into him with equal fervor as he practically rips the jeans off your body, leaving you in just your bra and panties.
Soft creamy linens and lamplight spin in your vision as picks you up, strides across the small room, and tosses you onto the bed. Your back barely hits the downy comforter before he’s following you down.
There’s an emotion lingering in the air, hovering like an expensive perfume. That lamp beside you almost feels too bright. Just being able to see the ivy wallpaper feels like the vines are reaching out and chocking you.
Chill bumps race over your exposed skin and Steve chases them with his tongue, pulling you close like you’re something to be treasured.
“Steve,” you breathe, not even sure why you’re calling out to him. But you just need to know he’s…
“I’m here,” he whispers.
His voice unties that knot in your throat. The ivy stops crawling towards you.
He’s dragging the lace from your body, but even so, he’s busy kissing the strangest parts of you.
The inside of your wrist, the tip of your ear, the curve of your knee.
Sex isn’t like this.
In your experience, sex is haphazardly peeling off clothes in the dark and banging your toe on your way to the bed. It’s always filled with those awkward moments where you’re trying to decide who should be on top and then your hair gets stuck under his elbow anyway.
But with Steve, it’s different.
With every inch of skin he reveals, he looks at you with a reverence, an intimacy that’s so deep you almost want to hide your face from it.
But you don’t.
You’re done hiding from what you feel for him.
When you’re finally naked beneath him, Steve exhales shakily and leans over you, warm hands drifting over your breasts, your waist, your hips. Like he can hardly believe it.
“God, you’re so perfect,” he murmurs. “C’mere…”
Your eyes slip shut as he kisses you deeply, and you reach for him blindly, expecting to feel the planes of his back, but instead, you feel cloth. He still has his shirt on.
Well, that won’t do.
Gripping the fabric, you tug hard to pull it over his head. He helps halfway, but gets distracted when his nose brushes one of your perky nipples and he just has to go in for a taste.
You moan at the feel of his mouth on your breast, arching into him, craving skin against skin. But your core brushes against rough denim.
Okay, that’s it.
You shove him back with a strength you didn’t know you possessed. He lifts off you, surprised, then huffs a laugh when you push his back against the headboard and straddle his hips.
In a flurry of hands, you finally manage to yank his shirt over his head. His chest hair tickles your stomach as you grind your hips against him. He’s breathing hard beneath you, and when you unzip his jeans and tug them down, his cock strains against his black boxers, begging for your touch.
Mouth watering, you reach for him.
But Steve catches your wrist. “I promised you two orgasms, remember? Let me go down on you first.”
The desperation in his voice makes your knees weak. How could you deny him?
When he kisses you again, you melt into him. He’s so strong, and warm, and he tastes so good. A smoky sweetness that lights up some primal and urgent circuit in your brain.
“I love you so much,” he whispers, mouth trailing lower as his hands cup your breasts. “God, I—ever since you looked at me over that poker table…I was fuckin’ gone.”
Your breath hitches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Since then?”
“Since then.”
You shake your head, an unbelieving smile tugging at your lips. “Wait, but—so, that night at the campfire…you had…feelings for me?”
Steve makes an irritated sound deep in his throat. He grips your hips and rolls you sideways, flipping you onto your back, arms braced on either side of your pillow. The lamplight frames his broad shoulders, cutting through his messy hair.
“You’re such an idiot sometimes, Ace. You know that?”
That stray lock falls into his eyes. You reach up and brush it back.
“Hmm. Little tip? Maybe don’t insult a girl when she’s naked underneath you, Harrington. She could just throw on her clothes and walk out that door.”
A dangerous glint flashes in his eyes.
“She could.” He moves down until his mouth hovers between your legs. “But she won’t.”
Oh, shit.
The confidence in his tone and the way he licks his lips as he leans in sends hot pulses through your core. The first drag of hot tongue along your soft folds feels like heaven. You keen into it immediately, but his hand clamps down on your lower stomach, holding you in place beneath him.
“Poor girl,” he sighs mockingly. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
His tongue strokes through you once. Twice. Then, he murmurs, “Just wanna make you feel good. No pressure, okay? I’d do this all night.”
You don’t have time to reply before he settles between your thighs wrapping his hands around your knees and sealing his mouth to your cunt.
It’s very sweet of him to reassure you in that way, especially given your history. But as it turns out, he didn’t really need to.
He’s only been sucking on your clit for a minute before that familiar rush burns through your core. Your breathing picks up, walls clenching around nothing.
Sparks ignite under your skin, rushing down, down, pulling tight at that hot band between your hips—and when the first wave of deep, mindless pleasure hits, Steve’s eyes snap up to yours.
“Oh, fuck, already?” He mumbles.
You whimper, threading both hands through his hair and yanking him closer, riding it out on his tongue.
Through the rush of the orgasm, you forgot about his…hair thing.
Steve’s eyes roll back as he eats you out with renewed fervor, fingernails digging crescent moons into your thighs. He buries his face in you so deeply you wonder if he can even breathe like that. Then he groans—long and low—a crease forming between his brows.
Your mouth drops open, stomach clenching as you watch him. When the stimulation gets to be too much, you push him away by his hair and he lets you. Lips puffy and pink, he gazes up at you, lashes damp.
You’re gorgeous, you want to tell him, but he’s not looking at you anymore.
He’s looking down.
Frowning, you try to look over the edge of the bed, but he tugs your ankles, making you lose your balance and fall on your back against the mattress. “What the—Steve?”
“It’s fine,” he slurs. “I just…uh…”
“Steve—quit—” You shove his hands off your ankles, grab his wrists, and pull him up onto the bed. He moves stiffly until he’s sitting against the headboard. When his eyes find yours again, he looks almost…guilty.
You sit up, unsure of what’s gotten into him. But when your gaze drops to his underwear—and the wet spot at the front—you understand.
God, but you can’t deny how good he looks stretched out like this, cock still hard and straining beneath the fabric.
You lick your lips.
Suddenly, the need to know what he tastes like grips your spine. Good lord, he’s gone down on you twice now and you still haven’t—How could you not have—?
“Listen,” Steve says, hands up in an appeasing gesture as he watches you crawl towards him on the bed. “I just want you to know that this is…not typical. Normally I lost longer, okay? Aghh—shit. What are you doing? Oh, shit.”
When your mouth meets the fabric, your tongue slips out immediately, gliding along his length. He’s still so hard, even though he just came, so he must be really fucking turned on.
A dark thrill runs through you at the fact that you did this to him.
You. His overthinking best friend with the insane family and the bad habit of cheating at poker.
You can hardly believe it.
But there’s no mistaking the way his pupils blow wide as you part your lips around the flushed tip barely peeking out from his waistband. You suck gently, not letting a drop go to waste, and you look up at him, just to see how he’s affected by it.
His hips jerk up uncontrollably when your eyes meet his, and then he moans so loudly you almost clap a hand over his mouth.
“Shut up,” you whisper, a giggle building in your chest. “You’re acting like you’re trying to get a noise complaint or something.”
“Okay, what the fuck do you want from me?” He pants. “My best friend is licking up my cum. Oh, my God.”
You swirl your tongue under the head, teasing the pulsing ridge with your lips.
Your view is incredible.
Chest heaving under that smattering of dark chest hair, toned stomach muscles flexing as he holds himself back from owning your throat.
You kind of wish he wouldn’t.
“God you just…you just unravel me, Ace.” He whimpers and grabs the curve of your ass in an attempt to pull himself together. “I have a condom in my wallet…I’ll grab it.”
He surges forward, fumbling for his jeans beside the bed but you stop him with a hand on his arm.
“Okay, but—“ You trail off, suddenly unsure of how to say this.
Steve looks at you steadily. “But, what?”
“Well, I’m on birth control.”
Steve just stares, barely breathing.
“And I’m…safe.” You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly shy. “You know I actually do those physicals the school offers.”
“Me too.”
You blink, surprised. “You do? But you always made fun of me for that!”
“Of course I did.” He shrugs, settling back against the headboard. “But I figured if you did them, I could too.”
You smirk down at him. “Wow. I had no idea I’ve been so influential in keeping you healthy and safe, Steve. This is such an honor—”
“Oh my God, Ace. Just ride my dick.”
