marcela

she/her 22

[iam-rray-deactivated20260521]

Hearing a man moan "fuck baby" makes me so feral

[delusionaldaarling]

Ugggh i miss this

[delusionaldaarling]

Got left on open after sending a freaky text to a man i lowkey hate…damn

[delusionaldaarling]

How i feel having my sneaky link and my ex both hit me up the same night (i hate both of them)

[tomb-mold]

the problem is i really do love staying up until one billion o'clock. it just cant be helped

[fladurblegon]

“What if poor people abuse the system?”

The system intrinsically abuses poor people.

Hope this helps.

[breninarthur]

"What if poor people abuse the system?"

Rich people abuse the system far more and out of pure greed, not necessity or desperation so idrc about that

[planetpeebs-deactivated20220426]

“are you okay”

no i crave the touch of a fictional character whose hand i’ll never hold

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader fanfiction | fratboy!steve | platonic!stobin (i promise) | mentions of cheating (but it's not real cheating) | mean!steve, playboy!steve | sort of friends to enemies to fwb to lovers | slowish burn | angst | hurt ... eventual comfort

warnings: NO ANGST!!! YIPPIEEEEE!!!! fluff, smut, sort of exhibitionism, foot job if you squint, face riding, p in v protected, GLASSES! words: 9.5ksummary: When you find out your college roommate/friend robin buckley's boyfriend, steve harrington— who you thought beat all stereotypical frat boy odds— is cheating on her, you find it hard to understand why she still wants to be with him. But there is more than meets the eye. You aren't sure if you want to be roped into it.a/n: here you go you needy beggers (endearingly i promise) sorry, i kept hating everything i wrote... or felt like it wasn't enough. so i hope you enjoy this one. they're my babies so no more slander okay pleasemasterlist

Chapter 10

Two days later, on Monday afternoon, Hawkins holds its annual New Year's fundraiser at the elementary school gymnasium. A silent auction during a Little Dribblers game.

The building is older, one of those structures that's been standing since the fifties, all red brick and tall windows that let in weak winter light. Inside, the gym smells like floor wax and old rubber, the kind of scent that's baked into the wood paneling and never quite leaves no matter how many times they refinish the floors.

You tag along with Nancy, Robin, and Eddie, the four of you climbing the bleachers that creak and groan under your weight, metal cold even through your jeans. The gymnasium is packed with parents and families, kids running around with face paint and balloons, the air buzzing with that particular brand of chaos that only happens when you mix children, sugar, and competition.

The reason you're here—the only reason, really—is because Steve was recruited to help coach a group of elementary kids for the Little Dribbles game. Robin had mentioned it casually over breakfast at a diner that her, Nancy, and Eddie took you to. Nancy had immediately insisted you all go to watch, her eyes sparkling with mischief that suggested she knew exactly what she was doing.

Now, sitting on the hard bleacher seat with Robin on one side and Eddie on the other, you scan the court until you spot him.

Steve stands near the sideline, clipboard in one hand, whistle hanging around his neck, surrounded by a group of kids who barely reach his waist. He's wearing a faded gray t-shirt that's seen better days, the fabric soft and worn from countless washes, stretched across his shoulders in a way that suggests it might be a size too small. His jeans are dark blue, fitted but not tight, and there's a backwards baseball cap on his head—red with some logo you can't make out from this distance—curls escaping from the sides and back, sticking out in wild directions that somehow look intentional.

His team looks like a ragtag bunch—varying heights, mismatched jerseys in yellow and blue, one kid with his shoes on the wrong feet, another with glasses held together with tape. You recognize one of them immediately: Derek, the big kid from the arcade who'd stolen Dustin's tickets, looking just as troublesome now as he had then, picking at the hem of his jersey and bouncing on his toes with restless energy.

Steve crouches down, the cap staying firmly in place, eye level with the shortest kid on the team—a tiny girl with pigtails who looks terrified. His mouth moves, saying something you can't hear from this distance, but whatever it is makes her smile, small and tentative. He holds up his hand for a high five, and she slaps it with both of hers, giggling when he pretends it hurt, shaking his hand out like she's got superhuman strength.

"He's good with them," Nancy observes quietly beside you, her voice warm.

"Yeah," Robin agrees, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "He always has been."

The game starts with a referee's whistle—sharp and piercing in the enclosed space. The kids scatter across the court like marbles, some running in the right direction, others completely lost, one kid stopping mid-court to wave at his parents in the stands. It's chaos, pure and simple, and yet somehow endearing in its complete lack of coordination.

Steve paces the sideline, the clipboard tucked under one arm now, hands cupped around his mouth as he shouts encouragement. "That's it, Emily! Good hustle! Derek, pass it! Pass it!"

You watch as one of his players—a lanky kid with knobby knees—manages to get the ball and dribbles it awkwardly down the court, tongue poking out in concentration. Steve jogs alongside him on the sideline, the cap bobbing with each step, clapping his hands together. "You got this, Cameron! Take the shot!"

Cameron throws the ball toward the hoop with both hands, the motion more shot-put than basketball, and it bounces off the rim with a loud clang. The collective "aww" from the crowd is immediate, but Steve's already there, pumping his fist. "Good try! That was so close! Next time!"

Cameron's face, which had started to crumple with disappointment, brightens immediately.

The opposing team gets the ball, and you watch Steve's expression shift—still encouraging, but more focused now, analyzing. He calls out positions, trying to organize his scattered team into something resembling defense. "Hands up! Hands up! Make yourself big!"

Three of his kids actually do it, raising their arms over their heads and shuffling sideways. It's not effective defense by any stretch, but the effort is there, and Steve whoops like they've just executed an NBA-level play. "Yes! That's what I'm talking about!"

Then you see it—Derek, number seven on Steve's team, guarding a kid from the other side. The kid tries to dribble past him, and Derek doesn't just block him. He shoves him, both hands planted firmly on the kid's chest, sending him stumbling backward.

The referee's whistle blows immediately. Foul.

You watch Steve's jaw tighten, watch him reach up to adjust the brim of his backwards cap before closing his eyes for a brief second. Then he turns to Derek. He doesn't yell. Doesn't snap or get in his face like you've seen other coaches do, even with elementary kids. Instead, he walks over calmly, crouches down again so he's at Derek's height, and speaks quietly enough that no one else can hear.

Derek's face flushes red, arms crossing over his chest in that universal gesture of childhood defiance. Steve says something else, his hand coming up to rest gently on Derek's shoulder, and then he straightens, gesturing toward the bench.

Derek's mouth drops open in outrage, but Steve's expression doesn't change. Firm but not angry. The kid stomps over to the bench and throws himself onto it with all the drama of someone who's just been sentenced to death, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees, face hidden behind his hands.

The game continues, and you can't help but notice the way Steve keeps glancing back at Derek. The kid is clearly pouting, shoulders hunched, radiating misery, and after maybe two minutes of game time, Steve looks genuinely pained. He keeps watching Derek, then the game, then Derek again, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck under the cap, like he's warring with himself.

Finally, during a break in play, Steve walks back to the bench. He crouches in front of Derek, says something that makes the kid look up, eyes red-rimmed and watery. Steve extends his hand. Derek stares at it for a long moment before taking it, letting Steve pull him to his feet.

"He's putting him back in," Eddie says beside you, amused. "Lasted a whole three minutes."

"Caves so quickly," Robin laughs with Robin. 

The second Derek gets back on the court, the dynamic shifts. He's bigger than the other kids, but he's also faster, more coordinated. He steals the ball twice in quick succession, passing it to teammates who actually manage to score. Steve's whooping from the sideline again, jumping up with both hands in the air when Emily—the tiny girl with pigtails—sinks a basket with Derek's assist, the cap somehow staying put through his celebration.

"Yes! That's teamwork! That's what I'm talking about!"

The game continues, scrappy and chaotic, and you find yourself getting invested despite the questionable skill level on display. Steve never stops moving—pacing the sideline, calling out encouragement, demonstrating footwork when the referee stops play, high-fiving every kid who comes off the court for a substitution regardless of whether they did well or not.

When one kid trips over his own feet and goes sprawling, Steve is there immediately, helping him up, checking his scraped palms, sending him back onto the court with a pat on the back and a "shake it off, buddy."

With thirty seconds left, Steve's team is up by two points. The other team has the ball, and you can see the tension in Steve's shoulders, the way he's gripping the clipboard so hard his knuckles have gone white. The opposing team's best player drives toward the basket, and Derek moves to block him—legally this time, hands up, feet shuffling.

The kid shoots. The ball arcs through the air in what feels like slow motion.

It bounces off the rim.

Cameron grabs the rebound, and the buzzer sounds.

For a moment, there's complete silence. Then chaos erupts.

Steve's team screams, high-pitched and joyful, and before he can react, all nine kids are running at him full-speed. They hit him like a tidal wave, small bodies colliding with his legs and waist, arms wrapping around whatever they can reach, and Steve goes down.

Not hard. He’s able to catch himself, letting the momentum take him to his knees and then his side on the polished wood floor, the cap flying off his head and skittering away across the gym. He's laughing as kids pile on top of him, all of them shrieking with victory, curls now completely free and wild around his face. His clipboard skitters away in the opposite direction, and you can see his expression, pressed against the gym floor, eyes squeezed shut but mouth stretched in a genuine smile, wider than you've seen since arriving in Hawkins.

"We won! We won! Coach Steve, we won!"

"I know! I know! You guys were amazing!" His voice is muffled under the pile of children, but the pride in it is unmistakable. "Okay, okay, you're crushing me. I need to breathe!"

They peel off reluctantly, still bouncing with excitement, and Steve sits up slowly, running a hand through his now-disheveled curls, making them stick up even more. His shirt is untucked, his cheeks flushed, and there's a happiness radiating from him that makes something in your chest feel strange. He reaches for the cap, slapping it back on his head backwards, not bothering to tame his hair first.

"That was disgusting," Eddie announces cheerfully beside you. "I think I got a cavity just watching that."

"Shut up," Robin says, but she's smiling, eyes soft as she watches Steve get to his feet and accept a handshake from the other team's coach.

Nancy doesn't say anything, but when you glance at her, she's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read.

Eventually, the games are over and the gym begins to empty, families filtering out into the cold afternoon, kids still hyped up on adrenaline and victory. Steve stays behind, helping to clean up—folding chairs, collecting stray basketballs, talking to a parent who wants to know about the summer basketball camp. The cap is still backwards on his head, curls poking out wildly around the edges.

The four of you make your way down from the bleachers, and Robin stretches her arms over her head with an exaggerated groan. "We should get some lunch. I'm starving."

Steve looks up from where he's stacking chairs, face slightly apologetic. "I offered to air up basketballs this afternoon. But you guys are still coming over tonight for the movie, right?"

There's a hopeful look in his eyes that makes your stomach twist, and you remember Robin mentioning that his parents had left sometime Sunday morning, heading back to Indianapolis for work. Which seemed shitty, not wanting to spend at least one full day of the new year with their son.

"'Course," Robin says immediately. "Assuming we should bring things to sleep in?"

Steve's smile is quick and genuine. "The guest rooms will be awaiting your stay." Then his eyes flash to you for half a second before skittering away, like making eye contact is dangerous.

You look behind him at the cart of basketballs, at least twenty of them, all flat or nearly flat. "You're going to do it all by yourself?"

Steve shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets, the gesture pulling the t-shirt tighter across his chest. "I'm used to it. Whenever I got in trouble in school, Coach would make me do it for detention. Takes forever because you have to get the correct air pressure. Like, there's a gauge and everything."

The words come out before you've fully thought them through. "I can stay and help. Then you'd be done faster and can hang out with us."

Steve looks almost bewildered. His gaze bounces between Robin and you, mouth opening and closing once. "Uh..."

Nancy cuts in smoothly, already linking her arm through Eddie's and reaching for Robin with her other hand. "Okay. Meet us in an hour at Family Video so we can choose a movie together." She gives you a strange smile, something that's more smirk than anything else, and pulls Eddie and Robin toward the exit before either of them can protest.

You realize, belatedly, the implications of what being alone with Steve means. But you smile anyway, turning back to him. "Okay. Tell me what to do."

Steve can't help himself. "Yeah, because I know you like that."

He doesn't smirk, but his eyes tell a different story entirely before he pivots and walks toward the cart of basketballs.

Twenty minutes later, you and Steve are sprawled on the gymnasium floor, the space around you littered with basketballs in various states of inflation. The gym is empty now, quiet except for the rhythmic sound of air pumps and the occasional squeak of rubber against the polished wood. Steve has taken off the cap at some point, set it aside on the floor between you, his curls free and messy, falling into his eyes every time he bends over a ball.

You were wrong to volunteer for this. Steve was absolutely right—it takes forever, and you have to be so precise, checking the gauge after every few pumps, making sure the pressure is exactly right or the ball will be too hard, too soft, completely unusable.

Your hand cramps suddenly, fingers seizing around the pump handle, and you let out a frustrated huff, shaking it out.

Immediately, you feel a big, rough hand close over yours, warm and gentle. Steve's thumb presses into your palm, massaging the cramped muscle with practiced pressure.

"So why did you volunteer to do this again?" you ask, trying to ignore the way your stomach coils at his touch, wondering where else those hands could massage.

"Why did you?" he counters, not looking up from where his thumb is working circles into your palm.

You smile despite yourself. "I don't know. Felt bad you were going to do it by yourself, I guess."

Steve stops massaging your hand and goes back to pumping a ball, a curl falling forward over his forehead as he bends down. You follow suit, flexing your fingers a few times before picking up your own pump. "I like it," he says after a moment, voice quiet. "Sometimes I want to be by myself but not in my house."

"Oh." Guilt flashes through you. "Sorry. You should've said so."

He chuckles, the sound low and genuine, pushing the curl back with his free hand only for it to fall right back. "No, it's okay. I like your company."

For the first time since you've known Steve Harrington, something in your stomach flutters. Actually flutters, like there are moths trapped under your ribs trying to find a way out.

You're probably just hungry.

You smile at him, then turn your attention back to the ball in front of you. "Well, that's a lot sweeter than what I thought."

"What'd you think?"

"I dunno. That you're reveling in your glory days of high school fame by volunteering to help coach and then air up basketballs."

Steve is quick. "Oh no, that too."

You both stop, look at one another, and the smile that spreads across his face is mirrored on your own. You share a laugh, the sound echoing slightly in the empty gym, before going back to your respective basketballs.

Steve nudges your knee with his foot. "Dustin told me he witnessed what a hot shot you are. Told me you could probably give me a run for my money in basketball."

You roll your eyes, still focused on the pump. "Is that what you're calling me now? Hot shot?"

Steve shrugs, and when you glance up, he's smirking, leaning toward you slightly, one hand reaching up to run through his curls. "Dunno. You wanna show me if he's right?" His eyebrows raise, teeth catching his bottom lip as he motions toward the basketball goal across the court.