You raise onto your knees to line him up, but the feel of his hard length caressing your clit, slick with arousal, nearly buckles them again.
“I got you,” Steve reassures, steadying you with a hand on your hip. “It’s okay.”
When he notches at your entrance, you sink down hesitantly. The stretch is more than you expected, even with how turned on you are. But, incredible.
You exhale shakily and try again, sliding down a little deeper this time.
Steve’s panting, eyes fixed on where you’re connected. His shoulders tense and he bites back a moan as you take him another inch. Pleasure digs into your core like teeth. Like claws. Gripping you hard and filling you up.
When you do a little experimental swirl of your hips, his palm comes down with a muted thwump on the pillow beside him. You, however, realize you’ve only taken about half of him.
“God, Steve,” you groan. “Don’t let this go to your head…but you’re fucking b-big. Damn.”
“Yeah, well,” he huffs a laugh. “You saw it the other night, so…”
Your head tips back as the firm pressure drags along your inner walls. “Do you hear me complaining?”
“Well, I just—mmm—don’t want you to f-feel bad.”
You freeze, gaze snapping to his. “What do you mean?”
His eyes widen. “Forget it. Move your hips again like that, that felt really good.”
You sit up straighter. “Why would I feel bad that you have a big cock, Steve?”
“I just meant—” He blows out a breath. “Well, most girls can’t take it all the way, and yeah, I know I sound like a total asshole, so I’m gonna be shutting up now.”
You can hardly believe your ears. “Most girls, huh?”
“I already said! I’m a douchebag, alright? Please—I didn’t mean—”
You sink down on him in one decisive motion, determined to prove a point. What can you say? You’re a competitive bitch.
Steve gasps, eyes glassy and wide. But the shock melts quickly into something molten.
“Fuck,” he pants, fingers digging into your hips. “Baby. Fuck.”
“Shit, Steve,” you gasp. “Feel like I can feel you in my fucking throat.”
“Oh my God, does it hurt?”
The dull ache only adds to the pleasure, spiraling you from turned-the-fuck-on to downright feral. Sweat beads on your lower back as your hands drag down his chest, nails biting into his skin until he hisses.
“No, you’re just r-right up against my cervix,” you say.
His eyes darken and a shiver runs down your spine. His grip on your waist tightens, and instead of just holding you, he’s guiding instead. Pulling you up, then back down. Slowly at first, then harder when he sees your thighs start to shake.
“Oh, baby, baby,” you moan, eyes rolling back. “Yeah. Just like that.”
He buries his face in your shoulder. “Love when you call me that.”
You thread your fingers through his hair, holding him close as he sits up, arms wrapping around you to thrust deeper.
“Oh my God yeah—you’re gonna make me come again, I swear,” Steve says against your mouth. “Good thing I already...fuck, I wouldn’t last like this otherwise.”
“Mmm. Thought you said that wasn’t a normal thing for you.”
“It wasn’t!” he stammers, hips driving into you while he whines, eager and needy. “It isn’t! Usually. Just with you, Ace.”
The energy between you is electric. The sparks have turned into a fire, roaring between you, turning the sheets hot. Gone are the soft, teasing kisses. This is something else. Something inevitable and passionate, an accumulation of the tension that’s built for years between you, finally breaking.
Your bodies move together perfectly. Effortlessly. Fitting together and meeting each stroke in sync, like you were made for each other.
Steve groans against your chest like he’s in agony.
You rake your hand though this hair and graze your lips over his temple, a silent question hidden in your touch.
“Want this to be good for you, Ace,” he rasps. “Wanna treat you right. But I—I…”
You understand what he means. “Yes.”
“Yeah?” He sounds fucking wrecked.
You nod against his hair. “I want it. I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
The next second, your face is pressed into the pillow, another fitted under your hips. Steve is behind you, hands on your thighs, spreading open your pussy with his fingers.
You groan into the fabric, back bowing as he touches you perfectly.
Yes, this is what you want: Steve unhinged. It’s what you’ve wanted from the beginning.
Eyes squeezed shut, you steady yourself for him to slot right back where he was, but instead, something hot and wet slides over you.
“Jesus, Steve.” You gasp, muffling your words with your hand as you push back against his tongue. “Thought you were gonna fuck me.”
His grip on your legs tightens, keeping you right where he wants you. Unable to push back, unable to pull away. Just trapped against his warm, willing mouth. Boneless with desire.
“Just don’t wanna hurt you,” he says softly.
“You know, Harrington, a little humility every once in awhile wouldn’t hurt you. I think I’ve proven I can take it.”
You turn to scowl over your shoulder but his tongue circles your clit and you fall back against the pillow.
“Yeah? Well we’ll just see how mouthy you are with nine inches stuffed in here.”
He punctuates his words by thrusting two fingers deep inside you. When they curl and hit that spot deep inside, you don’t even realize you’re crying out until his other hand smothers you.
He huffs a laugh, pushing in deeper with his fingers and circling your clit with his thumb — skilled in a way you’ve never experienced before.
“Look at you, dripping’ down my hand.” His fingers pull out of you and you whine at the loss. But then you hear the slick sound of them disappearing into his mouth. “Tastes so damn good.”
“Steve—” you laugh, breathless, and he pulls his hand away. “When did you get this mouth on you? I never knew you were…”
You look over your shoulder at him. He’s got that teasing smirk on his lips.
“What?” He tilts his head. “Want me to shut up?”
“What? Fuck no.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
The soft hair on his thighs tickles the backs of yours as he lines himself up with your entrance. He slides in deep and fast this time, eased by your arousal and his precum, and a choked sound tears from your throat.
“Shit—you good?” he rasps.
You reach back blindly, finding his thigh and pulling him closer, urging him on.
“Hey,” Steve says, “Hey. Look back at me.”
His voice holds a dominant edge that has you obeying instantly, peeking over your shoulder at him again.
He looks fucking wrecked.
Lips parted and glossy, cheeks pink, hair mussed. That little crease between his brows nearly sends you over the edge—fuck, you have it bad.
“Just n-needed to see you. Shit, cock drunk already, Ace?” He bites his lip, thrusting into you and your teeth sink into your bottom lip, wishing it was his. “L-let me touch that swollen little clit. You’re so good for me. Knew you would be.”
Okay, now he’s just showing off that mouth. But you clench involuntarily around him in response. That sends him scrambling for a better hold on your hips, tits, anything he can fucking grab onto to help prevent himself from spilling his load too early. Again.
The room fills with the clapping sound of your bodies meeting over and over. His stroke game is good, and he’s hitting places in you that have never—never—been reached before.
You can already feel that rising ache growing in your core, legs shaking against the mattress.
“Oh my God.” You moan into the pillow, the sound spilling from somewhere primal.
“You know, if you don’t pipe down right now, you’re not gonna have a voice tomorrow,” Steve mutters between harsh breaths. But his words don’t hold any bite because he just drives in harder, making you see fucking stars. “And then we’re going to have to explain to your whole family why you can’t fucking talk all the sudden. Not that they won’t figure it out anyway, those dirty minded—”
“Tomorrow?” you gasp. “S-so you’re not…leaving?”
He scoffs, annoyed, but there's endearment there too. “Ace. You’re so dense sometimes, I swear. Does this—” he snaps his hips forward, driving deep deep enough to make your mouth to fall open. “—feel like I’m still leaving you?”
“No,” you whine.
“Good girl.”
Oh, God.
“I’m never leaving,” he says, softer now, leaning over to drop a kiss on your shoulder. “Never. Okay?”
You nod, tears welling up in your eyes. Something about his words, and the way he says them, sends you barreling towards that second release and you’re powerless to stop it.
“God. You’re clenching around me so tight, baby. Tell me you’re mine.”
You’re breathing hard, heart fluttering, core aching. But you still have enough mental clarity to give him what he wants.
“I’m yours,” you gasp.
And it’s true. You’ve really been his for a long, long time.
Where your first orgasm was rough and mindless, this one is slower and even more brilliant. It cascades through you like warm wine, pulling you into it’s depths, sending tight pulses down into your core, and driving Steve into a state.
Steve loses his rhythm, his thrusts quickly turning sloppy. Rough sounds escape him as he barrels towards his release, but he’s too far behind you for you to cover his mouth with your hand.
He comes inside you before you’re done pulsing, folding himself over you and pressing his face into your neck to halfway muffle the sound. He stays there as your bodies settle down, pressing sweet kisses down your spine.
And then, against your skin, he whispers.
“Finally.”
─── ✻ ───
“I’m just saying, pretty sure life-threatening injury wins over your ‘but, I’m the girl’ argument when it comes to little spoon.”
“You pulled your shoulder in high-school,” you say, climbing into bed beside Steve. “That’s hardly life threatening.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “I could’ve been! For the batter! You ever been up to bat facing a pitcher with a torn rotator cuff?”
You hum in false sympathy and flip the switch on the bedside lamp, plunging you both into darkness.
Steve’s bare back is warm against your chest, the heat of him seeping into your bones as you mold yourself to him. The edges of his hair—still wet from the shower you took together— tickle the bridge of your nose as you tuck into the nape of his neck.
His hand finds your thigh, fingers slipping under the edge of your sleep shorts automatically, like he can’t get enough of you. And eventually, you give in, draping an arm over him and pressing your legs up to his.
The heat kicks on, the quiet hum filling the companionable silence between you.
“I didn’t even get to give you your present,” you whisper into the dark. “I had this whole plan to get you back, and then, well…” Your hand trails down his stomach suggestively, his chest hair brushing your palm.
His back rises and falls under your cheek as he laughs softly. Then he shifts and turns to face you. You can’t see him in the dark, but you know he’s looking at you.
“Good thing Christmas is tomorrow, Ace,” Steve says.
His breath fans over your forehead as he leans in to kiss you. You tip your face up, but he misses your mouth, his lips landing on your hairline instead. You both laugh. You expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He just trails his lips down your face, kissing your eye, your cheek, then finally, your lips, lingering there for a sweet moment before whispering, “Because I have one for you, too.”
“Oh good,” you sigh. “The Grinch took that gift earlier, you know. Stole it right from under the tree in front of me! Can you believe that?”
Steve shrugs under your hands. “Sounds like you shouldn’t have been so naughty this close to Christmas if you ask me.”
“Oh, really?” You lean in close to purr suggestively in his ear. “Thought I was a good girl.”
He makes a low sound in his chest and the next thing you know, your knuckles knock into the headboard as he pins your wrists to the pillow, his chest pressing you into the mattress.
“Careful,” he warns, a smile in his voice. “You think you know everything about me, but you no nothing when it comes to my stamina.”
“Says the man who came in his underwe--aha, okay, okay!
His fingers slip free from your shirt, releasing his hold on your nipple. You giggle, wiggling under him, brain fuzzy and body sated.
He only lets you go after a warm, sloppy kiss that’s all tongue and has you both writhing into each other, still unable to get enough.
When he finally lies back down, you lace your fingers with his and press your lips to his shoulder blade, perfectly content to be his big spoon for the rest of eternity—as long as he lets you sleep beside him just like this every night.
You’re eyelids are just drifting shut when he whispers into the dark.
“Hey.”
You squeeze his fingers. “Hi.”
“I love you.”
Your breath hitches, heart skipping a beat. You’ll never get tired of hearing that. Your throat tightens, but the words forge ahead anyway, flowing from somewhere else inside you.
“I love you too.”
“I know,” he says.
“Okay.”
“I just wanted to hear it.”
You smile against his skin. “I know.”
─── ✻ ───
a/n: I can't believe we only have one chapter left after this!!! Okay, and I'm so in love with Anya, btw.
browse my steve masterlist ✻ go to landing page
taglist: @tennisgirlsrooms, @eleshka-still, @idontread4, (if you want to be added, drop a comment on the real deal landing page)
My bedsheets are ablaze
I've screamed his name
Building up like waves
Crashing over my grave
You can't stop thinking about Steve Harrington when having sex with your boyfriend.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 7k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) porn with a plot, female masturbation, oral (fem receiving), p in v, protected penetrative sex, dirty talk, pet names, reader being a bit of a perv and listens to steve having sex, lots of fantasying about steve, best friend/roommate!steve, use of y/n, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader, emotional cheating (i guess??), inclusion of ronance because why not!! eddie is also alive and well and also bi!!
author's note: it is finally here!! i've been banging on about this fic a lot and i'm glad that part one is here. you guys have been just as excited about this fic as me so i’m so happy that i’m finally sharing it as i thought of this idea in january!! full transparency, this was meant to be just one part fic but then i realised that i wanted much more of a story and sooooo here we are!
rec account: @moonstone-recommends
to be added to my 18+ taglist | masterlist | requests page
“Oh—fuck—I’m so close, babe. Tell me you’re close, tell me you’re—”
You wished you could say you were. You wished your moans falling from your lips were genuine—that you were right there with your boyfriend but you’d be lying. You weren’t even close.
“Yeah, super close,” you tell him in a not so breathless voice.
James was too busy chasing his release to even notice.
You felt his cock twitch inside of you and you knew it was over before it had even begun for you.
Your boyfriend spills into the condom, with a loud grunt of your name—pressing his face right into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered against yours.
You keep your hands on his shoulders, trying to keep the disappointed look off your face as James pulls his softening cock out of you.
James was—well, he was objectively a perfect boyfriend. He was kind, attentive, always there when you needed him. He loved your family and in return, your family loved him. But in the bedroom? He left you pretty high and dry.
He never took his time—seemed to look at foreplay as an obligation rather than something to be enjoyed. He never spent more than a few minutes with his mouth between your legs. He never let you set the pace, never made sex about you. It was always about him. And after care? Well, that was a foreign concept to James. He tended to fall asleep less than five minutes after finishing.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care about your pleasure because he did—for all of ten seconds before his own needs started to outweigh yours. He’d press his fingers inside you and the moment it started to feel good for you—when you would let out a few soft moans or start to move your hips, he’d take it as a job well done. Or worse—instead he would start pumping his fingers too quickly, pistoning them in and out of you as fast as he could. As if it did anything for you.
You had tried to tell him this—gently, of course. Trying to let him know what felt good for you but he just wouldn’t retain the information. Or perhaps, when it came to your pleasure over his, he didn’t want to listen. You had tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the latter.
As James rolled over in bed—you felt that familiar sense of guilt build. The one that reminded you of the date he had taken you on tonight. How much money the fancy dinner had cost and how he had refused to let you pay for it. The guilt was a reminder how lucky you were to have a guy like James. In the past, guys weren't so great to you. In fact, you had dated some downright assholes. Guys who weren’t kind. Guys who didn’t respect you. Hell, some guys you were sure didn’t even really like you. And James was great. Really—he was. You were sure you loved him—sure that he was the kind of man you could marry. The kind of man who was a smart, sensible choice.
But as you looked over at the man you should love unconditionally—already falling asleep with the condom still on—you were beginning to question whether smart and sensible was the right choice.
A year ago, you had been in dire need of a roommate. Your previous roommate, Rachel, had moved out after landing her dream job in a different city. You had been happy for her but it had left you with a two bed apartment that you could not afford on your own.
James hadn’t wanted to move in at that point—you had only been together for a few months back then and neither of you were ready to take that big step yet. And so, you were without a roommate and a monthly rent that was haemorrhaging money from you.
That was until your co-worker Robin Buckley told you about Steve Harrington.
“Wait, Steve as in Steve?” You had asked her, a skeptical look on your face. “As in your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend—that Steve?”
Robin had rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the mug of coffee she had been in the middle of making. The sound of Every Breath You Take by The Police drifting into the radio station kitchen from the booth. You still had two minutes and a couple of ad breaks before you needed to be back inside for the remainder of the Rockin’ Robin breakfast show. You were tired from the early morning but mostly, you were stressed out about your current living situation and Robin could tell.
“Yes—that Steve,” she says, stirring in an unholy amount of sugar. “C’mon, it’s not weird. We’re like best friends. I can vouch for him. I’m like ninety eight percent sure he isn’t a murderer.”
You grimace a little, tired eyes flickering over to Robin. “Ninety eight percent isn’t enough for me.”
Robin huffs, turning to face you fully now with her hands on her hips. “C’mon (y/n)—you trust me right? You can trust him.”