Your eyes flash with the challenge before you can stop them. You've never been one to show off—never the type to seek attention or prove yourself unnecessarily. But oddly, you feel competitive with Steve. You can't explain why. Maybe it's the way his eyes flash hungry when he's about to win something, that downturned gaze sharpening with focus. Maybe it's just that you like seeing him lose that controlled composure.

Steve grabs an aired-up ball and you both make your way to half-court, the sound of your footsteps bouncing off the walls. He snatches the red cap from the floor as he stands, spinning it once in his hand before slapping it back on his head backwards, that cocky grin playing at his lips.

"Check," Steve says, bouncing the ball to you once.

You catch it, bounce it back, and he starts dribbling, the rhythm steady and controlled. The cap sits perfectly backwards on his head, curls escaping wildly from underneath. "Do you like Hawkins so far?"

You move with him, arms up, trying to guard him even though you're not entirely sure of the rules of one-on-one. "Yeah, I really do. It's refreshing compared to city life."

Steve drives left, and you follow, but he pivots smoothly and takes the shot. It swishes through the net with a clean sound that's almost offensive in its perfection.

You frown. "Damn."

"Lucky shot," Steve says, but he's grinning as he retrieves the ball and brings it back to the top, adjusting the cap with one hand. He bounces it to you for the check.

You dribble, less smooth than him but competent, trying to figure out the best angle. Steve's defense is surprisingly good, hands up but not reaching, feet shuffling to stay in front of you. "I mean... in the city, there's always strangers. People you never see again. But here..." You fake right, drive left, and manage to get past him enough to take a shot. It bounces off the rim. "I think I saw at least ten people who were at your parents' party last night when we were out today. It's kind of... endearing."

Steve smiles, grabbing the rebound, curls bouncing as he moves. He looks genuinely pleased by this observation. "Yeah. It's different here. Not always good different, but..."

You nod, understanding what he's not saying.

The game continues, your bodies finding a rhythm—dribble, guard, shoot, rebound. You manage to score, a clumsy layup that barely makes it over the rim, but Steve whoops anyway, hands clapping together once, the movement making his t-shirt ride up slightly, exposing a sliver of tanned stomach.

"There you go, Hot Shot!"

On the next possession, Steve gets the ball and pauses at the top, checking it to you softly. His voice drops, quieter than before. "I'm sorry about last night."

Your mind immediately flashes to the last ten minutes of the party—the alcove, the almost, the way he'd walked away. Your hands close around the ball, bouncing it back. "Why?"

But Steve just stands there, hands splayed on the ball, holding it to fidget. He looks up, and there's frustration clear in his expression, visible even under the shadow of the cap's brim. "For ignoring you, even if you didn't really care. That wasn't nice. And then you hearing my dad and me... and then I don't know..."

His eyes lift to yours, and you can see that he does know what else, but he doesn't finish the thought. He starts dribbling instead, the sound loud in the quiet gym.

He continues talking as he moves, and you move with him, trying to guard him. "It's different back in Hawkins because you're right. Everyone knows everyone. It's different here than back at school where I can get away with shit. But here there's always eyes. And well... to be truthful..." He shoots, and the ball hits the rim, bouncing off. You both go back to the top. "I sometimes don't know how to act when you're around. I don't hang out with the other girls, and they're not friends with Robin. And they have certainly never been invited by her to come here, and so—"

"Steve, you don't have to explain. Really. I get it." You bounce the ball to him for the check. "Your family and their friends were there last night. All is forgiven."

Something in his shoulders loosens, tension bleeding out that you hadn't fully noticed was there. He reaches up to adjust the cap, pushing it back slightly before pulling it forward again.

The game shifts after that. You're both less careful, less polite. When you go for a shot, Steve's there, pressing close, hand reaching up to block. When he drives for the basket, you're right behind him, your front against his back, arm reaching around to swat at the ball. Bodies pressing together, the cotton of his t-shirt soft against your skin, breath coming faster.

"What are your parents like?" Steve asks as he dribbles, his back to you, and you can feel the heat of him through your shirt, can see the way his shoulders move under the gray fabric.

"I guess normal? It's just me, so I equally feel smothered and loved at the same time." You try to reach around him for the ball but he's too quick, spinning away and taking the shot. It misses, and you grab the rebound, but he’s quick . "When you graduate, are you coming back to Hawkins?"

Steve falters while you dri, just for a second, his hand coming up automatically to adjust the cap even though it doesn't need adjusting, then shoots and makes it. "I dunno. I mean... you heard last night. I still have no fucking clue what I want to do. I don't know what I'm good at."

You check the ball to him, watching his face under the red brim. "What about this?"

Steve scoffs, starting to dribble. "About what? Flirting with you?"

That weird flip happens in your stomach again. You really must need water. "No, Harrington. I'm talking about today. Coaching."

You manage to steal the ball and drive for the basket, making it with a clumsy shot that somehow goes in.

Steve freezes at the top of the key, just standing there staring at you, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck under the cap. "I mean... I wouldn't really say that was a big deal, you know? I was just asked a few weeks ago to do it because the other volunteer couldn't do it anymore and I ran into Coach Halpern at the grocery store and it was kind of a joke... you know, last option sort of thing. It's not like I did anything special. It wasn't a—"

"Steve, shut up and check the ball."

You roll your eyes, but you also find it cute how nervous he is, the way he keeps fidgeting with the cap, adjusting it even though it's fine. You've never really had a one-on-one conversation with him that wasn't about sex or directly related to Robin or some party. Then again, you bolt out the door after any time you're alone with him, so maybe that's on you.

He swallows, doing as you say, and bounces the ball to you. He speaks again, softer this time. "You really think I'd be good at it? Like... teaching? I mean, I absolutely hated school. Still do."

"Steve, you've surrounded yourself with kids. You'd think it was weird, but you just have a way with them."

Steve gives you a shy smile, something boyish and uncertain, before checking the ball and shooting. It goes in, clean. "Okay. I'll think about it." Then he adds, quieter, "I don't really want kids one day, but I guess Max, Dustin, and the rest of them make up for it."

He looks at you, question in his eyes visible even in the shadow of the cap's brim. "Do you want kids someday?"

You smile, shrugging as you grab the rebound and dribble back to the top. "I mean, sure, I've thought about it. Maybe. It still feels so far away to think about those kinds of things."

Steve nods, understanding.

The game continues, your bodies finding a rhythm that's almost hypnotic—dribble, guard, shoot, the squeak of shoes on the polished floor, the sound of breath and movement and the ball hitting wood. You notice the way sweat has started to darken the gray of his t-shirt slightly, the way curls are sticking to his forehead under the cap.

You have possession, dribbling, trying to find an opening. Steve is behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of his stomach against your back through the thin fabric of his shirt, his breath on your neck. Then he mutters, quiet but clear: "Have you ever been in love?"

You falter. Just for a second, but it's enough. Steve reaches around you, stealing the ball, and drives for the basket. The shot goes in, and the game is his.

You put your hands on your hips, catching your breath, biting your lip. "No. I don't think so. I'm not sure what it's supposed to feel like, I guess."

Steve raises a brow, walking back toward you, reaching up to take off the cap and run his hand through his sweat-damp curls before putting it back on. "You've never had a boyfriend?"

"I have. A few through high school. One the first semester of college. But I don't know..." You shrug, suddenly feeling exposed in a way you don't like. "I never thought of them when something really good happened to me." You force a laugh. "I know, I'm heartless."

Steve shrugs, and the way his eyes glisten under the fluorescent lights, visible even under the cap's shadow, makes your heart thump in an irregular way that you don't want to examine. "Maybe. Or maybe you haven't found the right guy yet."

"Right. Maybe." You tilt your head, studying him—the backwards cap, the messy curls, the gray t-shirt clinging to his chest, the way he's looking at you like you're a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Have you ever been in love?"

Steve laughs, but you don't miss the pain that flickers through his eyes, quick and sharp before he can hide it. "I'm as hopeless as you are, Hot Shot."

The words hang between you in the empty gymnasium, settling like dust in afternoon light, and for a moment, neither of you moves. Just standing there, breathing hard, looking at each other like you're both trying to figure something out.

Then Steve's watch beeps, shattering the moment.

"Shit," he mutters, glancing down at it. "We need to meet them at Family Video."

"Right," you say, and your voice sounds almost normal. "Let's go."

.-.-.-.

The Princess Bride starts with its storybook opening, the grandfather's voice warm and familiar through the television speakers. You're settled on the sofa in Steve's living room—a space that screams wealth in the most understated way possible. Cream leather couches arranged in a U-shape around a coffee table that's probably worth more than your car, floor-to-ceiling windows that during the day must flood the room with light, now dark and reflecting the glow from the massive television mounted above a fireplace you haven't seen lit once.

Robin and Nancy are curled together on the far end of a sectional on the other side of the room, Nancy's head on Robin's shoulder, their fingers intertwined between them. They lasted maybe ten minutes before the giggles started—soft at first, then progressively louder, little squeals escaping whenever they whisper to each other.

Steve's jaw tightens. His arms cross over his chest, wearing a new shirt. The backwards cap is gone now, curls free and wild, but you can still see the indent it left in his hair. "Some people are actually trying to watch the movie here."

Robin rolls her eyes, mouth opening to deliver what you're certain will be a biting retort, but Nancy leans in close and whispers something that makes Robin's expression shift entirely. She dissolves into giggles, that toothy grin spreading across her face as she clears her throat and stands, tugging Nancy up with her. "We're getting sleepy, so we're gonna—"

"You don't have to announce it," Eddie interrupts from his spot on the floor, sprawled on his stomach with his chin propped in his hands, completely engrossed in the sword fight between Inigo and Westley playing out on screen. "We know you're gonna fool around. Now go."

They laugh, Nancy's hand finding Robin's as she pulls her toward the stairs, both of them trying and failing to contain their amusement.

Steve rolls his eyes, sinking further into his corner of the couch. You're on the opposite end, a deliberate distance between you that feels somehow more obvious now that Robin and Nancy have left.

Eddie twists around, looking between the two of you with exasperation clear on his face. "Don't let me stop you two either."

"Shut up," Steve growls, face flushing red.

You scowl, crossing your arms. "Absolutely not. I love this movie." Your voice softens slightly. "My mom used to read the book to me when I was sick. It's my favorite."

Eddie's entire expression melts, his chin still perched in his palm, grinning at you with something dreamy and fond. "Have I ever told you how much I love you?"

Steve grabs a throw pillow and whips it at Eddie's head. "Can you two be quiet?"

The pillow bounces off Eddie's shoulder harmlessly. He winks at you before turning back to the television, and you bite back a smile, catching the jealousy radiating off Steve in waves—the set of his shoulders, the way his arms are crossed so tight you can see the muscles in his forearms flexing.

The room settles into quiet again, only the movie filling the space. You glance at Steve and find him already looking at you. He doesn't look away, doesn't pretend he was doing anything else, and something warm unfurls in your chest.

You lean in slightly, keeping your voice low. "Can you hand me that blanket?"

Steve nods, reaching for the throw draped over the back of the couch. You watch his muscles work beneath the red cotton, the way the fabric pulls across his shoulders and biceps. He's still wearing that t-shirt, still looking rumpled and soft in a way that makes your fingers itch.

He hands you the blanket, and unlike the last time—the first night you hooked up when he'd used the same gesture as an opening move—his attention returns immediately to the screen.

You don't look at him as you fan the blanket out, the movement casual and innocent. Then you scoot closer, smooth and unhurried, rotating so your feet swing up into his lap. Your back rests against the arm of the couch, head propped on a throw pillow, the blanket draped over your legs and his lap.

Steve doesn't move. Doesn't acknowledge the shift except for the slight spreading of his legs. One hand rests against the back of the couch, the other propped against his cheek, elbow on the armrest. He looks bored, expression neutral as he watches Westley and Buttercup on screen.

The movie continues. Eddie remains glued to the floor a few feet in front of you, completely absorbed.

You move your foot slightly, the arch pressing against Steve's inner thigh. Your sock brushes over the denim, a whisper of contact.

Steve doesn't look at you, but his legs spread wider, making space. The hand on the back of the couch slides down under the blanket, finding your other foot first, then your ankle. His thumb presses into the sensitive skin there, rubbing circles that send heat up your calf.

You continue the pressure against his thigh, foot sliding higher, and you feel him twitch in his jeans. A shaky breath escapes him, so quiet you almost miss it. His jaw tightens, but then you catch it—the small smile playing at his lips when your own breath hitches.

His hand slides from your ankle up your calf, fingers tracing patterns on your skin through your jeans. Then higher, slipping between your thighs. Inching closer. One finger brushes over your cunt through the denim, feather-light.

Your foot presses harder against him in response, and his thumb finds the seam of your jeans, pressing it into your clit with controlled pressure that makes your toes curl.

You both continue like this—teasing, touching, nothing escalating beyond these hidden movements under the blanket. Nothing intense enough to make either of you lose control, but enough that you can feel the heat building, coiling low in your belly, every brush of his fingers making you acutely aware of how much you want more.

The movie plays on. Eddie laughs at something on screen, completely oblivious.

When the credits finally roll, Eddie sits up with a dramatic yawn, actual tears beading in his eyes. "So beautiful," he breathes, reverent.

He twists around to look at you both, smirking when he sees the blanket still draped over you, your feet still in Steve's lap. "Well, I'm going outside to smoke." He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. "Safe to say you two won't be joining? Always the guy left in the dust."

You laugh, pulling your feet back slightly. "Aw, don't be sad. You could always join."

Eddie barks out a laugh.

Steve's grip on your leg tightens suddenly—not painful, but unexpected enough to make you wince.

Eddie shakes his finger at you, grin widening. "Down, girl." He looks at Steve. "Don't worry, big boy. She's all yours."

You can't resist. "Aw, Steve, he could watch."

The look Steve shoots you could melt steel. Eddie howls with laughter, standing and stretching before heading toward the back door, whistling as he goes.

You're smiling, coy and pleased with yourself, when Steve deliberately brushes your feet off his lap. They thump against the couch cushion, forcing you to sit up properly.

Steve crosses his arms, visibly brooding.

"Steeeeve," you draw out his name, poking his bicep. "I was kidding."

He scoots away from you, giving you a sideways look that's all irritation and wounded pride.

You roll your eyes, getting up on your knees and crawling toward him across the couch. Your hands find his chest, palms flat against the soft cotton. "Steve, stop it."

He doesn't budge, jaw still tight, eyes still averted.

Your mouth finds his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the warm skin there. "Come on, Steve. I was kidding."

He grunts, but his neck tilts to the side, offering more access.

You smile against the junction of his shoulder, then trail your lips up to the spot right below his ear, kissing him there too. "I only want to fuck you tonight, Steve."

Your hand slides down his chest to his thigh, and you feel his hard cock straining against the denim. You notice he's already unbuttoned his jeans—probably did it sometime during the movie when the pressure became too much.

You lean in closer, breath hot against his ear. "Come on, baby. Will you fuck me tonight?"