You think about it, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet.
“But he’s a guy, Robs,” you say finally. “I don’t want to live with a guy.”
Robin lets out a snort of laughter despite herself.
“Point taken,” she says before looking at you again carefully. “Just—just think about it, yeah? His parents just kicked him out and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s been sleeping on my couch for the past week and I gotta say, I don’t think it’s good for mine and Nance’s sex life if her ex-boyfriend is snoring in the other room every night.”
You falter—make the mistake of looking at her face—at her big blue eyes that looked just the right amount of pleading to make you reconsider.
“I’ll think about it,” you told her.
Steve had moved in that Friday.
The first week had been a little awkward—tiptoeing around each other in the hallway and trying to keep out of each other’s space. But after Steve had returned from picking up the last few bits from his parents house—coming back empty handed with red rimmed eyes—you had wordlessly handed him a bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese and suggested watching a movie together.
After that, you stopped tiptoeing.
And living with him? It was pretty great. He was surprisingly neat and an excellent cook. He always took the initiative to go out and do the food shopping when you were running low on the necessities. He didn’t mind that you had way too many houseplants, that the refrigerator had too many magnets on it or that the couch was baby pink—Steve was just happy to be living with you.
Somewhere between making coffees for each other in the morning and watching old movies together on the couch—you had formed a friendship that was built out of a genuine connection to each other rather than out of convenience like it had with Rachel. You had even finally accepted Robin’s offer of going out with her friends now that you lived with Steve. You had met her girlfriend Nancy in the past but Jonathan Byers and Eddie Munson had been complete mysteries to you. They turned out to be just as Robin had described—Jonathan a little quiet but once you got to know him wouldn’t shut up about his short films when you asked how they were going. And Eddie was—well, Eddie was the kind of person who people noticed when he walked into a room.
In time, they had met James. You had a feeling that they didn’t think much of him. The way Eddie rolled his eyes when James started talking about sports. How Robin would yawn when he bought up his job as a stock broker. How Nancy would bristle when James tried to explain the stock market to her as though she was stupid. How Jonathan would go quiet around him. How Steve glared at James when he would talk over you and would interject to say “actually, (y/n) was talking”.
And so, you had never told your friends about your borderline terrible sex life. Never told them that James had only made you come once. Never told them you had to get yourself off in the bathroom after he had gone to sleep. And you probably never would tell them.
“You know what I love?” Eddie asks the group one Friday night at your and Steve’s local bar. It was grimy, located only a few yards from your apartment—hence why it was your local haunt—but it was yours. Warts and all.
“Weed?” suggests Jonathan.
Eddie clicks his fingers, smiling at Jonathan.
“You know me, Byers,” Eddie says but shakes his head. “But no—that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Something Eddie Munson loves,” Robin muses, tapping the table gently as she considers the question.
“D&D?” Steve puts forward.
“Nancy’s mom?” You say with a wry smile—Nancy shooting you a glare as Steve tries to hide his laughter.
“That deli shop by the record store that is totally going to get shut down for health violations?” Robin offers.
Eddie groans, looking pained as he looks over at Robin.
“Why do you have to remind me?”
“Eddie, that place has given you food poisoning like five times,” Nancy points out.
“And it was worth it. Every damn time.”
You laugh, smiling at Eddie’s dramatics. Sometimes you wondered why he had never considered theatre.
“So what is it you love Eddie?” Steve asks, leaning back in the booth beside you. His arm resting behind your head—comfortable, easy, just like it always was between you two.
“Oral sex,” Eddie says simply.
You choke on your drink while your friends laugh at Eddie’s admission.
“Giving or receiving?” Steve asks while you try to regain composure, face warm and looking anywhere but at your friends. Any talk about sex you tended to not engage in—not wanting to admit to your friends that you rarely enjoyed sex with your own boyfriend.
“Both,” Eddie says, smiling.
You tried your best to keep a neutral expression—to not involve yourself too much with the conversation. Trying not to recall the last time James had gone down on you—how it had lasted barely two minutes. How you had been thankful it was over. How you had ‘returned’ the favour with all the enthusiasm that James didn’t possess.
“What about you, (y/n)?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows wiggling as you look up at him.
“About me, what?” you ask, because you hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation for the past two minutes, too busy thinking of anything beside how terrible your boyfriend was at giving head.
Eddie laughs—loud and without much care who heard. “Oral—do you prefer giving or receiving?”
Your face warms—you’re sure that your friends can all tell how flustered you were by the question.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells you, glaring at Eddie as he pats your shoulder gently. “Eddie’s just being intrusive—”
“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans and nudges your knee under the table with his. “We never hear about your sex life, (y/n).”
“Not everyone is as open as you, Munson,” Nancy says.
Eddie huffs—grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I’m just curious to know which she prefers,” Eddie says innocently, hands up in surrender.
Your leg bounces beneath the table as you consider giving Eddie an answer or not. Generally, you didn’t discuss your sex life with James with anyone. You were too scared to give away your dissatisfaction with it. It made you feel shameful for even thinking of complaining. To actually voice those complaints? Well—that felt like opening Pandora’s Box. But there was a large part of you that couldn’t help but feel left out.
“Giving,” you say finally without looking up. It was the honest truth. You don’t tell them that the reason for this was because you hated when James tried going down on you. Hated to pretend he was good at it. Hated how much he clearly disliked doing it. “I-I prefer giving.”
You were not sure why you felt the need to answer anyway. Maybe it was how left out you felt during these conversations. How much you wished you were having as good sex as all your friends were. Maybe because you just wanted to be included for once. You feel your face warm but you try not to shy away as you look up at your friends—all looking at you in slight disbelief.
“What?” You ask, eyes flickering between each of your friends before landing finally on Steve.
“Nothing,” Steve says, blinking in apparent shock at your admission. “It’s just—”
“I’ve never known a girl who would choose giving head over receiving it,” Eddie interjects before glancing at Robin and Nancy. “Not a straight one anyway.”
Your face warms, taking a long swig of your drink and wishing you could blend into the furniture.
“I just—prefer doing it, I guess,” you say quietly with a small shrug.
“Well,” Eddie begins with a small smile and a wink sent your way. “Either you’re incredibly giving or James isn’t doing a good enough job.”
Everyone laughs and you know you should stand up for James—for your boyfriend, the man you supposedly loved—but instead, you go quiet. Your face somehow feeling even hotter than before. You seem to shrink back further in the booth. No one seems to notice how you don’t defend your boyfriend—Eddie was too busy already recounting the tales from his latest hookup with a bartender. But Steve’s eyes linger on you for a moment. Noticing the way your jaw tenses, your fingers flexing as though wishing to grip onto the table.
He doesn’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.
At one in the morning, you walk back with Steve to the apartment as you always did. Both a little bit tipsy and laughing at things that weren’t that funny—the fact Steve had been wearing his shirt inside out the entire evening, how you had tripped over the curb outside the bar.
“Careful,” Steve warns you, laughing as his hands gently steer you away from the curb for a third time. “What would you do without me, huh?”
“Be miserable,” you reply with a tipsy giggle. Steve smiles, hooking an arm around your shoulders as you approach your apartment building. Being the slightly more sober one—Steve is the one to fish out the key from his pocket and open the door. He’s the one to drag you away from the front desk before you could get too distracted by the notice board (“but Steve apartment 9A is selling their microwave!”). He’s the one to manoeuvre you into the elevator and to stop you from pressing all the buttons.
“Okay—next week, I’m the one who is getting drunk and you can take care of me,” Steve huffs as he guides you down the hallway towards your apartment. One arm around your shoulders so you don’t try to escape.
“M’kay,” you murmur as you watch Steve unlock the door.
Once you’re in the safety of your apartment, Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He watches as you wonder over to that damn pink couch—flop down onto it and kick off your shoes.
“I’m going to get you some water,” Steve announces, taking off his own shoes and leaving them carefully by the front door before heading into the kitchen.
You simply hum in acknowledgement, head titled back and staring up at the ceiling.
Steve returns with two glasses of water a few moments later. He sets them down on the coffee table before leaning down to pick up your discarded shoes. You bite back a smile as you watch him place them neatly down beside his own shoes near the front door.
“I was going to put them back eventually,” you tell him as he sits down on the couch beside you, the couch dipping a little under his weight.
Steve shrugs, as though it wasn’t a big deal before he picks up your glass of water and hands it to you.
“Drink,” he tells you gently. You send a small, grateful smile before you take the glass from him and take a generous gulp of water. Steve watches, amused before he sips from his own glass.
It’s quiet then between the pair of you—you tilting your head back up to glance at the ceiling while Steve thoughtfully taps his fingers against the glass in his hands.
“Hey, (y/n)?”
“Yeah?” You ask, turning your head to look at Steve.
He looks back at you, a slightly apprehensive look on his face—one that indicated that he was carefully considering his next words.
“I just—I noticed that you—that you didn’t say anything back to Eddie earlier.”
Even though you were still a little tipsy, still feeling the alcohol hum through your veins—Steve’s words cut through you. Instantly, you knew what he was referring to. That little comment Eddie had made about why you had said you preferred giving oral over opposed to receiving it. You swallow—you knew you had to play dumb. The truth was too embarrassing. It made that guilt take residence in your chest again.
“When?” You ask finally. “Eddie talks so much shit that it all kind of…blurs into one.”
Steve chuckles, leaning back against the sofa—his elbow knocking against yours. “Yeah, no—you got that right,” he says with a quick nod and another glance at you. “I just—it was that dig at James he made. You didn’t—you didn’t say anything. You didn’t—I dunno, stick up for him, I guess.”
You don’t say anything, you just stare wordlessly down at your lap as you try not to react.
When you say nothing, Steve hesitates for a split second before he presses on, “I just—I wanted to check if—you know, if everything was okay between the two of you?”
“Yeah,” you say, a beat too quickly as you look down at the glass of water in your hands. “We’re good. Why wouldn’t we be?”
Steve doesn’t look convinced. He looks back at you with an expression that plainly told you that he did not believe a damn word you were saying.
“Because you just let Eddie say…what he said,” Steve says. “That James isn’t good in bed.”
Again—you say nothing. Not for any other reason than because you suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be honest. To tell Steve everything. How James couldn’t make you come. How he no longer seemed to care if you finished. How his pleasure was always placed above yours.
Steve seems to understand something in your silence—his eyes on you, watching you with careful consideration, as though he was choosing his next words carefully.
“You know you deserve better, right?”
The words pull at something deep in your chest. The alcohol makes it difficult to control the cocktail of guilt, shame and embarrassment swirling in your gut.
“I don’t,” you murmur finally—the words that deep down, you didn’t really believe. Because you didn’t truly feel as though you deserved James. He was good—not like the assholes you had dated in the past and you felt immensely guilty that you were doubting him all because he couldn’t make you come.
Steve looks at you in utter disbelief, opening his mouth as if he was ready to argue but you silence him by unsteadily getting to your feet.
“M’going bed,” you tell him, clumsily making your way into the kitchen with your glass of half-drunk water. Steve follows—just to make sure that you didn’t break anything (whether that be the glass in your hand or even an arm or a leg).
He watches you tip the last of the water into the sink and he continues to watch as you leave the empty glass on the drying rack.
“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” Steve suddenly says, making you turn to look at him—eyes unfocused due to the alcohol and your world just a little bit wobbly. “Like seriously. Even if it’s about—you know.”
Your face warms, you avert your eyes.
“Just drop it, yeah?” You murmur back, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine—I’m fine, Steve.”
Despite how tipsy you were—the words were final and Steve understood that. He looked at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay,” he says simply before he forces a smile. “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll make sure to have a hangover breakfast ready for you.”
You manage a smile—a genuine smile—because Steve always did thoughtful things like this. Even if you were drawing a clear line in the sand on the conversation.
“Thank you,” you say, finally looking at Steve’s face and seeing the concern in his eyes which did not help the guilt you felt deep in your gut. Because now you felt awful for not being honest with Steve. And so—before you head to your room, you give Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
You slip away before you see how Steve’s face flushes.
The thing about living with Steve Harrington meant that you heard him have sex. Like, a lot.
The moment you heard loud moans coming from his bedroom, you would grab your walk-man, some headphones and drown out whatever unholy sounds were coming from the other side of the wall.
Tonight was no different. It was a week after that evening at the bar and after a long day at work, you were in your room when the moaning started. You knew he had been out on a date and you also knew—judging by the giggling that you had heard when Steve had returned ten minutes ago—that him and his date had retreated to his room. And so, what you heard next was inevitable. Your hands reached for your walk-man and—
“That’s it, pretty girl,” you hear Steve say in a low voice. “Soak my fingers—just like that. Do you hear how fucking wet you are for me?”
The words shock you. Hearing Steve say such filthy words makes your breath hitch and then—
To your absolute horror—the words go straight to your core.
Your thighs squeeze together without permission.
Holy fuck.
This is wrong. This was so fucking wrong—
“That’s it. God—keep squeezing my fingers just like that, baby. You’re going to feel incredible around my cock.”
You bite the inside of your mouth. Your fingers closing around the walkman, eyes on the headphones and—
“You want my mouth?”
“Yes, Steve—please—oh, oh god—oh—”
The moans coming from behind the wall had become obscene. High pitched, mixed with Steve’s own muffled groans.
You closed your eyes, imagining Steve’s thick head of hair between your thighs as he sucked on your clit, your slick dripping down his chin—
Oh god, no. You couldn’t fantasise about that, about him—it was wrong, it was—
“You taste so fucking good.”
Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt warmth spread through you at those words. Hot—like lava seeping through your veins.
You felt an ache between your legs you hadn’t felt in a long time. As you squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the feeling, you let out a small gasp when you realised you were wet. Like really fucking wet.
Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own—dancing down your thighs until you feel your own slick coating your inner thigh from where it had trickled down from your cunt.
The urge to move your fingers higher was overwhelming. To plunge your fingers into your aching cunt and get off like you desperately needed to. The moans coming from the woman who was being eaten out by Steve Harrington was all you could hear.
And that mental image of Steve—your roommate, your friend, the guy who was most certainly not your boyfriend—lapping at your soaked cunt was too much.
Your fingertips danced over the delicate lace of your panties before you knew what you were doing. That tiny bit of pressure was enough to make your hips buck up instinctively, stopping the whimper that threatened to fall out. You repeated the action, moving your finger around the damp spot in your panties and focusing only on Steve’s muffled groans. You have to bite down on your free hand to stop yourself from moaning as your fingers begin to circle your sensitive bud over the lace.
The nameless woman’s moans were only getting louder and louder.
And that’s when you gave in.
Your fingers slipped beneath the lace material of your panties. The first contact with your bare, wet pussy sent shock waves of pleasure through your body. You try not to think about how James never made you this wet as you slide your index and middle finger through your wetness.
You try to imagine James—your sweet, caring boyfriend between your legs. How his big blue-green eyes would look up at you sweetly. You wished it was enough to get you off. You wished he was good. As good as—
“Steve! Oh—fuck—don’t stop!”
And that was it—all thoughts of your boyfriend gone. The image of James replaced by Steve. And the thought of Steve using his mouth on you was enough to make your head fall back in ecstasy as your fingers worked faster—using your wet slick to coat your clit. The sensation sent a surge of white hot pleasure through you. You bit back a moan—your first orgasm in weeks right there. You were so close, you just need a little more—
“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve’s voice rumbles through the wall. “Come for me.”
That voice—that fucking voice—is what pushes you over the edge. The wave of pleasure was so intense, so sudden that you almost failed to muffle your moan with your hand. You feel it in every nerve in your body. Your legs shake and you feel your release dripping onto the sheets beneath you.
You lay there, chest heaving, the bliss you felt moments before slowly slipping away as the sounds of Steve and the nameless women were drowned out by the shame that had started to creep through your body. You felt it in your very bones—you had just gotten off (for the first time in a long, long time) by thinking of someone other than your boyfriend. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Steve. Your roommate. Your friend. Sweet, kind and caring Steve.
You shouldn’t have done it—you know you shouldn’t have. And yet—you already want to do it again. Especially when you could hear the sound of skin slapping against each other in the next room. It made that feeling in your gut return. Hot, aching where your fingers had just been.