Steve shudders, eyes fluttering closed. A small whimper escapes his lips, and his hand comes up to cup the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair. His mouth finds your neck, kissing and sucking, teeth grazing.

"Show me your room?" you pant.

Steve's bedroom is a study in contradictions.

The space is enormous—easily twice the size of your dorm room, maybe bigger. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, currently shrouded by heavy curtains that block out the night. The bed is massive, king-sized with a dark wood frame that looks expensive and old, like it's been passed down through generations. Navy bedding, perfectly made until you and Steve stumbled through the door and immediately started pulling at each other's clothes.

There's a desk in the corner—dark wood matching the bed frame, covered in textbooks and scattered papers, a lamp with a green glass shade. Bookshelves line another wall, filled with a mix of actual books and sports trophies, photographs in frames, a record player with a stack of vinyl beside it. The walls are a soft gray-blue, decorated with framed posters—a couple of bands you recognize, a vintage Indiana basketball print, a photograph of Steve with Robin and the kids that looks recent.

It's clean but lived-in, organized but not sterile. There's a hamper in the corner with a shirt draped over the edge, a pair of sneakers kicked off near the closet, glasses—

Wait.

You're on top of him now, kissing his neck, your hands raking down his bare chest. He's completely naked beneath you, cock hard against your stomach, and his mouth has found your breasts, lips closing around one nipple while his other hand cups and squeezes the other.

You lift your head, still holding yourself above him, when something on his nightstand catches the light. Something gleaming.

"Holy shit," you breathe.

"Feel good, babygirl?" Steve smirks into the plush of your breast, tongue flicking.

You scramble off him—he makes an "oomph" sound as your knee catches his ribs—and crawl across the bed to his nightstand. You pick up the object, turning around with a growing grin.

"Steve Harrington. You wear glasses?"

Steve, propped up on his elbows, groans and immediately falls back against the pillows, hands coming up to cover his face. "Oh god."

You're topless, wearing only your panties, and Steve is completely naked, but you're holding these glasses like they're treasure. They're wire-rimmed, simple, the kind that could be studious or stylish depending on who's wearing them.

You crawl back to him, legs bracketing his hips as you straddle him. Despite himself, his hands find your thighs, thumbs rubbing automatic circles into your skin.

"Come on, put them on," you say, grinning.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I look like a total dingus in them. I hate wearing them—"

"Please?" You pout, batting your eyes. "For me?"

Steve rolls his eyes, but you can see the resolve crumbling. "Okay. Fine."

You giggle, wiggling slightly, and the movement makes your pussy rub against his cock. You both moan—yours involuntary, his rough and strained.

You open the glasses carefully, holding them with both hands. Steve watches you, expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and anticipation, and you lean forward slowly.

The frames settle against his temples, and you slide them gently over his ears, adjusting them until they sit perfectly on the bridge of his nose. Then you pull back to look.

Oh.

His eyes, already beautiful, are magnified slightly by the lenses. You can see every fleck of color—hazel with those rings of gold and green, darker near the pupil, lighter at the edges. His lashes are long and thick, casting shadows on his cheeks in the low lamplight.

He looks... pretty. Unfairly so. The glasses add something—vulnerability maybe, or intelligence, or both. They make him look softer somehow, more approachable, the cocky fraternity president stripped away to reveal something genuine underneath.

He gives you a shy look, almost bashful, one corner of his mouth pulling up in an uncertain smile. His curls are wild around his face, mussed from your fingers, and the glasses frame his eyes in a way that makes your stomach flutter.

That feeling again. The one from the gymnasium. Moths under your ribs.

"Wow," you breathe, and you mean it.

"That bad?" Steve asks, voice quiet.

"Steve," you say seriously, hands coming up to frame his face. "They're sexy."

His cheeks flush immediately, color spreading down his neck. He gives you a dopey look, that crooked grin you've come to recognize, curls hugging his forehead beneath the frames. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You nod, biting your lip, feeling heat pool low in your belly. "Keep them on. Please. I want you to fuck me with them on."

You feel him twitch beneath you, cock jumping against your ass.

"Jesus," he groans, fingers looping in the waistband of your panties. "Take these off. I need you to sit on my face. Right now."

You start to shimmy out of them, but Steve suddenly says, "Wait!"

He rolls out from under you, scrambling off the bed and crossing to his door. You hear the lock click, then he's back, crawling across the mattress and nipping your shoulder before lying down and pulling you on top of him.

He shrugs when you raise an eyebrow. "What? I don't want anyone wandering in."

You nearly laugh. Anyone meaning Eddie.

"Now get up here," Steve says, hands on your hips, already guiding you forward.

You position yourself above his face, thighs bracketing his head, but you don't lower yourself yet. You hover there, watching the way his eyes darken behind those glasses, the way his fingers flex against your thighs.

"What are you waiting for?" Steve's voice is rough, impatient.

"Maybe I like keeping you waiting," you say, lowering just enough that he can feel the heat of you, close enough that his breath ghosts over your wet skin, but not close enough for contact. "So needy."

His hands grip your hips, trying to pull you down, but you resist. "Baby—"

"Say please."

His eyes flash up at you through those glasses, pupils already blown wide. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please sit on my face and let me taste you," he says, and there's an edge of desperation in his voice that sends heat flooding through you. "Please, I need it."

You lower yourself slowly, and the second his tongue makes contact, licking a long, broad stripe through your folds, you both gasp. Steve groans against you—a deep, satisfied sound that reverberates through your core and makes your thighs tremble.

"Oh my god," you whimper, one hand reaching out to grip the headboard while the other stays braced against the wall.

His tongue doesn't stop moving, exploring you thoroughly—circling your clit once, twice, then dipping lower to push inside you in shallow, teasing thrusts that have your hips rolling. The sounds are obscene, wet and hungry, punctuated by Steve's groans of appreciation.

You look down and the sight nearly destroys you.

Steve's face between your thighs, those wire-rimmed glasses already starting to fog at the edges from the heat of your body. His eyes are half-closed, lashes dark against his flushed cheeks, curls splayed wild and messy against the navy pillow. His mouth is on you, lips sealed around your clit, tongue flicking and circling, and you can see the way his jaw moves with purpose, the way his throat works when he swallows.

"Steve," you pant, hips rocking in small movements. "God, that feels—"

He makes a muffled sound of encouragement—"Mmhmm"—the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide from your hips to grip your ass with both palms, fingers spreading you open as he pulls you down harder against his mouth. The glasses fog more with each hot breath, condensation building on the lenses until his hazel eyes become hazy shapes behind the white clouds.

His tongue moves back to your clit, and the pattern he traces is maddening—slow, firm circles that make your toes curl, then quick flicks that have you gasping, then he sucks it between his lips and your head falls back.

"Don't stop," you breathe. "Please don't stop."

He doesn't. If anything, he works harder, tongue flattening to let you control the pressure as your hips start moving with more purpose. The wet sounds fill the room—his mouth on you, your gasping breaths, the little groans he makes every time you grind down against him.

You reach down with your free hand, threading your fingers through his curls. They're soft and thick, still slightly damp with sweat from the basketball game earlier, and when you tug experimentally, Steve moans—actually moans, the sound muffled but unmistakable—and his hips buck up into nothing.

"You like that?" you ask, voice shaking as you tug again with more force.

He can't answer with words, not with his mouth occupied, but the desperate sound he makes and the way his fingers dig harder into your ass tells you everything. His glasses are fogging faster now, two circles of white condensation obscuring his vision, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down.

You tug harder, fisting your hand in those curls, and Steve's response is immediate. His tongue works faster, more frantically, and then you feel it—one hand leaving your ass, sliding around, and two fingers pushing inside you without warning.

"Oh fuck!" Your other hand flies from the wall to grip his hair too, both fists now tangled in those curls. "Steve—"

"That's my girl," Steve praises, voice rough and wrecked. His fingers curl harder inside you, pumping in and out while his tongue stays focused on your clit. "Fuck my face. Pull my hair. Use me however you want. I'm yours."

His fingers curl up, finding that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

"Right there," you gasp, pulling his hair harder. "Right there, don't stop, please—"

Steve doubles his efforts, fingers curling and stroking that perfect spot while his tongue traces tight circles around your clit. The sounds he's making are desperate and needy—little grunts and groans that vibrate through you, wet and muffled.

His free hand grips your ass so tight you can feel each individual finger pressing into your flesh, holding you exactly where he wants you. You know without looking that there will be bruises tomorrow, five perfect circles marking his possession.

"I'm close," you warn, voice breaking. "Steve, I'm so close—"

He makes an encouraging sound, fingers pumping faster, curling harder. His tongue speeds up, flicking your clit in rapid succession, and you can feel your orgasm building like a wave, cresting higher and higher.

You look down and the sight pushes you closer to the edge—his face buried between your thighs, glasses completely fogged and useless, curls gripped tight in your fists, the way his whole body is taut with effort and want.

"Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for. "Please, Steve—"

His fingers curl hard against that spot inside you, his tongue flicks your clit once, twice, and then you're gone.

Your orgasm crashes over you in waves, so intense you actually cry out his name, thighs clamping around his head as you grind down against his face. Your hands pull his hair so hard it has to hurt, has to sting, but Steve doesn't stop—he licks you through it, fingers still moving, drawing out every last tremor and aftershock.

"Too much," you finally gasp when it becomes too intense, too sensitive. "Steve, I can't—"

Only then does he let you go, fingers sliding out carefully, mouth pressing one last kiss to your inner thigh that's so sweet it makes your chest ache. You lift off him on shaky legs and collapse beside him on the bed, completely boneless.

Steve sits up, removing his glasses with one hand. They're completely fogged, moisture clinging to the lenses, and he wipes them clean on the navy sheet with careful, methodical movements before holding them up to inspect his work in the lamplight. Satisfied, he puts them back on, settling them on the bridge of his nose.

When he looks at you, his lips and chin are shining with evidence of what he's done, and there's a self-satisfied smirk on his face that makes your stomach flip.

"You okay?" he asks, voice rough.

You're still trying to catch your breath, chest heaving. "I think you broke me."

He laughs, the sound warm and pleased. "Good."

Your eyes drift down to his cock—painfully hard and flushed dark against his stomach, a bead of precum leaking from the tip. Without thinking, you reach out and wrap your hand around him.

Steve hisses, hips jerking up into your touch. "Fuck—"

"My turn," you say, squeezing gently.

"You don't have to—"

"I want to." You meet his eyes through those glasses. "Condom. Now."

His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the hazel. "Yeah. Okay."

He reaches for his nightstand, fumbling in the drawer and producing a foil packet. You take it from him before he can open it, tearing it with your teeth while maintaining eye contact.

"Fuck" he mutters, watching you.

"That's the plan," you say, rolling the condom onto his cock with slow, deliberate movements.

Steve's hips jerk up, seeking more friction. "Baby—"

You climb on top of him, straddling his hips, and position yourself over his cock. Then you hover there, just like you did over his face, the tip barely pressing against your entrance.

"Now who's teasing?" Steve groans, hands finding your hips.

"Learned from the best," you say, and sink down slowly.

Both of you moan as you take him inch by inch, feeling the stretch and fullness. When you're seated completely, his cock buried deep inside you, you pause to adjust, to breathe.

"Fuck," Steve breathes, fingers digging into your hips. His glasses are starting to fog again from the heat between your bodies. "You feel perfect. So tight and wet and perfect."

You start to move, lifting up and sinking back down in a rhythm that has both of you gasping. Steve watches you through those fogging lenses, eyes tracking every movement—the bounce of your breasts, the roll of your hips, the place where he disappears inside you.

"That's it," he encourages. "Take what you want."

You lean forward, hands on his chest for leverage, and pick up the pace. The new angle makes him hit deeper, and you both groan at the sensation.

"Touch yourself," Steve says, voice rough with need. "Want to see you."

Your hand slides between your legs, fingers finding your oversensitive clit. Steve's eyes track the movement even through the fogged lenses, and his grip on your hips tightens.

"God, you're so hot," he pants. "Could watch you all night."

You're climbing fast toward another orgasm, still sensitive from before. When Steve sits up suddenly, changing the angle, you cry out.

"Is this okay?" he asks, and you nod frantically because it's more than okay—it's perfect.

He flips you onto your back in one smooth motion, his glasses somehow staying in place, and starts moving with renewed intensity. His hips snap against yours with force, each thrust deep and purposeful.

"Yes," you moan, legs wrapping around his waist. "Just like that—"

His hand comes down on your ass—once, twice—and you gasp, clenching around him. The slight sting sends pleasure sparking through you.

"Good?" he asks, breathless.

"So good," you confirm, nails raking down his back.

He leans down, teeth finding your shoulder and biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You arch into him, hands coming up to tangle in his hair again, finding those curls and gripping tight.

Steve groans against your skin, and you tug harder, pulling until you feel his scalp give under your fingers. His response is to thrust harder, faster, the headboard banging against the wall with each movement.

"I'm close," you gasp, fingers working frantically on your clit. "Steve—"

"Me too," he pants, burying his face in your neck. His glasses are completely fogged now, useless white circles, but he hasn't taken them off. "Come for me. Want to feel you—"

You tug his hair hard, pulling with both hands, and that's what does it. Your orgasm tears through you, intense and overwhelming, and you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cry.

"Fuck," Steve groans, hips stuttering. "I'm—"

He doesn't finish the sentence, just buries himself deep and comes with a shudder, face pressed against your neck, breath hot on your skin.

You lie there afterward, both panting and slick with sweat. His weight on top of you is comforting, grounding, and when he finally pulls back to look at you, you reach up and carefully remove his glasses.

"Let me," you say, wiping them clean on the sheet before putting them back on his face with gentle hands.

He smiles at you, soft and genuine. "Thanks."

"Anytime." You trace your fingers through his hair, smoothing the mess you made. "You okay?"

"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead before carefully pulling out and rolling onto his back. You collapse on top of him, pressing kisses to his throat.

His arms wrap around you, grip tight and possessive, and you bask in the warmth before eventually rolling onto your back beside him.

For once, you don't feel the immediate urge to leave.

Steve sits up, removing the condom and tying it off before standing and pulling on his boxers. He finds a pair of pajama pants on his desk chair, stepping into them.

"I'll be right back," he says.

A few minutes later he returns with two glasses of water, a plate with a peanut butter sandwich, and a warm washcloth. He sits at the edge of the bed, bare back to you, and you realize you've never really had time to look at it properly.

His back is a constellation of moles and freckles, scattered across his shoulders and down his spine. Some are darker, some lighter, creating patterns you could trace with your fingers if you wanted to.

He shoves half the sandwich in his mouth, handing you one of the glasses of water, then silently begins wiping between your legs with the washcloth, gentle and thorough.

"You don't have to do that, Steve," you murmur.

He shrugs, continuing his task. Then he holds up the half-eaten sandwich, offering you a bite with a half-hearted smile.