No. You couldn’t. It was wrong. So very wrong.
One time. You told yourself. Just one time.
The next time James went down on you, you were determined to come.
You had decided that the morning after you had been listening to Steve and that woman.
James’ roommates were out and that meant you weren’t confined to his room as you usually were.
He had laid you down on the couch—his shirt half off and belt unbuckled. You could tell he just wanted to fuck you. But you just wanted to see if he could—
“Eat me out,” you murmur against the skin of his neck. “James—please.”
James wasn’t one for talking dirty. Not because he disliked it but because it seemed to affect him too much. At your words he groaned and his hand that had been massaging one of your breasts stilled. You could feel his hardened cock through his jeans pressed against your thigh—swear you felt it twitch at your words alone. Admittedly, it turned you on. That was a start.
“Okay,” James says, leaning back to look at your face. “Okay—I can do that.”
You try not to think that he sounds like he’s talking business. As though going down on you was a meeting—an afternoon meeting? ‘Sure, I can do that’. Need that report by Monday? ‘Sure, I can do that’.
James didn’t take his time—you knew he was aching painfully from how hard he was—and so he just pushed up the skirt of your dress, hastily tugged down your panties before his mouth met your barely soaked folds. You felt his tongue slide between them and you let out a breathy moan. It was nice—not unpleasant just…nice.
His mouth is working overtime, altering between kitten licks and slow, languid licks at your entrance. Again, it’s nice but you get this feeling that he isn’t as into it as you want him to be. It takes you out of the experience entirely. You know he’s just doing it because you asked—that he’d rather be fucking with you with his cock rather than his tongue. He’s not moaning and groaning between your legs like Steve had been with that woman. The memory of your roommates’ groans was still hot in your mind and you were trying not to think about it, trying not to—
But when you look down, you find yourself imagining that James’ shaggy blonde hair was a mop of thick brown locks.
No, no, no—you shouldn’t be thinking about Steve right now. You should be focusing on your lovely, caring boyfriend who has his head between your legs. Not Steve—not Steve.
But your mind went there anyway. Thinking of Steve’s moans, those filthy words you had heard him whisper. The way the woman he was with had reacted—
And suddenly, your hips were moving. Chasing friction, needing more. Bucking up to meet James’ mouth. Your fingers sunk into James’ hair and he groaned against you—sending a vibration through you that made you feel a spark of something. It was all the encouragement you needed, you moved his head slightly so that his nose would brush against your clit and the effect was instant.
You moaned out, unabashed and barely recognisable from your lips. Not exaggerated for once.
Again, you moved his head so his nose nuzzled your clit as his tongue continued to work in and out of you at a torturous pace. It worked—oh, god it was starting to work. Your head tilted back and moans fell from your lips without your say so. Hips following the movement of his tongue. Heat building in your gut, James’ own groans vibrating in a way that only added to the white hot pleasure that was building, building and—
James lets out a strangled moan against you that could only mean one thing. You blink as he pulls his mouth away from you. A hot look of embarrassment on his face as he glances down at his lap—a damp spot beginning to spread on his jeans.
“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly, breathless as you try to take his hand. “James, it’s—”
But he’s already pulling away from you entirely, face warm and determinedly not looking at you.
You don’t try to stop him as he gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom.
You should go after him. Reassure him it was okay. But part of you—the part that had been so desperate to finish—was tired of pretending it was okay.
And so, for the second time in a week, your fingers slip down between your folds—soaked from a mix of your wetness and your boyfriend’s saliva and think of Steve Harrington. You came right there on James’ sofa in less than three minutes.
Never again, you told yourself. Never again.
But it happens. More than you care to admit.
The next time it happened, it had been while James was inside you.
Your legs were thrown over his shoulders as his cock thrust in and out of you in a polite manner. He was holding back on his groans—his roommates were in the living room watching some ice hockey game. You wished that he didn’t give a fuck when his roommates were home. Wished he was proud to fuck you.
You tried not to notice how quiet it was in the room. The only sound being the squelching between your bodies—not due to your wetness but due to the lube you had needed to use. The sounds of his roommates jeering at the TV in the living room was distracting. And the fact James was making next to no noise while fucking you left you feeling a type of way. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong—the angle should be enough to make you feel good. But it was everything else.
And it was enough for your mind to wander into dangerous territory. Back to the guy you lived with who you shouldn’t be thinking about—shouldn’t be—
But of course, you do. You think of Steve as your boyfriend fucks you. It shouldn’t turn you on but it does. Shouldn’t make your walls clench around James’ cock. Shouldn’t make you moan out and claw at your boyfriend’s back.
“Oh fuck,” James groans out quietly, still mindful of his roommates as you lost your ability to keep quiet. “Sweetheart, you need to be quiet—”
But you don’t hear him over the moans you were now letting out. Too in your own head as you imagined Steve slamming his cock in and out of you—imagining him calling you pretty girl and telling you how fucking good you felt.
You should stop, you knew it was wrong. But as you felt that white hot pleasure build and build in a way it had never with James, you didn’t have it in you to stop.
And when it was over and James was looking at you in awe, you felt good. Confident. Sexy. Things you hadn’t felt before. James had even managed to fuck you a second time that night.
You’re aware you shouldn’t be thinking of someone else when you’re being intimate with your boyfriend. But it was the only way you could finish with James. It made you feel guilty after—immensely so. But it was the only thing that worked.
You were also painfully aware that you were fantasying about your roommate—of all people. But things between you and Steve remained normal. He still made you coffee every morning, still sat beside you on the couch while eating dinner and brushing his teeth by your side, completely unaware that you were fantasying about him during sex in order to get off.
You didn’t even feel awkward about it—not really. Not when your sex life was finally good. Not when you finally had your own fun sex stories to tell your friends.
And so, you didn’t stop. Weeks passed and you kept thinking about Steve as your boyfriend fucked you. Kept choosing not to put the headphones on when Steve had a girl over—your fingers pumping in and out of you as you listened to his moans and occasional whimpers. Your juices soaking your sheets and your body practically thrumming with pleasure. And then—the next morning you would accept a hot mug of coffee from your roommate.
And he had no idea what you had been doing the night before.
Steve was out—you think he was at baseball practice—and you had decided to make the most of it.
You invited James over and it didn’t take long before clothes were shed. You were on top for once, moving yourself up and down on his cock at a rhythm that had your head thrown back and listening to James’ muffled groans—his lips busy with your breasts that he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from as they bounced in his face.
Your hands were in his hair, his cock was inside you and yet—your mind was on Steve. Again. You found yourself wondering how big Steve was. You remember Nancy once being so drunk that she had told you just how big Steve was. “Monster cock,” Nancy had giggled to you as she poured herself another shot. Had told you how during her first time with him she had briefly wondered if he was going to split her in half with his cock.
The knowledge was coming back to you now—imagining Steve’s cock filling you so well that you would feel it in your stomach. Even imagined the stomach bulge it was cause—the outline of his cock nearly visible as he fucked up into you.
The mental image had your walls squeezing James’ not-so monster cock—a shameless, wanton moan falling from your lips as you grew closer and closer—
“I’m gonna come,” you gasp out, fingers gripping onto James’ shoulder as you try to keep yourself tethered to the image of Steve—of his cock splitting you open as he whispers the dirtiest words imaginable into your ear. “Steve, I’m gonna come.”
Your orgasm hits you hard. It hits you so hard in fact that you don’t feel how James’ thrusts cease entirely. How his hands fall from your hips. You don’t notice as your head falls into the crook of his neck, your body thrumming, legs shaking.
But you certainly notice how quick he was to pull out. How he didn’t finish.
You blink—heart still hammering, still a little blissed out from your orgasm—as you let him lift you off him a little more hastily than you were used to. You watch James, confused, as he hastily grabs his boxers and begins to tug them up his legs.
“Do you want me to—”
“No,” He snapped suddenly. “No, (y/n). I don’t want you to do anything.”
Bewildered, you began to grab your own items of clothing from the floor and started to dress. James had never snapped at you before and you were utterly confused at the sudden change of tone.
“What—what did I do? Is something wrong—”
“Gee, I don’t know, (y/n),” James resorts, a derisive laugh falling from his lips as he pulls up his jeans. “Does moaning out your male roommate's name while I’m inside of you count as something wrong?”
“I don’t—”
“Cut the bullshit ignorant act,” James interjects harshly as he looks at your face. “You just moaned out Steve’s name. Not my name. Steve’s.”
For a moment, there’s utter confusion. You don’t remember what you had said while you were mid orgasm. You want to deny it, laugh even but you can’t. You knew exactly what you had been thinking about, about Steve and you knew it was entirely possible you had accidentally moaned out Steve’s name in your moment of ecstasy.
“James, I’m sorry. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. It was—”
“Bullshit!” James cuts across you, his voice slightly raised. His face was flushed in anger—you could see that he was still hard through his jeans. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him and you couldn’t really blame him. You feel awful—truly awful, feeling as though you wanted to be sick. “You don’t just accidentally say someone else’s name during sex. Especially Steve’s.”
You swallow, your face hot with embarrassment, shame and a growing sense of panic that you couldn’t control. You try to conceal it by pulling on your t-shirt over your head before you look at James again.
“James, I—”
“Save it,” James mutters, pulling on his shirt and not even bothering to button it up before grabbing his jacket and shoes by the front door. “I’m not going to embarrass myself a moment longer. We’re done.”
“James—”
But your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend now, rather—was already slamming the door to your apartment behind him.
What shocked you most was that you didn’t cry. You had the overwhelming urge to but not because James had left, not because he had just dumped you but because felt so embarrassed by the situation—by the fact you had moaned out Steve’s name instead of James’. Too deep in fantasies about your roommate. And so—when you began to cry you told yourself it was because you were sad. That it was because you had just been dumped by your boyfriend of nearly two years and you were heartbroken. But you were far from it—in fact, there was a part of you that felt relieved.
The tears of embarrassment—now mixed with a sick feeling of shame—had only just started falling when the apartment door opened again. You turned around, a small part of you hoping it was James who was returning to tell you it was all some stupid joke—but of course, it wasn’t.
Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of you crying on the couch—only in a t-shirt and panties, your jeans slung over a nearby chair, your bra hanging over a lamp. But your state of undress doesn’t even seem to cross Steve’s mind as he rushes over to you—the bag he took with him to baseball practice falling to the floor beside him in his haste to reach you.
“Hey, hey—I saw James storming out—he looked—oh honey, what happened?”
The shock of Steve walking in at precisely this moment had left you lost for words. Tears flowed down your cheeks, your face still felt hot from embarrassment but you couldn’t speak. And Steve, seemingly taking your lack of being able to talk as heartbreak, gathers you into his arm and shushes you gently while you cry into his chest.
“It’s okay,” he tells you, his hand cupping the back of your head in an effort to soothe you. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
And because you felt too much shame and guilt to be honest with Steve, you simply nodded. Clinging to Steve as though your heart was shattered into a million pieces—as though James leaving have devastated you. When in actuality, you were making a silent promise to yourself. A promise to never—never ever tell a soul about what had just transpired between you and James. To never reveal the name you had subconsciously moaned out during your moment of bliss.
Summary: The night before you leave the trailer park for good, your next door neighbor sneaks into your trailer in the middle of the night to show you what you're leaving behind.
Pairing: Perv!Joel Miller x Fem!Reader
Content warnings: modern no outbreak AU where Joel is not a dad, pre-negotiated kinks, dirty talk, unprotected sex (don't do that irl), somnophilia, spitting, one spank, one slap to Joel's shoulder blade, biting, blink and you'll miss it blood kink, one use of the word "slut", multiple positions, rough sex, breeding kink, Joel mentions his gut once
Word count: 2,522
Read on ao3 here
Author's note: wow wow wow! I was not expecting so many people to read "Nasty", let alone anyone request a sequel (thank you to the first person who suggested it: @chewie-bars), let alone multiple people. I am amazed and I feel loved and I hope you feel loved too. title for this one comes from reader describing Joel as "nasty and slimy" and attributing it to watching too much Sons of Anarchy in "Nasty". that is all me. I watched Sons of Anarchy years ago and am still down bad for Tig Trager and the rest of the sons. if the sons aren't "nasty and slimy" men, I do not know who is. okay anyway ty for all the love on "Nasty", please enjoy "Slimy"! <3
After living in the trailer park for sixteen months, you’ve finally put a down payment on a house. When you told Joel, he said he was happy for you, but you could tell (especially by the way he fucked you five minutes after) that he was almost sad to hear about you leaving.
In all honesty, he’s the only thing you’re remotely upset about leaving behind. Besides being a good fuck, he is kind, funny, and smart. Over the last sixteen months, you’ve learned that he’s got good qualities besides his cock.
Today, he helped you pack all your things up. You’ll sign the paperwork and pick up your key tomorrow. It’s your last night in Blue Moon Trailer Park, and Joel is determined to leave a lasting impression.
You had him over for dinner. Pizza at a card table, but it was still one last hurrah in the place you called home for over a year. He fucked you on the floor after dinner, right next to the spaghetti sauce stain on the carpet that was there when you moved in, and when he was done, he kissed you goodbye and promised to lock the door on the way out.
You trusted him to do that.
He didn’t.
At around 2:00 in the morning, Joel crosses the eight feet of grass between your trailers, walks up the steps of your humble porch, and lets himself into your trailer.
He looks down the hall. Your bedroom door is half closed. The closer he gets, the better he can hear your breathing. Deep and even. You’re definitely asleep.
Perfect.
You look so peaceful, so pretty.
It’s hot in Texas. It always is, even now, during the middle of the night in March. You’ve got the sheets tangled around your legs, baring your naked body to him.
Perfect.
You’re lying on your stomach, the arch of your spine and the curve of your ass on display.
Joel reaches for his belt and swiftly pulls it through the loops, discarding it on the floor, along with his jeans and t-shirt.
Now naked as well, Joel crawls up your bed, hovering over your body. He holds his weight up with his left forearm, and with his right hand, he starts gently caressing and squeezing your ass.
You mentioned taking some Benadryl before going to bed after sneezing so much at dinner. You’re probably out, giving Joel some time to play with you all by himself.
When you told him you found a house, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, fucking hardwood floors, and granite countertops, he was happy. You saved your money, and you found the perfect house to spend it on.
He was proud of you. He’d seen you eat Kraft macaroni and cheese for dinner twice a week just so you could save up for the couch you wanted to buy for your future house.
Everything’s coming up roses for you.
It’s deserved, definitely, but Joel, deep in his old, selfish, perverted bones, wants to keep you to himself.
He slips his finger between your cheeks and slides it down until he finds your hole. He finds you slick. It’s like your body’s ahead of your brain. Your body can sense him, knows he’s here. It’s ready for him before you are.
Joel leans his head down so his lips are moving against your hair as he speaks.
“Your pussy’s always such a good girl for me,” he whispers. “Sometimes nicer than you. You can be a brat, but she always wants to cooperate for me.”
Slowly, so as not to wake you, Joel pushes the tip of his finger inside, just up to the first knuckle, just to feel you.
“Probably gonna end up missin’ her more than you,” he murmurs.
It’s a lie, but you’re not awake to dispute it.
Joel eventually fully pushes his finger inside of you, and you let out the softest moan, still asleep, but responsive as ever.
“Yeah, I bet my finger feels good, don’t it? Bet ya ain’t gonna find another guy with fingers as thick as mine in the ‘burbs. No, ma’am. Shit like this ain’t found with them uptight city slicker pricks.”
He’s finding he’s more bitter about your move than he originally thought he was.
As he moves his finger in and out of your slick cunt and starts pulling more consistent moans from your throat, he gently withdraws his finger and licks it clean, the digit coming out of his mouth with a sharp pop.
Joel decides to turn you over. He wants to eat that sweet pussy just one more time before you leave for good.
He’s so careful. He gently gets his hands around your shoulder and hip, slowly turning you over on your back.
You don’t even stir.
Before he dives in, he gently pulls your legs apart, baring your sweet, gorgeous pussy to him.
He kisses your knees, then a few spots on the inside of your thighs, then he kisses your clit.
That last kiss pulls a soft gasp from you, but you still don’t wake.