You giggle. "No, thank you."

He gives you a look—mock offense—before finishing it himself. You drink the water he brought, watching him over the rim of the glass.

You see him laugh quietly to himself.

"What?" you ask.

He doesn't look at you, licking peanut butter from his lips. "I don't know. I was thinking about earlier today. What you said about coaching."

"Are you going to do it?"

"I haven't decided." He pauses, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "But I was thinking about how much I hate talking about that sort of thing. I mean, I'll rant to Robin. And then anytime I talk to my dad, he'll try to tell me what I should do. But I didn't really feel that with you."

He opens his mouth to say something else, but then closes it, face falling. He clears his throat.

He turns slightly, not fully facing you, but his hand finds your thigh. The touch sends a tingle across your skin.

"Do you want to watch some TV with me before you go to your room?"

There's something nervous in the way he asks, something vulnerable that makes your chest ache.

You lean toward him, and his hand slides from your thigh to the back of it, then up to cup your ass. "What do you watch?"

He shrugs. "ALF."

"ALF?" You can't help but chuckle.

"Yeah, why's that so funny?" He lifts his hand from your ass to brush a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering as he searches your eyes. There's a small smile on his lips.

"Thought you'd be a late-night Baywatch viewer," you tease.

His fingertips trail down your arm, eyes scanning your body in a way that makes you feel seen. "No. Dustin used to come over and we'd watch it, so... I don't know. It makes me laugh, okay?"

You find yourself leaning forward and kissing his nose, pulling back to see him smile.

"Okay," you say.

He grins, reaching for the TV remote on his nightstand.

"Want me to ask Eddie if he wants to watch too?" you ask innocently.

Steve looks over his shoulder at you. "Watch it, Hot Shot."

You laugh, and Steve gets up, crossing to his dresser. You think maybe you've hurt his feelings again, but then he's digging around and pulling something out. He tosses it onto the bed without looking at you, clicking the TV on.

It's an old t-shirt of his—soft and worn, smelling like laundry detergent and something underneath that's purely Steve—and a pair of sweatpants.

You put them on, the fabric enormous on you, and when you look up, you catch him watching. His eyes track your movements before he looks away quickly.

You settle back onto the bed, and Steve lies down beside you. The TV bathes the room in flickering light, the theme song for ALF starting up, and through the window you can see starlight bleeding through where the curtains don't quite meet.

Neither of you tangles together. You keep your space, lying side by side with inches between you.

Except.

Steve's hand finds yours in the space between your bodies. His fingers lace through yours, palm warm against your palm, and neither of you says anything about it.

[delusionaldaarling]

Steve with glasses!! Thank u 🙏🏼

[delusionaldaarling]

Got my pussy ate for the first time today!!! (Technically)

[steddielations]

Incorrect Steddie that’s actually correct

Insp

[rimtrbl]

give it to me baby

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pairing - steve harrington x fem! reader

genre - smut mdni, fwb

warnings - s5 steve, just him in general and inspired by that one comment robin made 🫩 i’m projecting i jus wanna write about big!dick harrington, pwp, making out, handjobs, oral m! rec, stevie whines a lot, unprotected sex, praise kink yay, lowkey yall are fucking in the wsqk van i’m sorry (i’m not!), the pull out method sigh.

authors note - i’m sorry i’ve been gone for like 3 weeks i actually couldn’t write bc my brain wasn’t liking anything i wrote. i’ll get around to the fic i was actually writing but for now please enjoy this nasty ass shit.

my masterlist can be found here

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summary - steve harrington is a great friend, he’s always there for you when you need him, he just wasn’t expecting you to need him like this.

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“stevie, so big..” you whisper in his ear, and he gulps, trying his best to swallow back a moan, his eyes locked on the movement of your hand and the way you stroke him oh-so-nicely. he can’t help but tip his head back against the back door of the wsqk van, and he sighs as you glide along his cock, his cheeks flushed when you coo at his size again.

you two were supposed to be working, supposed to be fiddling with the telemetry tracker for your next crawl, at least that was until the topic of your personal ordeals came into conversation. you two had agreed it was hard to relieve stress during quarantine, both of you had seemingly been forced to put your sex lives on pause since hawkins split in four, well, you can’t really jump anyone’s bones when the world is ending right?

steve wishes he could laugh at the face of his past self, because now; now he’s got his jeans and briefs down to his ankles and you’re squeezing him just right, pampering kisses down his throat and he think he might just cum right there. you grin against his skin, he can feel it and questions if you can read his mind, and it just clouds his thoughts even more. every praise goes straight to his cock, and all you can do is hum as you thumb your finger across his slit and smear his pre-cum along him, making the glide easier. “so, so big, can’t even fully wrap my hand around it..” and he can’t bite back his moan this time, you just giggle and pick up the pace ever so slightly, driving him insane.

“shit, right there.. fuck.” he bucks his hips slightly and steve groans a little louder this time. you giggle, staring up at him with your big eyes and he can feel the haze sweep his mind, all he can think about is you, you, you. you might genuinely be the death of him. “yeah?” you tease, and he just nods when you repeat the twist of your wrist, a moan getting caught in his throat and he murmurs another curse, eyes shining with raw need.

he feels hot, there’s not a lot of air circulation in this van, he wasn’t really expecting to fuck anyone in the back of it, but god he really wishes he had something installed so he wouldn’t feel so sticky with sweat, a bead rolling down the side of his face and there’s a twinkle in your eye when you notice. “what’s got you so hot and bothered stevie?” he really wishes he could glare at you, he can feel his rebuttal die on his tongue and it’s replaced with another whine when he feels the pressure in his stomach form, he’s so, so close he can practically taste it. “don’t stop, i swear to god.” he’s on cloud nine, your touch sending goosebumps along his body and he closes his eyes to relish in the moment. god he can’t believe he’s here with you, a part of his brain chimes in disbelief that he finally has you like this, hand wrapped around his dick like a vice and speaking to him so sweetly.

he’s so fucked out he can barely register your change of position, face closer to where he needs you most, and he whines when he can feel your hot breath on his tip, waiting for god knows what. “please..” he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, but it seems to be enough for you to kiss his leaking cock, and one of his hands grips the carpet underneath him, the other winding in your hair, tugging lightly at the strands, and he finally gets a broken moan out of you. the sound is music to his ears, and he can’t help but smile down at you. you return it just as easy, pupils blown wide and core aching so much you think you may come untouched.

a few kitten licks is enough to get him to shift your face to where he needed you most, to be honest you didn’t need much convincing, you just wanted to tease him a little. pitying him, you smile before finally giving in, swirling your tongue around him and sinking down ever so slowly, humming in satisfaction when his breath stutters and his fingers go lax in your hair, eyes closing momentarily as he wills himself to hold on a little longer.

“oh, my god.” he bucks into your mouth, you take it greedily and sink down lower, he groans and he thinks he might’ve just seen stars. his vision is clouded, only the feeling of lust is enough to tell him he hasn’t died, because fuck, your mouth might just be the closest he’s gotten to heaven. your little hums and moans vibrate against him and he has to clench his fist a little tighter at the carpet, willing himself to hold on just a bit longer. god he would actually die if he came down your throat right now, not when he finally had you between his legs like this.

“baby, you feel so good.” he’s guiding you along him with a slight tug on your hair, your eyes staring up at him as you allow him to do as he pleases. you hum in response to his praise, and he sucks in a breath and you can see the way he clenches, like he’s trying to savour every second and it has your panties wet. god, the way he looks right now; so fucked out and desperate, it’s got you pushing your thighs together just to get a fraction of relief. he notices, ever so attentive to details, and pulls you off him gently. you’re sucking in air, all while he’s pulling you onto him, you’re resting on his thighs like you’ve always belonged there; a part of you revelling at the thought. you really don’t know how you ended up here, your story of events is clouded with the ever-apparent need for him inside you. shit, you’re not even sure if he’ll fit.

eyes wide in newfound clarity, you stutter out a breath, all while steve’s got you flush against him, hands wandering along your waist, itching to touch every part of your skin under your shirt, and you begin to understand why the heat was getting to him. steve’s tracing random shapes along your bare skin, he feels hot to the touch and you claw at the hem of your shirt desperately, tugging it in a silent plea for him to help you take it off. steve’s a smart guy, and he helps you until you’re clad in only a bra and a pair of denim shorts. he comments “cute.” and his eyes gesture towards your choice of garments, your face burns and you jokingly push him away, but he’s quick to grab a hold of your wrists, placing them on his shoulders and lean forward, your faces closer than ever before, breath hot against yours.

you can’t recall who leans in first, maybe it was both of you, but as he runs his tongue along the roof of your mouth and you huff in relief, you realise how natural this feels. your stomach twists because although thinking about steve in this way isn’t new, straddling his waist whilst you’re both half naked definitely is. you make a mental note to tuck this moment away for the next time you need to blow off some steam, you’re not quite sure how you’d even proposition steve into dicking you down again, assuming he’ll do so today. god, you’re getting ahead of yourself, you haven’t even taken your shorts off and you’re already envisioning him fucking into you.

steve must be a mind reader because he’s dragging a hand up your thigh, a shiver running up your spine from his touch and you can’t help but gasp into his mouth when he cups you from your shorts. shit, you can feel it despite the layers, and your toes curl in anticipation for the real thing. he’s smiling as he licks into your mouth again, fingers dancing along the denim, trailing towards the button holding all your sanity together. you’re whining, silently begging and hoping he plays nice, you pray he’s not too cruel, you might just die here if he decides to tease you.

you breathe a sigh of relief when it seems like he’s chosen to be kind, and you can feel him smile against you, and you whisper a thank you, eyes closing at the feeling of his fingers twitching to touch you through the thin layer of you underwear, your shorts somewhere discarded on the carpet nearby, and you fully register your surroundings. god, you’re actually picturing the many ways you’ll apologise to robin later, and the christening she’ll conduct on this van if she were to find out you two were fucking in here like two horny teenagers. you’re momentarily distracted by the possible horrified look on your friend’s face, and steve tuts lightly, pressing into your clit from the other side of the fabric and you suck in a breath, squirming in his hold and snapping back to reality.

“uh uh, eyes on me baby.” he’s got you wrapped around his finger, you nod wordlessly, except you can’t help but moan at the way he commands you, shifting your hips to take full take advantage of his touch. he smiles at your obvious neediness, and rewards you by slipping a hand past the waistband of your panties to touch you with nothing to seperate the two of you. you hum at the feeling, eyes rolling up to the back of your head when his finger catches on to your clit, rubbing lightly, the glide aided with some of the wetness he collected when he ran his index finger along your folds. you flush at the realisation, tucking your face into his shoulder, a bit embarrassed by how needy you were already. he had barely touched you, you were already dripping when you were sliding a hand along his cock, whispering in his ear.

you finally realise the turn of events, and find yourself in his shoes, whining softly whilst he murmurs about how good you feel, one of his fingers nestled inside you, pumping in and out at a lazy pace, like he had all the time in the world. the truth is you don’t, you don’t even know where robin is, don’t know if she’s looking for you two, seeing as it’s been way too long that the pair of you have been in this van. you also realise, you don’t care all that much, not when steve’s looking at you like that, not when he’s got his hands on you and telling you how much he needs you. “gonna make it fit, okay?” you’re nodding, blabbering about how you need his cock or else you would go insane, and you can feel him shake as he laughs lightly, soothing you by saying he’ll give you what you need, so long as “you let me get you all ready f’me, pretty girl.”

you keen at the nickname, whimpering at the feeling of him adding another finger, stretching you out, knowing damn well all this prep probably still wouldn’t be enough for him to fit comfortably. you had laughed when he told you of his previous escapades, how they’d look up him in shock, questioning if he’d even fit inside. it’s basically what led you to getting on your knees for him, seemingly trying to prove each other wrong, but now you’re starting to understand their worries. one glance at his cock has you clenching and he cursed at how tight you are, mumbling about how he can’t wait be inside you, can’t wait to stretch you out.

steve’s good with his fingers, you figure it’s helps that he likes to keep his hands busy, and you thank your lucky stars when he hits that one spot inside your walls, sighing when you finally reach the point of ecstasy, vision white when the coil inside you snaps, cumming like it’s your first time all over again. your thighs shake and you’re repeating his name and he hasn’t even fucked you yet. steve’s moving the hair from your face, smiling at you gently as you come down from your high, and you realise just how starved you are.

“you want to keep going?” bless his heart, steve is such a gentleman, and it makes you want him even more. you’re nodding, can’t even form the words and he’s raising a brow at you, encouraging a verbal response. “cmon, use your words baby.” and you close your eyes, your cunt aching once more at just how fucking hot he sounds right now. you can already imagine how broken your voice sounds, all the cracked moans and whimpers whilst he fingered you the best you’ve ever experienced. “please, stevie.. need you so bad.” and he hums, leaning down to leave a quick kiss against your lips, your stomach flips with the ever growing attraction you have for this man, and your eyes are shining from just how much you need him, not just physically, but him in general.

“gonna make you feel so good, promise.” he murmurs against your skin, hovering above you as he adjusts, you can feel his cock along your inner thigh, and you gulp in anticipation, already feeling yourself drip with need. “just let me know if you need me to stop okay?” and you’re whispering a “yes.” along the skin of his wrist when you turn your face to give it a quick kiss. he shudders at the feeling, reeling in at just how into the moment you are as he is; before he lines himself up with your entrance, pausing and giving you one last look, you’re nodding, and he sighs when the head of his cock nudges along your slit.

“deep breaths, okay love?” you’re nodding, the feeling of him stretching you out is accompanied by a delicious burn that has you gasping, eyes closed as you feel like press into you in a way no one else has. he hasn’t even fully slipped into you and you’re mewling at how good it feels. “fuck, you’re so big. are you sure it’ll fit..” you’re whimpering when he leans in and kisses the side of your lips, eyes shining as he looks straight at you, an unsaid emotion swirling in his blown out pupils and he’s nodding, praising you for taking him so well. “do you trust me?” and you’re breathing out a yes, to which he pushes in a little further, and holy fuck you don’t think you’ll ever feel satisfied by someone else ever again.

when he’s finally fully pushed into you, he gives you a moment to catch your breath and adjust to his size, you’re confident you’ll never be used to it, there’s a tension in your stomach and you’re pretty sure it’s because you can feel him brushing against your g-spot with every twitch of his hips. you finally give him the green light to move, and you both moan at the feeling when he finally snaps his hips against yours, a slow pace as he drags against every part of you, and you’re clawing at his back, eyes fucked out and you couldnt even hold in your whines even if you tried. steve is no better, murmuring about how good you feel every few seconds, forehead pressed against yours as he groans at just how tight you are.