He starts out with kitten licks, small stripes up the length of your slit.
Then he hovers his mouth above your cunt, lips parted, drool pooling in his mouth. He lets his saliva dribble over your cunt, and he finds that he really likes the sight.
He gathers more saliva in his mouth and aims to spit directly on your clit.
You moan at the stimulation, and Joel instinctively humps your mattress.
“Guess we both just discovered a new kink, didn’t we, darlin’?” he rasps before fully diving in, licking your pussy like a man gone mad.
With all the force he’s using as he eats you out, you finally start stirring.
Joel feels your thighs tighten around his head, but he doesn’t stop. He knows you want this just as much as he does.
“Joel…? That you…?”
He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. There’s only one person in the whole world who would break into your trailer in the middle of the night to eat you out. Obviously, it’s him.
He pulls your clit between his teeth and sucks.
“Oh…” you moan. You’re conscious, but barely awake. Your body still feels heavy; it’s probably the Benadryl, you think.
You don’t know how long he’s been between your legs, but it must be long enough to reach climax, because that’s where you’re headed.
“I’m gonna–”
“Good girl,” he rasps between licks. “Come on my face, darlin’. Want you to soak me one last time. Come on, let me wear my favorite lip gloss.”
You come with a giggle.
A fucking giggle.
‘Let me wear my favorite lip gloss.’
Joel cleans you up, and as his head rises, you see his chin, his beard, and, yes, his lips, are covered in your shine.
“Looking real pretty, Miller,” you whisper, your chest rapidly rising and falling.
“Your lips are lookin’ a little dull, sunshine. Lemme help,” he says before leaning down and crashing his lips against yours.
You taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue: sweet and a little tangy.
He moans into the kiss and pulls away with a sigh.
“Still sleepy?” he murmurs as he brings his hands up to play with your tits.
You lazily nod your head and look up at him through heavy eyes. “Mm. Gonna wake me up?”
Joel smirks so wide you think his lips might bust open.
“You can bet your pretty little ass I am.”
With that, Joel sits back on his knees and takes hold of your ankles, pulling you toward him. He gets you situated on his lap while he sits in the middle of your bed.
Before you know it, he’s feeding his cock into your cunt, and he’s just as quickly buried to the hilt.
“Jesus, Joel!” you shout, your hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, while your eyes practically bug out of your head.
“What?” he murmurs softly. “What, ya can’t handle it?”
You glare at him and tug on the back of his hair.
“Asshole,” you mumble.
Joel smiles, and he lets out a heavy sigh. Then his hand cracks down on your ass in response to the hair pulling.
“Just be a good girl and let me do what I need to do,” he says, smiling as he speaks.
“What you need to do?” you scoff.
He nods and bites his bottom lip as he tries to fight off his smile.
“Yep. We’ll both be better for it if ya just let me do my thing.”
As he says this, his fingers reach down and start gently rubbing your clit, pulling a soft moan from you, which shuts you right up.
“Mm… Now, there’s my girl,” Joel whispers, sounding almost fond as he starts thrusting up into you from below.
“Ya gonna start fuckin’ suburban dads once you leave this place behind?” he rasps, his lips moving against your ear. “Hm, baby? Gonna start socializin’ at t-ball practices to find some replacement dick?”
You let out a breathy sound between a moan and a gasp, and bring your hand down on his shoulder blade.
“Fuck you, Joel,” you mutter softly.
“What? Am I wrong?” he scoffs. “You like ‘em a little older. Don’t deny it, sweetheart.”
Whether or not he is right is something you’ll admit to later, not when he’s balls deep inside of you, so you shut him up with a kiss so forceful, he falls on his back.
Joel moans and brings his hands down to squeeze your ass.
“Gettin’ sentimental on me, darlin’?” he murmurs against your lips.
You bite his bottom lip in response, so hard that you start to taste something metallic-y.
When you pull back, you see that Joel is grinning, blood between his teeth.
You’re a little surprised at yourself, at how aggressive you’re being, and also how much you like the sight of Joel with blood-stained teeth, as well as being the reason for it.
“Joel, I–”
“You kinky slut,” he laughs.
“No, I didn’t mean to,” you try to explain, and he starts thrusting into you again.
“Sure,” he scoffs.
“I didn’t!”
“Okay,” he says, smirking like he’s doing you a favor by acquiescing.
Your eyes practically bug out of your head, and before you can think of another response, he’s pulling out of you and switching positions.
He twists your body around until your back is flush with his chest. It’s a bit of a struggle, but he gets inside of you again, and it all happens so fast, you think you might get whiplash.
Joel keeps his hands on your pelvis and starts thrusting hard.
“Joel!”
“Oh, hush. It feels good; don’t fight it, darlin’,” he mumbles.
“You’re the worst,” you moan, clenching down around him.
“Honey, I know for a fact I’m hittin’ your g-spot with this angle, and you’re sayin’ I’m the worst?” he scoffs. “Please. Least make it so your insults are true.”
Joel brings one hand up to start pawing at your breast, kneading and groping and rubbing the flesh, and you swear you might wake up the entire trailer park with how loud you’re moaning.
He almost covers your mouth, but thinks better of it. Why hide the fact he’s fucking you within an inch of your life?
“You’re gonna miss this. Sure, you’ll have an actual front porch, fuckin’ hardwood floors, and a full-size bathtub, but this?” he grunts, emphasizing the last word with a particularly aggressive thrust. “Aw, baby. You can’t get this in the ‘burbs.”
“I’m sure I’ll manage,” you mutter through gritted teeth.
At that, Joel rolls the two of you over, now pressing your body between his and the mattress.
“I don’t think that’s right, darlin’,” he whispers in your ear, almost tauntingly. “I think this past year, I’ve gotten you hooked on me, my cock, the way I fuck, the way I talk… I think whatever limp dick you manage to bag in the city ain’t gonna hold a candle to me.”
He slips his hand between your body and the mattress and starts rubbing your clit at a pace that can only mean he wants you to come, even if he has to force it.
Joel lowers his head so that his lips brush against your ear as he speaks in a low, raspy voice.
“You’re addicted, baby,” he whispers as he presses harder against your clit.
You whimper, muffling the sound by pressing your face into the mattress while your cunt spasms around him.
“Oh, that made you come, honey?” he teases, his tone mocking. “My pervy, nasty, dirty mouth made you come?”
You can only whimper in response as you try to compose yourself. Meanwhile, Joel’s thrusts start picking up, and then you remember he’s not wearing a condom.
“Joel… Joel, you have to pull out,” you murmur.
Joel kisses your temple. “If I pull out, how else will I give you something to remember me by?”
Shit.
You’re speechless, unable to react as Joel keeps thrusting in and out of your slick cunt until he spills rope after rope, spurt after spurt of his cum inside of you, grunting above you.
“Yeah, you just take it, baby. Take all o’ me. Grow me a cute kid,” he rambles as his cock delivers the last spurt of his cum. “Gonna give ya a cute baby belly to match my beer belly.”
You’re stunned; you can’t believe he actually did that. He seriously came inside of you.
“Joel–”
You jerk around just a little bit underneath him, but he doesn’t budge.
“Shh, baby. Just go back to sleep. You need your rest for the big movin’ day tomorrow,” he murmurs in your ear, his hand gently petting your hair.
Somehow, you do manage to fall back asleep, and when you wake up, the bed is empty.
As you get up, your legs and pussy sore from the previous night’s activities, which are the only reason you remember it was real and not a dream, you head to the kitchen to see if you have any food to eat for breakfast. On your kitchen counter is a box of the morning-after pill, and next to it is a note that reads:
Hope last night lived up to your fantasy, pervy girl. Wake me up at noon, and we can get started on moving day.
P.S. I’m proud of you. You did good, and you deserve this.
P.S.S. Apparently, you have a spit kink.
-Joel
Joel Miller is a pervert. He slaps your ass every time you walk by him, booty-calls you at 2:00 in the morning, and shouldn’t be trusted to speak in the presence of pearl-clutchers.
He is a nasty, slimy guy.
He is a big dick with big feelings…for you.
Tonight, after he helps you get moved into your new house, you will ask that he help you christen all the rooms, and as a reward for his help, you will slip him a spare key to your new house.