“can you feel me, right here?.” he’s pressing a hand on your lower abdomen, and you’re nodding, hips latched to his sides, and he’s taking in the sight of your teary eyes and fucked out expression. “so… so deep.” you’re hoping you actually said the words, and judging from the way he grins at you and comments on how well you’re taking him tells you he did.

steve’s set a comfortable rhythm, and you’re not sure if you’re even capable of forming words right now, sighs of pleasure being the only sounds coming out of your mouth, and it’s enough to encourage him to keep going. that familiar drop in your stomach creeps onto you quickly, and you can tell steve isn’t far off himself, he’s been on edge ever since your mouth was on him. nails are dragging down his back, leaving obvious marks that he’ll be sure to comment on later, after you curse him out for all the bites he’s littering along your throat and collarbones, needing to ground himself so he doesn’t blow his load right then and there. the way you’re taking him and murmuring about how good he feels only encourages him to press into you deeper, and he’s rewarded with your broken moans, instinctively wrapping an arm around his neck and bringing him back to your mouth, swallowing both your needy sounds.

you barely register you’re about to come before your vision goes white, for a second you think you’ve passed out until steve’s cradling your face, fingers tracing your cheeks until you’ve come down from your orgasm. he fucks you through it, and his moans pitch higher until he’s abruptly pulling out and releasing on your stomach, a drop falling onto your chin and you’re quick to wipe it and stick your finger in your mouth. you see steve’s eyes close and he curses. “holy shit.” and he takes your hands into his, lacing your fingers as you both catch your breath, chests raising in quick succession and you can already feel a growing ache between your legs, wincing at how you’re going to have to hide it from robin later.

you really think you and steve might just share a brain cell, because his eyes widen like he just remembered where he is, and he mutters a silent apology to his friend for not only fucking during work hours, but fraternising with his coworker of all people. “let’s get you cleaned up yeah?” his voice is a bit strained and you feel yourself clench around nothing, and you internally curse yourself for finding him so unbelievably attractive even when he’s frantically searching for tissues in the back of the work van to clean his release off your chest.

you both share a look, and you can’t help but grin at him, to which he smiles sheepishly, and you both silently wonder if this’ll happen again.

────────────────────

yall.. this wasn’t supposed to go for this long 🫩 i swear it was supposed to be a drabble. but please do lmk if you enjoyed it.

not proofread yet, will update in the morning since it’s 1am rn and i locked in for 2 hours straight to finally give you guys something to read!!

once again thank u backwards cap steve for being so fucking hot that i literally came out of hiding & thank you robin for confirming that loverboy harrington is INDEED well endowed 😩

[delusionaldaarling]

B

[luveline]

nice mean!bf steve who is super grumpy after a rough day at work until you kiss him better

thank you for your request ‪‪❤︎‬ fem, 1k

Steve arrives with a scowl embedded deep in the lines of his face. His sneakers scuff the wall as he toes them off. He grumbles under his breath to himself as he heads right for the kitchen, apparently having missed you where you’re waiting on the couch for a hello.

There’s more swearing and general disgruntlement as the fridge opens and a water bottle lid cracks, quieter discontent mumbled and then groaned as he finally makes his way into the living room. The kiss he bestows on your temple is very, very soft, but also shorter than you’d have liked, mourning his touch as he collapses into the armchair rather than the empty seat beside you. 

Jerk, you think lightly. He gets so pissy in the cold months. 

“Hi,” you say, taking great pity on him, mostly ‘cos you love him and he’ll owe you a nice favour after extending such a long olive branch. 

You smile to yourself at your own internal joking. Like he can sense it, his eyes stay pinched. “Yeah, hi.”

“Hm. Bad day at work?”

“The worst.”

“What happened?”

“What happened is that Nance tried to rip me a new one about the tape deck system like I don’t run the place every morning.” He rubs his eyes until you’re sure they’re stinging under his fingers. “And the breaker keeps tripping, and it takes way longer to get back on the air than it should and somehow that’s my fault.” 

“It’s not your fault, honey. They shouldn’t make you feel that way. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ridiculous. And Dustin–” You grimace at the teenager’s name. He had become the sorest of spots these last few months. The growing pains of brotherhood, you’re guessing. “Dustin, he told me he’d be there at two to help me with that road interview and he completely bailed without a word. No sorry, no warning, nothing.”

To Steve’s great benefit and your greater pleasure, he looks hot to the touch when he’s this agitated. Like a knot made over and over, his skin goes all pink like a kiss on tan skin, his eyes dark, almond turned sharp as his lip puckers with anger. He reaches for the buttons of his shirt and undoes all three of them with one hand, the other raking helplessly through limp hair. 

This won’t do. 

You stand up out of your seat. He’s too heated still to notice, rubbing again at his eyes with a big hand as you cross the short distance and search his thighs for a place to sit. 

When you plop down in his lap, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t groan —annoyed he may be, but cruel he is not. A hand flies automatically to the small of your back as you settle your weight against one of the armrests. 

His eyes relax, though his frown lingers. 

“Did you hear me?” you ask. “I said I’m sorry you got the blame.” 

“Well, I don’t want you to be sorry,” he says, like it’s obvious. 

“It’s nice to be sorry when the people we love get bitched at.”

“Who said I want apologies from you?” he asks, believably pissed until he continues, “You literally never do anything wrong, ever. Shut up.” 

“I like your tone.”

“Just. Why does everyone hate me?” 

You laugh, which does nothing to help his bad mood. Hand bracing against the slight of his jaw, you lean in slowly until you’re kissing his tense mouth. He stays like a statue, letting you kiss him without leading into it, perhaps without even closing his eyes. Your own are shuttered, leaving the world dark as you turn your hand against his cheek to draw nothingshapes into his stubble. The softest of soft touches until you’ve climbed to his cheekbone. Then you turn your hand back and sew your fingers into his silky hair. 

His lips give a little. He melds under touching, can’t keep fighting the smile his lips want to curl into as you scrabble at his face and hair. Your free hand slinks down his neck to flirt with the triangle of chest he’s exposed, holding there, twitching uselessly when he parts his mouth and licks at your tongue, your teeth, a subdued sigh escaping him like he’s found something warming there.

You pull away enough to check he’s totally into things before you give a sigh all your own, a whiny, breathy thing meant to provoke him and somehow entirely real, brought upon by the splayed, thick fingers of his hand where they’re gripping your back. He shoves your shirt up to feel your skin. Nothing more than that. Just to touch you. 

He settles as you pull apart, face chasing yours before he realises you’re catching your breath quietly. 

“Do I hate you?” you ask, catching the want in the glaze of his eyes as he sinks back into the couch. 

“You love me,” Steve says, as though this is a very generous thing to give, made worse by his obvious breathlessness. 

All the bitchy heat seems to have drained from Steve in one fell swoop. His hand softens where it’s been gripping your back, his jaw losing that wretched rigidity. He pokes you in the chest and kisses your nose when you look down, which somehow turns into slow, sluggish kisses pressed half-open around your nose and against the corner of your lips. 

“Lost my shit all day when all I needed was you,” he murmurs, with the good sense to sound somewhat shame-faced. 

“When all you needed was to blow off steam,” you correct. 

“That’s not what that was,” he says, tipping your chin up to kiss you again. When he speaks again, it makes your lips buzz. “S’like you snuffed out all the bad. You don’t get how much I need you.”

Loser, you think, heavy and unapologetic in his lap.

Steve leans in to nip at your bottom lip. He laughs when you hiss, and soothes any temporary injury with another nip on top of the first one.

[dearwalker]

I think he knows

Pairing: Eddie Munson x reader x Steve Harrington Wc: 10.3k

Description: Eddie accidentally walks in on Steve fucking you in a WSQK storage closet. He thinks he’s doomed to a life of fantasizing over you with the only company of his right hand, until…Steve himself offers him a golden ticket straight to your bed: a threesome.

Inspired on the song ‘I think he knows’ by Taylor Swift <3

Warnings/tags: threesome smut, all are adults, fem!reader, established relationship with S5!Steve, no spoilers, Eddie survives S4 bc I say so, mentions of his scars, voyeurism, eddie fantasizes a lot, he jerks off a lot more, porn with plot, oral male rec, fingering, piv sex, both men are whipped.

Note: Surprise, new boy in the harem✨ No I don’t know how this happened, or how it ended up being so long but all I can say is merry early christmas my dears, enjoy the filth!! 🫦

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he’s so obsessed with me and boy I understand

Eddie Munson had never hated the sun before.

Not until he saw it in your smile.

You were standing in front of him at the crawl meeting, giggling at something Robin had said, soft and golden in the way that only you could be, wearing Steve’s stupid jacket that by this point was pretty much your own. 

Because he was. 

Steve Harrington, Mr. Perfect Hair himself, asshole turned part time hero, was the guy who got to hold your hand in public. Eddie didn’t hate him. Not really. He wanted to, wanted it bad sometimes, when the jealousy itched too deep to scratch. 

He’d hated him at some point, when Dustin wouldn't shut up about how incredible his friend was. But alas, after everything they’d been through last year and Steve being the one who got him out of that hellhole, he really couldn’t hate him anymore. 

So, he hated the sun. Because he couldn't have it.

Eddie also hated himself for not speaking up sooner. For watching you fall in love with someone else while he sat in the background. And maybe that was his punishment. Maybe that was the price for every time he chickened out, every time he saw you in the hallway in that little cherry red jacket and panicked, ducking behind his locker like a coward.

Maybe if he hadn’t been, you would be wearing his jacket now. 

“Dude, wipe your face. You’re one drool away from filling the bucket,” came a voice from beside him, and undoubtedly by the tone–it had to be Henderson’s. 

Eddie snapped out of his trance by the sharp nudge of Dustin’s elbow. Shit. He hadn’t even realized he was watching. 

“I’m not,” he lied, even as he tilted his head just enough to catch another glimpse of you, this time laughing as Steve tried to sneak a kiss and Robin dramatically fake gagged next to you.

Jesus, Eddie was about to gag for real. 

“You’re staring again,” Dustin chuckled, walking away after patting him condescendingly on the back. 

Eddie shot him a glare but didn’t argue back. Because what was the point? 

All he could do was fantasize when it came to you. You would never look at him the same way you look at Steve. 

You just looked at him like he was funny. Your metalhead friend. And Eddie? Eddie looked at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

Things were finally looking up for Eddie. For once. 

Aside from his not so little crush situation, everything else seemed to be getting better. 

After almost dying being devoured by supernatural creatures–which, in his opinion would’ve been a very metal death–his uncle’s trailer had gotten split in half, and he’d gotten piles and piles of medical bills from his long recovery. Which led to him having to find a part time job as a mechanic besides his little dealing business. 

Oh! And how could he forget? The police department was still investigating him about the murders from last year. 

Between that, his job, the incessant crawls every week, and his therapy–both physical and psychological–he had absolutely no time to host hellfire anymore. Dustin had tried to keep it alive, but bless his soul, no one compares to Eddie Munson when it comes to being DM. 

But last week, by some miracle, he’d finally, finally been cleared as “innocent” due to lack of evidence and was able to start living a normal life again. His therapy sessions had been reduced to once every two weeks, and he’d also repaired a few fancy cars that earned him a pretty juicy commission. 

So yeah. Things were finally looking up for him after whatever the hell ‘86 was. 

So, with a pep in his step, he walked through the doors of the WSQK headquarters holding a cardboard box with all his stuff for that day’s campaign. Robin had told him they had a spare room on the back, and Steve said he could go earlier to set everything up. He even whistled as he strolled through the empty hallways of the radio station.

He saw two doors at the end, figuring he’d open both and find out which one he was supposed to settle in. 

But as all Munsons tend to run out of luck at some point, it seems like the curse finally hit him again when he opened the wrong one and changed the course of his entire fucking life. 

Because what he didn’t expect, what absolutely no one warned him about, was that you and Steve liked to use the storage closet to fuck like bunnies before anyone arrived at the station. 

He froze at the door, the box in his hand hanging on for dear life as he took in the scene in front of him. 

There you were. 

Propped up on a stack of cardboard boxes with Steve between your legs, your skirt was bunched around your hips, and your knees high on his waist. Your face was flushed, hair a mess and you were letting out choked little gasps because you couldn’t form words anymore.

Eddie’s heart stopped. He might’ve as well died for real this time. 

You let out a startled sound, grabbing Steve’s shoulders to hide yourself the second you saw Eddie standing there. Steve just glanced back over his shoulder, not even bothering to stop. 

“Dude. Do you mind?” 

Eddie slammed the door shut.

He walked out of WSQK like he’d seen a ghost. Didn’t even say a word to Dustin, who was just pulling up on his bike. 

He just got in his van, and drove straight into the woods far enough to be alone. And for the next ten minutes, the only sound in that van was the furious pumping of his hard cock into his hand and his broken, desperate moans repeating something.

Your name. Again. And again.

And again.

Then, after going back and giving a poor excuse to his boys as to why he couldn’t host that day and had to leave immediately (one that actually meant sorry guys! Gotta jerk off like 10 more times!) He went to repeat the same routine back at the small place Wayne managed to rent after the “earthquakes” had destroyed his trailer. 

He turned off the lights of the room he called his now. Lit a blunt just for something to do with his free hand. Threw on a loud tape to drown out the grunts and the pathetic moaning, and his fist went to town–again–to the memory of you.

The way you looked in that closet.

The arch of your back against the boxes. The sound of your voice breaking as you moaned his name–not Eddie’s, no, the one you belonged to. Steve. The way your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, as if he wasn’t deep enough. And your face…

God. Your fucking face.

Blissed out and flushed, swollen lips parted, eyes half-lidded and completely lost in it. No cheap porn film he’d ever watched compared to that. No–you were the most obscene thing Eddie had ever seen in his life and it was burned into him now. Engraved into the insides of his lids. No amount of blinking could unsee it. 

No amount of jerking off could erase it. 

(He tried. Many times.)

People had sex all the time. This shouldn’t be on his head 24/7. But…Eddie couldn’t believe that was you. 

He’d always seen you as soft. As the sweet girl giggling at Steve’s dumb jokes while playing with his stupid perfect hair. As the one who would mediate when a crawl meeting got too heated when someone didn’t agree with the plan. As the one who always listened to everyone…even him. 

You even called him Eds once, so softly, that he’d walked around with chest pain for a full day like a goddamn lovesick teenager. 

But now?

Now he couldn’t stop imagining how your voice sounded when it wasn't innocent. Couldn’t stop remembering how your legs looked parted open, how your thighs shook as Steve thrusted harshly into you. 

He should’ve known better though, that was on him. He should’ve known that someone who once held the title of “King Steve” would be the one to corrupt a girl like you. 

Who wouldn’t want to? 

He couldn’t stop wondering what it’d feel like to be the one between your legs. To have you whimpering like that. To see you fall apart and know he did that. That he got you that high, that far gone…that wrecked.

He was fucking haunted by the fantasy. And it wasn’t lust, it was worse than that. It was curiosity, obsession, need.

The need to be the one who fucks the sweetness out of you. 

But now you were probably curled up in Steve’s bed, fast asleep on his hairy chest, wearing one of his shirts and dreaming about getting fucked by him, while Eddie dreamt of you after he didn’t have anything left to milk out.

He dreamt of your hand in his curls. Your thighs around his waist. Your voice in his ear breaking with his name over and over and…over. 

Eddie tried to be normal after that. God, he tried. 

At least you seemed to be normal. You walked into Thursday movie night at Nancy’s like nothing had happened, dropping onto the couch next to Steve with a bag of popcorn, listening to whatever Robin said, still sweet and smiley and wearing one of Steve’s jackets. 

He told himself not to stare. Repeated it like a goddamn mantra.

Don’t look, Munson. Don’t fucking look. You’ll just embarrass yourself. You’ll make it weird. 

But then your eyes met, and you smiled at him, and…Eddie forgot his own name.

His mouth opened, but words came out. Just a squeak that could’ve been the start of a sentence, or a heart attack. He pretended to cough into his fist and buried himself deeper into the armchair. 

And Steve? Oh he noticed. 

Not just Eddie’s reaction, but all of it. The way Eddie’s eyes had locked onto you from the moment you walked in. The way they dropped lower every time you shifted. The way his fingers gripped the armrest. 

And the weird part? Steve didn’t get mad. He just smirked, knowingly, even amused by the whole thing. 

The next time something altered Eddie’s brain chemistry, was at the diner. 

He’d arrived late, mainly because he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go in the first place, but the thought of seeing your smile was enough to convince him to walk through that door, and soon it was just him, Robin, and the perfect couple. 

Eddie looked at you from across the booth, wearing a cute outfit that he was sure would ruin his life later when he was alone back in his room. You were sipping from your milkshake, the pink straw pressed between your lips, as you let out a hum of contempt at the sweet taste. All Eddie could think was that could be something else.

Thank God for Robin’s need to ramble about everything that happened on her date with Vicky that weekend, that you and Steve were focused on her and not on Eddie’s anxious leg bouncing under the table. 

Or at least that’s what he thought. 

“Eds, take some fries,” you offered sweetly when Robin ran out of air, pushing the plate you’d been eating from with Steve toward him. 

Eddie hadn’t ordered anything, he wasn’t hungry–at least not for actual food–and of course you’d noticed and offered him some of your own. 

“Yeah man, go ahead,” Steve chimed in with a smile that was enough to freak him out. “I don’t mind sharing,” he added with a shrug, placing an arm around your shoulders, hazel eyes piercing into Eddie’s with a devilish glint. 

The implication left Eddie frozen in place, hand hovering over the fries as you began talking with Robin again, unaware of the way your boyfriend’s comment had left Eddie stunned. 

Steve didn’t say anything else. Just kept looking at him, head tilted, like he knew something. Like he felt it now. 

The shift. 

Eddie almost got up and left, but then he caught Steve’s eyes, and the bastard just winked.

Jesus Christ. 

You’re still breathless when Steve flips you onto your back again, mind stuck somewhere between heaven and passing out as your sore body still feels every inch of him buried deep inside you. 

He drapes you across his hairy chest knowing you can’t hold yourself up anymore, bare skin sticky with sweat, your cheek pressed over his heartbeat. Steve's hand goes to your thigh, fingers brushing softly where he’d held you down minutes ago. 

You don’t want to move. You never want to after he’s done with you. So you just cling tightly to him, letting out a dreamy sigh and nuzzling closer, planting a soft kiss over his racing heart.

Steve smiles, shifting just enough to see your blissed out face. “You okay over there?”

“Mmhm,” you hum. “Can’t feel my soul. Congratulations, Harrington.”

That makes him chuckle. He kisses the top of your head. “Anytime, baby.” 

As his room settles into silence and you begin drifting off in his arms before he can drag you into taking a shower, Steve’s chest vibrates against your skin when he speaks again. 

“Hey,” he whispers, absentmindedly playing with your hair which doesn’t help your heavy eyelids closing. 

“Hmm?” 

“Do you ever notice the way Eddie looks at you?”

Your eyes blink open immediately. 

You don’t say anything at first. Just start tracing lazy little circles on a particular scar on his ribs, pretending to think about it, but you already know the answer. 

“Yeah,” you smile, “I’ve noticed.”

Steve hums, hand still resting on your thigh.

“It’s probably just a silly little crush,” you add, as if you didn’t know how Eddie’s voice breaks every time you spare a glance at him. Or the way his hands shake when you ask him to hand you a drink on movie night. “He’s just… traumatized from the time he caught us back at the station,” you chuckle. 

“Oh, baby. You should’ve seen his face in that closet.” Steve snorts. “You were extra loud that day, you really put on a show for him–the lucky bastard.” 

“What?” You ask, straightening up on his chest. “You knew he was going to get there earlier?”

“I was hoping he got there earlier."

You smack his arm with your mouth wide open, but a smile tugs at your lips. He grins like the devil is, shifting to ease you again into his embrace. 

“Don’t worry baby, I might have a way to fix him right back up,” he says smugly, those impossible hazel eyes glinting with mischief. “…Remember that talk we had a while back? Couple months ago. About maybe…bringing in a third?”

Your heart thumps so fast against your chest that you’re sure Steve can feel it on his. 

“…Yeah,” you say. “I remember.”

“What if…it was him?” He shrugs, like he’s discussing what movie to watch. “I’m just saying, we’ve both noticed. And maybe…” His hand drifts lower down your thigh, finding that place where you’re still sensitive. “Maybe it’s fun to imagine what he’d do if we invited him.”

His fingers press against your wet folds, easily sliding in and drawing a gasp out of you. His eyebrows shoot up, like he’d managed exactly what he wanted. 

“See? Don't you want to show him again how pretty you sound?”

Maybe it’s the overstimulation of Steve fingers pumping in and out of your pussy like he hadn’t absolutely wrecked it minutes prior, that the word comes out of your mouth before you can stop it. 

“Yes,” you exhale in a shaky moan. 

The thought alone thrills you. Because the truth is, you’ve been feeling it as much as Steve has. You've been wanting it as much as Steve has. 

The forbidden. 

Because it is fun to imagine. You guiding Eddie’s hand. Steve watching and telling you what to do. You crying out between the two of them.

God. 

“So…Eddie?” You pant, unsure if you’re asking or you're moaning out his name just to try it out on your lips. 

Steve just smirks. 

“Yeah,” he says, pumping faster. “Eddie.”

The moment that sealed Eddie’s fate was a random Thursday. 

He should’ve known better. 

The second you said movie night was at your place, he should’ve backed out. Should’ve faked a headache or a gig or even a freak accident involving his uncle. Anything.

But–like the fucking idiot he was–he’d walked right through your front door that night. 

You’d picked a shitty movie on purpose. Something slow without any action scenes, full of long silences and artistic shots that made Robin snore into the couch cushion, with Nancy and Jonathan falling right behind. 

Steve sat beside you the whole time, like always, hand on your thigh, like always. Looking casual, almost innocent.

Eddie was on the floor, sitting too close to the TV just so he wouldn’t look at you. 

He’d been too busy picking at the skin of his thumb and lost into the mazes of his head, that he didn’t notice you’d disappeared with Steve until he glanced over to the couches and only found the girls and Jonathan dead to the world. 

He sat there for a few more minutes pretending to care about the stupid movie, but then–like a fucking idiot–he decided to get up, quietly leaving the room like he was going to the kitchen.

He took a hard left to the stairs instead. 

Eddie knew where your bedroom was. He’d been there before when you’d asked him to bring more blankets on movie night a few months ago. He still remembers the cute little nightlight plugged into the wall. 

As he tiptoed to the top of the stairs like a freak, the hall was dark, but a sliver of light came out of your room through the slightly open door. 

Eddie dragged his feet on the carpet, guided by shushing voices and a noise of what he was sure was the creak of a bed. Once he reached, he braced himself for the scene he was about to encounter as he peeked through the door, but no amount of breathing techniques could have ever prepared him for the image before his eyes. 

Oh, fuck.

You were on your stomach, face pressed into the mattress, Steve standing behind you with both hands gripping your hips. Your ass–god, your ass–lifted high to meet every thrust. 

Your dress was bunched around your waist, panties pushed to the side, but nothing really hid you from the pervert on the door. Not even Steve’s body blocked the view of him disappearing into your dripping pussy, filling you so deep Eddie could see it, see the way your walls opened for him. 

The nightlight glowed behind you, casting just enough light to make it worse. 

Pink and soft and obscene.

Eddie’s eyes went over the curve of your spine. The shake of your thighs. Your fingers twisting in the floral sheets, holding on for dear life as your body kept being pushed forward. 

And the sounds. Jesus Christ, the sounds.

“Steve,” you gasped, “please–more–don’t stop.”

“Shhh baby, I know,” Steve cooed behind you, doing the exact opposite of what you asked and stopped. “But you gotta keep it down, don’t want to wake up your guests do you?” 

The fucking hypocrite then slammed back into you so hard the headboard bumped the wall. You moaned–no, cried out, trying to muffle it against the sheets as Eddie bit down his fist just to keep himself from making a sound. 

“Oh baby, you wanna be loud?” Steve chuckled, as he kept thrusting hard. “Go on then, I want to hear you.” 

“I–fuck–I love your cock, Steve” you choked the words out. “‘S–s’ so deep.”

Eddie froze at the crack of the door, heart pounding out of his chest as he watched you getting fucked within an inch of your life. 

The sweet girl. The sun. The angel he thought he knew. Gripping her sheets like a sinner. Moaning filth like she wanted the guests to hear.

Maybe you wanted him to hear. 

Eddie’s hand slipped inside his jeans, he couldn't stop himself. Not after that. He stroked himself fast and hard and desperate, watching your body take it, and your mouth beg for it. 

It didn’t take long for Eddie to come harder than he’d ever had in his life. He made a mess in his hand, his pants, and he was sure some of his cum dripped onto the carpet below, but he was too high and too far gone to care. 

He nearly collapsed against the stairs wall as he rushed back down, panting, already half hard again within seconds. 

The movie was still rolling, the guys were still fast asleep, but he had been changed forever–once again. 

Seriously, who the hell leaves the door open? Or unlocked? For two people who seemed to fuck like bunnies none of it made sense. 

Unless…you’d wanted him to watch. 

Eddie was in the middle of jerking off when someone started pounding on his front door. 

Of course.

He’d found his rhythm, music blasting, hips grinding into his palm, eyes squeezed shut and in his head, his filthy, freaky little head, you kept running your dirty mouth over and over. 

He’d been at it for twenty minutes. Maybe more. His dick was red and raw but he didn’t care because the only thing worse than jerking off to the memory of you was not jerking off to it.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Jesus–fuck,” he curses, pulling up his briefs with a groan, finding a pair of jeans from the floor as the knocking continues.

“EDDIE!!” A familiar voice calls over the music. 

Oh no. 

Eddie walks out of his room shirtless, crosses the hall in three large strides, and opens the door wide enough to peek out, and yeah, there he is.

Steve fucking Harrington.

The absolute last person on earth he wanted to catch him red handed with his dick in his hand fantasizing about his girlfriend.

“Hey, man,” Eddie manages, clearing his throat when his voice cracks a little. “Uh…what’s up?” 

“Hey!” Steve beams, that preppy boy smile spreading wide on his face. “Mind if I come in?”

Eddie hesitates only for a second, then opens the door wider and steps back. Steve walks in, glances around, his gaze landing on Eddie’s bedroom. More specifically, on the bottle of lotion on his nightstand and the constellation of crumpled paper tissues on the floor next to his bed. 

Steve chuckles. “Sorry man, didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Wh–what?”

“You know. That thing you were doing.” Steve smirks, nodding his head toward the room. “Thinking about my girl?”

Eddie’s whole face goes red. “Dude, what the fuck–”

“You like her,” Steve says plainly, not as a question, not mad, not teasing. Just a matter of fact. “I know you’ve always liked her. But now you’ve seen her like I have. And now you can’t stop thinking about her.”

Eddie stands frozen in the middle of the living room, unsure of what he’s supposed to say to save his case. Although, given the evidence, there isn’t much to hope for. 

“Is this the part where you punch me?” Eddie asks, almost bracing for the impact. 

But Steve just laughs in his face. 

“No, man. No punches.” He shakes his head, amused. “You know…she likes it when you stare.”

You like it when he stares? You know he stares? 

“Alright Harrington, if you wanna hit me, just do it. Don’t fuck with me.” Eddie chuckles bitterly, already wishing he could just go back to his little twisted fantasies instead of hearing this bullshit. 

“Don’t you get what I’m saying Eddie?”

Eddie narrows his eyes. “No…?”

Steve sighs, then steps closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m saying…she wants you to fuck her.”

There’s a moment of deafening silence where Eddie questions if he actually speaks the English language, because there’s no fucking way in the world he heard that right. 

“...What??” 

“She does,” Steve repeats, then chuckles again, “Hell, even I want you to fuck her.”

“You’re not being serious,” Eddie accuses, backing off from Steve’s grasp to pace in circles with his hands on his hips. 

“Fucking hell man,” Steve groans. “Look–I’ve seen the way you look at her. And I get it, okay? She’s a dream, I know.” He laughs, but Eddie keeps pacing like a madman, shaking his head. “Dude–you ever wonder what she tastes like when she’s already come twice?”

That makes him stop right in his tracks. He turns to Steve in disbelief, but once again he doesn’t see anger, or teasing. He’s genuinely asking him if he fantasizes about his girlfriend. 

“Man, I wonder about everything,” Eddie finally blurts out, exhaling like he just lifted a weight off his chest that’s been dragging him down for weeks. 

Steve grins. 

“I wouldn’t offer you this if I didn’t trust you with her.” 

He walks closer to Eddie–again–but this time he doesn’t place his hand on his shoulder, just looks at him dead in the eye as his grin turns darker. 

“You’d be gentle with her, wouldn’t you, Eddie?” He asks, pupils taking over the hazel of his eyes. “You wouldn’t fuck her too hard the first time, right? She’s too sensitive after–and trust me, you’re gonna want her to keep going.”

Eddie is speechless for the 124378th time in that month. Which should be an achievement, considering he likes to talk as much as Robin does. 

“I’m not gonna say it twice, Munson.” Steve lifts a hand to clap him on the shoulder. “But she really wants it. So are you in?”

Eddie doesn’t even think anymore. He just nods frantically. 

Oh, he’s so in.

Oh, he’s so having a full blown existential crisis. 

He hadn’t slept the night before. Who could sleep after that conversation? Steve, poster boy for everything Eddie is not, just casually walked into his place, dropping that line like it was no big deal: 

She wants you to fuck her.

Which is how he ended up now, standing outside your goddamn house, sweating through his jacket and wondering if he’d actually never woken up from the demobats attack and this was all a coma dream. 

Because now you apparently wanted him.

In your house. In your bed.

On those stupidly adorable floral sheets he couldn’t stop thinking about. That’s what he came thinking about. That’s what he dreamed about every night. 

Steve’d said to just “roll by tonight.” Well, tonight is here, and Eddie stands outside the door contemplating his options. 

Does he knock? Does he just open it and walk into a fucking orgy?

Jesus. 

He adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his curly hair, and tells himself it’s going to be fine. He’s already been through things someone his age should never have to in their entire lifetime. Strange things. He can handle a little threesome.

Right?

He rings the doorbell before he chickens out like he’s done his whole life. 

Eddie hears footsteps approaching the front door. He expects you, for some reason, but instead it’s Steve who opens it, shirtless, barefoot, only wearing some sweatpants, and smiling bright as if he’d just invited Eddie over to watch some sports game.

“Hey, dude! Glad you made it,” he beams, stepping aside.

Eddie walks through the threshold, and stops in the middle of the entrance hall pressing his lips tight. 

“You want water or something?” Steve offers casually, noticing Eddie’s looking around nervously. “She’s upstairs. All ready.”

“She’s what?”

“All ready,” Steve repeats with a grin. “You know, for you.”

Steve laughs at Eddie’s loss for words, claps him reassuringly on the back, and gestures toward the stairs.

 “Come on, man. Don’t leave her waiting.”

He walks up the stairs with Steve trailing behind. Eddie’s already hard under his ripped jeans, stopping right outside your door thinking what on earth does ready for me mean?

Are you naked? Are you touching yourself? Do you know how hard he is? Can you feel him on the other side of the door?

He can even see the damn nightlight is on behind it. His hand hovers over the doorknob, but for one second, the doubt comes crawling back in.

What if this is a joke? What if he opens the door and all your friends are inside pointing at him and laughing like “Look who actually believed it! You’re a pervert, Eddie!”

Wouldn’t be the first time someone pulls a cruel prank on him–or calls him that. Wouldn’t even be the worst. But–

“You gonna open it, Eddie? Or are you too scared of my girl?” Steve’s teasing voice cuts off his spiraling thoughts. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, finally twists the knob, and he swears time slows down when he sees you there. 

You’re sitting–no, half kneeling on the bed in the center of the room. Those floral sheets are bunched under your knees. And you’re wearing a little dainty lace set. The fabric is barely there, but the little bows on the straps make it sweet enough for Eddie’s mouth to go dry. Your exposed skin looks soft under the warm pink glow the nightlight casts against the walls. 

You’re all ready for him. 

Eddie nearly fucking dies. Again. 

You smile when you see him. It’s soft and warm and welcoming, like always. Except–nearly naked. Not like he hadn’t seen your guts getting rearranged about two times too much these past weeks anyways. 

“Hi, Eds,” you say, waving your hand as if you aren’t currently rewiring his entire nervous system.

He stands frozen in the doorway as Steve brushes past him, casual as hell. He walks straight up to you, bends down just enough to pet your chin with two fingers, making you laugh softly. 

“Hi again, baby,” Steve whispers sweetly. “Let’s give him a warm welcome, hm?”

You hum in agreement, watching Steve walk away and drop onto the puff in the corner of the room, manspreading like a king waiting for his entertainment to start. 

But Eddie…Eddie’s still standing by the door like 🧍🏻

“So uh…what–what are the rules?” He stammers. “Or, like boundaries? Or–fuck, I don’t know, a safe word?”

He means it for him, of course. 

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh my god. Eddie, you're adorable.”

Steve is not as delicate as you, “Dude,” he snorts. “You can’t be serious. Relax. No one's handing out instructions.” 

Eddie shifts anxiously on his feet. “I–there should be instructions.”

When the hell has ever cared about those? 

“You’re here to make her feel good, that’s it.” Steve says quite harshly, crossing his arms over his chest, then looks at you and everything in him softens. “You decide how far he goes, baby.” 

You melt. Right there on the bed. Blow him a kiss and then turn your full attention to the very shy boy at your doorstep. 

“It’s okay, Eddie. Can you come closer?” You ask, extending your arm and gesturing toward the bed. 

Eddie gives one step, that’s all he manages.

You smile wider, just enough to coax him. “Closer, Eddie. Please.”

Fuck.

He takes another step, then another, until he’s right by the edge of the bed, so close he can see the pattern of the fine lace of your lingerie, the way your chest rises when you breathe, the way you’re giving him the most deadly case of bedroom eyes he’s ever seen in his entire life. 

You don’t look shy, or unsure, you look…eager. 

Before he can overthink it, you slide off the bed to round him, and gently push his chest to sit down. Eddie falls easily, his body already knowing it’s not in charge anymore. The mattress dips under his weight, bouncing softly along with the curls in his head. 

“Kick those shoes off,” you say. 

He obeys. Oh–he obeys. A little clumsily, but they’re off in less than three seconds.

Only then you climb onto his lap. Eddie’s breath comes out in a shaky exhale when your ass lands on his thighs. His hands hover uselessly at his sides. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t really dare yet. He doesn’t even know where to look. His eyes dart from your shoulder to the wall to Steve, who has now thrown his arms behind his head like he’s watching his favorite movie.

“Well, don’t mind me,” he says. “Just enjoying the show.”

You cradle Eddie’s face to get his attention back to you. All he can think is your hands are warm, and too soft for his own good. Your thumbs brush his cheeks in such a normal, easy way, that still feels deeply intimate. 

“Pretty boy,” you whisper, smiling at him. “Such pretty eyes.”

Eddie’s heart does an entire somersault routine. He can feel the little feet of the people inside his head running around to process the compliment. 

We’re starting already???

He doesn’t even finish that line of thought when you lean in and kiss him. The kiss is slow and unrushed, but so so passionate. Your soft lips move against his, showing him you know exactly what you’re doing. Eddie melts into it instantly. He kisses you back desperately, starving, because he’d been feeling withdrawal for something he never had, and now–holy shit now he’s finally getting his fix.

Still, he doesn’t touch. Not until you take his wrists and guide them yourself, first on your waist, but then trailing down, lower, to where the lace sits and barely covers anything. His hands pinch your skin when he realizes what he’s touching. 

You.

“Oh,” he breathes in to the kiss, and had you known Eddie let out those pretty little sounds, you'd have brought him in sooner. 

You smile against his mouth and roll your hips, just a little, just to get more out. Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, you grind down on him. Slow at first, just gentle little moves that made Eddie’s head tip back, and a symphony of broken sounds left his throat. Every grind of your body made his cock throb harder against his jeans. His eyes went between your chest, your mouth and the way your lashes fluttered when you finally found the spot. 

“Jesus–fuck yes, use me angel.” 

He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud until you let out a little whimper at the pet name, and picked up the pace. 

You are used to terms of endearment from Steve, he’s the sweetest with you, but never in the years of your relationship has he ever called you something so divine as angel.  

Alas, your boyfriend still knows you better than anyone. You keep moving on top of Eddie, and even though his hard cock under the jeans is already making you see stars, there’s something…missing. By this point Steve’s fingers would already be deep inside you without even having to ask. 

Across the room, he watches your frantic moves and hears your moans getting needier. Eddie doesn't notice at first, but he does.

“Hey man,” he calls casually. “Play with her.”

Eddie, too lost in the way you keep rolling your hips, blinks like he misheard. “–What?”

Steve chuckles, “She’s used to it. Go on, don’t make her wait.”

Eddie turns back to you, but you don’t say anything, just look at him, chest rising faster, lips parted, a thin sheen of sweat starting to gather at your temples. And when his eyes search yours for permission, you nod.

That’s all it takes. Eddie’s hand slides down your stomach, dipping lower and lower, until he finds the paradise between your legs.

Oh fuck. 

“Baby–you’re soaking through my jeans,” he groans, trailing the wet patch seeping through your panties. 

You giggle, but the second his fingers go past the lace and brush over your clit, you let out the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. A little gasp of surprise, hips bucking slightly since you've been waiting for him to touch you right there all night.

Eddie almost comes in his pants. “Jesus–you’re perfect.”

He doesn't slide his fingers in yet, he doesn't need to, your slick is already dripping onto his jeans, smearing over his rings. You just grind into his hand, chasing your high. Every sound you make goes straight to his dick, every breath, every flutter of your lashes, every soft whimper of his name. He’s about to put a finger in when–

“Stop.”

Eddie freezes at your firm voice, his hand stills as panic takes over his chest. “Did I–did I do something wrong?”

Steve’s already standing from the couch, ready to lift you off Eddie’s lap if you need him to. But you just let out a sweet little laugh and shake your head. 

“No, you’re perfect. I want you to take your shirt off first,” you shrug, as if you hadn't caused both men a near heart attack. 

Steve exhales, muttering something about “always testing him” as he plops back onto the puff. You smile at him apologetically, he just shakes his head pretending to be annoyed but you see the smile tugging at his lips. 

“Oh,” Eddie says, blinking a few times before actually breathing again. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that, sweetheart.”

He fumbles a little, taking off his vest first, then his jacket, then–he hesitates for a second. It’s not that he’s insecure about his chest, but his tattoos now have fresh new roommates in the shape of multiple scars scattered across his skin from where he’d been attacked. And he doesn’t know how you’ll react to them.

You notice the doubt flashing across his eyes as his hands stop reaching for the shirt. “Are you okay, Eddie?” You ask, and now you’re the one wondering if you did something wrong.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, trying to not sound too pathetic. “It’s just–my…my scars,” he says, avoiding your gaze. 

You hum softly, “Steve has them too.”

Eddie’s head perks up at that, and his eyes go to the shirtless man on the couch. 

“Yeah man,” Steve breathes, straightening up, pointing at the lovely little bite marks the bats had left on his skin. 

Eddie squints and sees them washed in the glow of the nightlamp. He’d been so busy freaking the hell out when he arrived that he hadn’t even noticed that Steve’s chest indeed had marks. But not as many as him, and at least the hair around it makes up for it, he’s not sure his pale chest–

“Eddie…” You cup his face to gently guide it towards you. “You can keep your shirt on if you feel more comfortable that way, but know that I don’t care about what’s under there. I just want to feel your skin closer,” you reassure.

Eddie almost proposes right there and then. 

Okay–maybe he’s getting ahead of himself. But shit. He decides it’s wiser to just nod, and peels off his shirt in one rough pull. You look him in the eyes before looking down, and he nods again. Your eyes go down his bare chest, pale as you expected, not as filled out as Steve’s, and not nearly as hairy–but the tattoos and the scars make him the most badass rockstar you’d ever seen.

Eddie’s breath stills as you look at him like you like what you see. Like he’s the prettiest thing in the room. And then you make sure he hears it. 

“You’re so pretty, Eddie,” you smile, pulling him in for another kiss. Your hands smooth over his skin, fingers tracing the tattoos on his chest, the scars down his sides, the happy trail leading to a happier place. “So hot.”

You whine into the kiss, hips rolling again making him forget about the fact that he’s shirtless in front of you and instead he remembers–right. His fingers.

Eddie reaches for you, pulling your panties to the side again. He slides two fingers between your folds, slow enough to drink every second of the way your jaw drops when you feel his rings deep inside you, the way your eyes flutter shut, how you let out a desperate little sound that goes straight to his cock.

“Eds…” you moan, walls clenching around fingers and metal.

“You feel–fuck, baby, you feel so good…so tight…” 

He finds his rhythm easily, all insecurities set aside by how fast you’re falling apart on his fingers.  

Eddie knows what he’s doing. Those hands–those guitarist fingers don’t play. They move with instinct, with intention. His fingers curl, dragging quickly through your walls before pressing back in. The rings are a plus, cold metal against heat, and you gasp when one of them hits the spot. 

“Oh–Eddie–”

“That’s it angel, keep dripping all over me,” he coos, pumping harder. “Can feel you clenching when I talk like this. You like being a good girl for me?”

You nod, it’s all you can do. Steve just watches. Watches the way your body moves. The way your face twists with pleasure. The way your mouth drops open with every stroke. 

But he catches something else. He always does. 

Your head tips forward, forehead pressing into Eddie’s shoulder, breaths coming out in little broken sounds against Eddie’s skin as he works every inch of you. You keep grinding your hips, chasing more even as it starts to overwhelm you. A sudden wave makes your moan turn into a whimper, and your nails dig on his shoulder instinctively pushing him away. 

You cry out, that’s when Steve speaks.

“Hey–easy, Munson,” he calls out, not angry, but still firm enough that it makes Eddie slow down. “Remember what I said about going easy the first time? You go too rough too soon and she’s gonna be shaking for the rest of the night.”

“Sorry–” Eddie says immediately, but you cut him off. 

“It’s okay, Eds. We’re still learning each other,” you reassure, still giving him that dazed, happy look. He exhales in relief. “Just…a little slower, that’s all. I’m not really used to the rings.” You say it so sweetly, that he just nods like a little puppy eager to please. 

“You’ll get used to them soon, sweetheart. Promise.”

He pulls his fingers back in slower, watching your face the whole time, memorizing every reaction. It doesn't take long before you’re grinding his hand again and letting out soft moans of pleasure as you find a more comfortable rhythm. 

“There you go,,” Steve chuckles, approving. “She’s squeezing you, isn’t she?”

Eddie chuckles back, because he can feel how close you are. Your forehead presses into his shoulder again, mouth brushing his skin as you let out a sound that’s half gasp, half moan. 

“Hmm, that sound,” Steve hums, leaning further into the puff, stroking over his crotch. “She sounds like that when she’s about to come.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, curling his fingers just right. “Are you close, angel?”

You whimper, hiding your face knowing exactly what they are talking about, but it only makes it hotter for both men to see you like that. 

“Don’t you wanna tell him, baby?” Steve asks from his spot, but all that comes out of your mouth is another moan against Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey–eyes on me.”

You obey, turning to meet those wide, hazel eyes. You’re barely holding it together, already breathless. A literal mess on Eddie’s fingers.

But Steve just smiles, wide and bright when you look at him. “Now tell him what you need, sweetheart.”

Your eyes keep locked on your boyfriend as you whisper, “I–I wanna come, Eds…please.”

“Then come, baby. Drench my fucking rings,” he groans in your ear. His raw voice and another curl of his fingers is what gets you there. 

Your whole body tenses when the orgasm hits. You let out a broken moan that vibrates in Eddie’s chest and your walls clench around his fingers so tight he thinks you might break them. Your wetness coats his rings, soaks into your panties, his jeans, everywhere. 

You collapse, arms flailing to hold on to him, but before Eddie can catch you, you’re already falling back.

“Whoa, hey–” Eddie’s arms scramble to hold you, but Steve is faster.

He’s behind you instantly, steadying you with one hand on your back, the other cupping the back of your head easing you back into Eddie’s lap. 

“She goes all soft after,” Steve says, with that fondness he always uses when referring to you. “You gotta hold her up for a second.”

Eddie’s arms wrap around you immediately, as you curl into him still trying to catch your breath. Steve leans to see you, brushing your hair back. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead that makes you smile. 

“Hey,” he whispers, eyes scanning your flushed face. “You okay?”

You nod against Eddie’s chest.

“You wanna keep going?” 

You nod again.

“Words, baby,” Steve coaxes, and you let out a little breathless giggle when he pinches your side.

“I do,” you whisper, loud enough for both to hear. Then you turn to him. “Thank you.”

For catching me. For checking on me. For letting another man fuck me while you watch.

You don’t even have to say it out loud for Steve to know what you’re thinking. He just brushes your cheek, with an amused smile on his face. “Anytime, baby.”

You shift on Eddie’s lap, turning back to him, lips brushing his cheek before placing your hands on his chest to look at those pretty brown eyes. “Thank you too, Eds. You made me feel so good.”

“Y-Yeah?”

You hum, patting the spider tattoo on his left peck. Once you feel like you regained your strength back again, you slide off his lap and drop to your knees in front of him.

“That’s my girl.” Steve praises. So pretty on her knees.” 

He rounds the bed to grab a small pillow, then drops it to the floor next to your knees, nudging it with his foot until you shift just enough to be on top of it. You lean to kiss the back of his hand as a silent thank you. 

Eddie is too busy remembering how to breathe for the 100th time to say anything. 

You settle between Eddie’s legs, hands resting on his thighs, your lashes fluttering as you look up with all your attention back on him. “I wanna thank you properly.”

Eddie laughs nervously, then whistles low. “Shit–then go ahead, sweetheart.”

Your fingers go to his belt–because of course he wore a fucking belt–and Steve chuckles from your side, one judging eyebrow raised. “Why did you even wear a belt, dude?”

“I thought I was coming over to watch, not to get fucking blessed,” Eddie shakes his head in disbelief, pushing himself up to help you lower his pants. 

His ass barely touches the mattress when your hands are already tugging his briefs. He laughs, out of sheer nerves and excitement, lifting again to take off the last piece covering him. 

He springs out.

And just as you thought. Just as you dreamed, he’s big. Eddie fucking Munson is packing a thick, flushed pink, already leaking cock just inches away from your face. 

Pretty boy with pretty eyes and an even prettier dick. 

You let out a sweet, pleased little dreamy sigh, when you feel his heaviness in your hand. “So pretty,” you praise, then lean in and press a soft kiss to the tip of his cock.

You reach out, eager, hand wrapping around him to guide him toward your mouth like a lollipop. Eddie makes a noise no one in that room knew he was capable of.

Eddie sees heaven. Sees the clouds, hears all the symphonies and shit. 

“Jesus fuck–”

Steve steps behind you again, crouching down. He runs his fingers over your spine, drawing delicate circles that don’t match the words that come out of his mouth. 

“You think you can take another, baby?” He asks, kissing the back of your neck. “Getting bored of just watching…”

You glance back at him, hand still wrapped around Eddie’s cock, and look down to see the fabric of his pants barely containing his. 

“Let me take care of you too, babe,” you chuckle, lifting your free hand to reach sideways, tugging Steve’s sweats and briefs down in one pull. He steps forward, letting you take him in your hand like you’ve done a hundred times. 

Now you have two, very hard, very beautiful, very yours, dicks in your hands. 

You give Steve one long, wet stroke with your tongue that makes him drop his head back and groan. Then, with a little giggle, you turn and give Eddie the same treatment. 

“Fucking hell, Harrington,” he gasps.

Steve smiles, watching you go from one the other, teasing both. “Oh, I know.” He cups the back of your head, stroking your hair. “Show him, baby. Show him how good you are.”

You hum with Eddie in your mouth, the sound vibrating just enough to make him curse under his breath.

You begin taking turns. Your lips are glossy and warm and full, as you switch between them. 

Steve. Then back to Eddie. Then back to Steve again.

Your hand stroking one while your lips wrap around the other. Back and forth. Eddie’s thighs start shaking with the effort of not coming in the first thirty seconds of this glorious torture. 

He’d never seen anything like it. 

He has both hands fisted in the floral sheets, barely keeping himself together as you take him halfway down and then pull away with a soft, wet pop that makes his vision go white, only to switch to the one who’s supposed to be your man. 

And if it wasn’t enough, Steve hands reach behind your back when you put him in your mouth, bending over you with his cock so going deep it makes you gag, to unclasp your bra, freeing your titties for both of them. 

He’s fighting for his soul at this point. 

You split apart from Steve, taking a deep breath to recover from his dick touching the back of your throat, and wipe your mouth before looking up at Eddie with a smile. 

“Hey Steve?” You call, eyes fixed on Eddie’s to catch his reaction. “Why don’t you get the camera?”

The…camera???

“Wait–what?”

“Don’t you want a little souvenir?” You tease, titling your head. 

“What the fuck–what–do I want a–?”

“Steve likes it,” you shrug. 

“Oh yeah,” Steve chuckles, already crossing to the bookshelf in the corner of your room. “I like it–but she loves it, man,” he adds smugly, 

“You have photos…doing it?”

“Whooole collection.” Steve drawls, finding what he was looking for. “You’d go crazy.” 

He is going crazy. 

Steve walks back over holding a black Polaroid camera, and hands it directly to Eddie, who’s still gripping onto the sheets for dear life. 

“I–” He stammers, looking at you. 

You shrug. “My hands are busy,” you smile apologetically, too damn sweet for the situation. 

Eddie finally takes the camera after a deep exhale, and leans back to lift it. He frames your pretty face between his thighs, lips parted open, spit shining on his cock. Then your mouth wraps around his tip again, and Eddie moans, loud and shaky, nearly dropping the camera.

He captures the grip of your lips, the way your tongue flicks over his slit, the stretch of your mouth when you sink deeper. Then you pull away and take Steve into your mouth instead, and Eddie moves the camera closer, watching your throat move, your hand still stroking him at the base.

It’s a miracle you are alternating, because if it had been just him, he would’ve busted in your mouth in under a minute.

You feel flash after flash after flash. Picture falling one after another, scattering on Eddie’s thighs. 

“Holy shit,” Eddie chuckles. “This is filthy. God, you look so fucking good like that.” 

Another flash. Another picture falling next to his balls. 

You pop off of him with a messy sound and a smile at the compliment, licking your lips as you turn to Steve.

“Your turn, baby,” you whisper.

Steve steps closer, and you feel the way he starts twitching in your mouth. It doesn’t take long before he grabs your hair, and starts thrusting to get himself off.

Eddie’s eyes widen, pulling the camera aside to enjoy the view. The way Steve holds you there. The way he fucks into your mouth, chasing his release, his fist tangled in your hair, his chest rising hard and fast as you take all of him. 

Steve finally comes in a few strangled moans, making sure he stays inside until you swallow every drop of his cum. He strokes your cheek with one hand, pulling out, reaching down to wipe the corner of your mouth. “There you go, baby,” he praises, still breathless. “So good for us.”

You don’t take more than a few seconds when you turn to Eddie, chest heaving, but before you can lean down again his hand comes up, stopping you. 

“Wait!” He says, coming off a little louder than he means to.

Your brows furrow. “Are you–are you not enjoying it?” 

“No no, Jesus–no,” he rushes, “You’re–you’re perfect. You’re actually heaven. I swear. It’s just…if you keep going like that…I won’t last.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, immediately understanding where he’s coming from. 

Eddie wants to save his cum for when he gets lucky to actually fuck you. 

Steve steps forward, helping you get to your feet. “Well,” he says, amused, “you’re a lucky bastard, Munson. I’m a man of my word, so I’m gonna let you fuck her properly now.”  

Eddie gulps. Your eyes light up. 

“That’ll get you going just fine.” Steve adds. 

He takes the camera from Eddie’s side, then walks back to settle onto the puff in the corner again, naked, angling the Polaroid camera like a professional. 

You take a moment to get rid of your panties, before pushing Eddie back onto the bed, making him crawl back until he’s in the center on the mattress, his curly hair draping over your multiple pillows. You climb over the pictures and his body until you’re hovering over him. 

Eddie doesn’t expect you to turn around, but there you are, moving away to straddle him in reverse, giving him a perfect view of your ass. His heart is racing so hard he can hear it in his ears, yet a devilish chuckle still comes out before he can stop it. 

“You want Steve to see your face while you bounce on my cock, sweetheart?” 

You nod, biting your lip even if he can’t see you–because Steve sure can–lifting yourself up with your hands on his thighs. “God, yes.”

You reach to line him up beneath you, teasing the tip only for a second because you can’t wait any longer than that to feel him inside. 

You sink down without giving him any warning. 

“Holy–fuck,” Eddie groans, throwing his head back onto the pillows. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so tight–”

He only shuts up when he hears the moans you let out as he stretches your walls so painfully good. He feels as huge as he looks, he fills you as well as you thought he would. He’s balls deep inside you. Your knees are on either side of his hips, ass to his stomach, fingers digging into his thighs as you begin to fuck yourself on him. 

From the corner, Steve lets out a low hum of approval as you bounce harder on Eddie’s cock, chasing your second orgasm. He strokes himself with one hand, the other snapping shots of the way your tits bounce, the way your face twists every time you sink down, the way you never stop looking at him.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Tug. Tug. Tug. 

“Fuck yes, baby–look at you. You look like a fucking porn star.”

You smile at him, then turn over your shoulder, just a little to see how your other boy is doing. 

Eddie’s falling apart. 

His eyes are glued to where your bodies meet. To his cock disappearing inside your folds. And if the sounds were obscene before–they’re so much worse now. Between Eddie’s grunts, your moans as you ride him, and the clicking sound of Steve’s camera, this was a full blown production. 

A priceless one. 

And then you make that sound again. 

The same sound you made the second time Eddie saw you fall apart on Steve’s cock. The sound you made with his fingers deep inside you. The sound that haunted his fucking dreams.

“You’re getting her there, man,” Steve says, stroking himself faster to the next series of whimpers you let out. “Make her feel good, then cum inside her. She loves that shit.”

Eddie nods. “That okay, angel? Want me to fill you up?” 

You can't even speak. You just nod frantically, gasping as your rhythm begins to falter, and your thighs start shaking.

“You gotta come again first, sweetheart,” Eddie says through gritted teeth, grabbing your hips to push himself up into you. He can feel you pulsing around him. 

“Steve–fuck–I’m gonna–”

“Then do it, baby,” he growls. “Come on his cock.”

You come harder than the first time. Your mouth drops open in a choked moan as your orgasm tears through you. Eddie nearly comes from how tight you clench around him.

But no. He still wants more from you. Needs it like he needs oxygen. 

This time he does catch you when you slump forward, sitting up still buried inside you, placing a kiss on your shoulder as you both catch your breath. But the quiet doesn’t last long. He’s still hard inside you, and the devil on his shoulder tells him to finish what he started. 

He earns a sudden yelp from you when he flips you, pushing you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back, and lining himself up again from behind…just like he’d seen you that day. Face in the sheets. Ass up. Wet pussy glowing under the nightlight. Floral sheets wrinkled under your body. 

Deja vu.

But this time, it’s not Steve–no, he’s just watching. Eddie is the one pushing his cock deep inside you with a harsh thrust that makes your whole body rock forward. 

He’s not that gentle anymore. Not in a mean way. Never in a mean way, but in a I-need-to-come-inside-you-now way. His hands are gripping your skin, knuckles going pale, holding you down as you become a mess under him. 

He looks up to the couch, and he expects to see at least an ounce of the jealousy he’d felt the day he saw you with him, but all he sees is Steve’s fist going up and down furiously on his cock. The camera had been dropped as soon as your cheek had hit the mattress.

He wanted to see it. See you fall apart. 

“…Holy shit, dude, go for it,” Steve whistles low in approval, chuckling when he hears your strangled gasps every time Eddie slammed into you. “Let him, baby,” he coos. “Be a good girl and take all of it.”

He really gives you all of it. 

Eddie’s sure he only survived ‘86 just to see the way your tight little asshole contracts with every thrust he drills into your swollen pussy. 

“Eds–Eddie–”

“I know I know. Almost there, angel. Gonna fill you up real good,” he coaxes over your small whines, “wanna see you dripping with my cum.”

Eddie slams into you once more, then groans so loud it echoes across the wallpaper walls, and finally spills inside you with a cry. 

Steve comes in his own hand as Eddie pulls out of you, slapping your ass a few times with his cock before you collapse onto the bedsheets. Eddie falls right behind you, blinking up at the ceiling, coming down from his high.

In the middle of all the panting, your chests rising up and down, he doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to do next. Part of him expects to be handed his clothes and a polite “thanks for coming.” But instead, you instinctively roll over to him, wrapping your arms around his body and burying your face against his chest. 

Steve just chuckles, finding his briefs on the floor and throwing them on, then finally walking over to where you’re cuddling Eddie, running his hand through your hair with a little smile.

“She gets kinda clingy after.”

You don’t even lift your head. “Don’t be rude.”

Steve grins wider. “Sorry, baby. Cute is the word. She gets cute after.”

You hum again, approving this time. Then, you let out a sigh of exhaustion, voice muffled in Eddie’s chest, “you guys are fucking crazy.”

Steve snorts. “We are crazy?”

“I didn’t exactly suggest a threesome, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckles, hugging you tighter. 

“Whatever,” you giggle. “Just…don’t let me fall asleep like this.”

Steve kneels beside the bed and rubs your back gently. “Want a shower, baby?”

You shake your head. “Bath.”

“Bath it is.”

He places a kiss on your shoulder, then stands and walks to your bathroom. A few moments later, Eddie hears the water running.

He could’ve stayed like that forever, really. With you curled into his arms, naked with his seed still inside you, surrounded by the filthy pictures he’d taken of you. His hand comes up hesitantly, brushing your hair back with the same tenderness he always sees Steve do it. 

Where does this leave him though? Is this a one time thing? A hit and run? How can he go back to his normal life after this? 

He’d already been losing his mind over you for weeks. He’s never getting over this.

“Are you okay?” You ask, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, your heart is beating really fast,” you say, hand resting lightly on his chest, right over it.

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Uh. Yeah. I’m just…kinda expecting for someone to tell me to get up and leave?”

You hum softly, nuzzling closer to him. “I don’t want you to leave, Eds…” 

He doesn’t get to say anything before Steve returns, a pink towel slung over his bare shoulder as he stands on the bathroom door. 

“Well, dude,” he says. “You bringing her or what?”

Eddie looks down at you, all cozied up in his arms. You don’t say anything, but you smile, soft and sweet and welcoming as always. 

The sun in his arms. 

He's not sure what the hell is next for him now. But at least for tonight, he’s staying. 

And I ain't gotta tell him, I think he knows

Thank you so much for reading! hope you enjoyed 👀🤭

Feedback is always appreciated 🤍

[delusionaldaarling]

Big dick Harrington is cannon confirmed!!

[lustcannibalism]

the desire to engage in my hobbies leaving my body as soon as I have the day off even though I was looking forward to it all week

[clarks-letterman]

steve driving clutch is so hot (and him being so angry this season is too)

[depsidase]

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

[delusionaldaarling]

He broke no contact by saying happy birthdya to me I WON