djobaby

I’m your moon You’re my star 🐊

[sugaryewscythe]

just a reminder that this blog is run by someone who:

— is anti ICE & fascism — is pro-choice & feminist — supports trans & queer people — hates generative AI & capitalism — supports immigrants & people of color — is pro-environmentalism & social justice — supports palestine & all other territories unjustly suffering

[lofi-fics]

I'M GONNA THROW MYSLF INTO THE FUCKING SUN

[oohlillie]

just saying but this picture’s gonna be the death of me

[djobaby]

Can someone sedate me?!?!?!

[covered-in-you-now]

I wanna be yours - Part 24

TW : smut, stalking

A/N : struggled to write that one uggh but look at him hello ????

You woke up the next day to a blaring sound somewhere nearby. You didn’t even remember falling asleep, probably too exhausted to do anything else. You were disoriented for a few seconds, this loud alarm ringing in your ears, before you realized you had fallen asleep in Gator’s bed, still trapped at the ranch. The memories from the night before came rushing back, Roy, Linda, Gator trying to convince you he didn’t sleep with this girl the night he left you alone in his barn … You had just barely woken up and your chest was already aching. 

Next to you on the bed, Gator groaned and reached for his phone, silencing the alarm with a tired curse. He looked absolutely awful, dark circles under his eyes, his hair a mess and his eyes still red from all the crying he did. For a few second, neither of you spoke, letting the silence swallow you whole. 

Gator sat up and dragged both hands down his face. “I gotta get ready.” You didn’t reply, instead, you stayed under the covers, completely numb. He disappeared into the bathroom, and you heard the shower start just a few moments later. You still didn’t move, you couldn’t even really think either, just staring at the blank wall listening to the sound of water running behind the door. 

After a while, the shower stopped. You heard drawers being opened, Gator getting dressed, the familiar ‘click’ of his holster’s straps being secured around his thigh. When he finally came back into the bedroom, he was fully dressed in his deputy uniform. He paused after seeing that you were still in bed, exactly where he left you before his shower. 

“…Hey.” You didn’t reply, didn’t even look at him. He bit his lip, unsure if he should continue, but he did. “I gotta go handle something for my dad for a few hours…” Still nothing from you, not even the bat of an eye, he didn’t deserve it. “I’ll be back after, I promise.” 

When he realized you were ignoring him, he sighted loudly through his nose. “Are you really giving me the silent treatment right now ? What are we ? Fucking teenagers ?” Still nothing, you dug your nails into your skin forcing you not to react. He sighed again and headed towards the door. “Oh and don’t try to leave. Everybody on this fucking ranch knows not to let you go. So don’t waste your time.” 

His words stung, it really felt like you were a prisoner and had no way to escape. “I also called a tow truck.” That one caught your attention. “Your car is still sitting outside the coffee shop. They’re bringing it back here, probably sometime this morning.” He grabbed his cap from the dresser and put in on backwards. As he was about to leave, he hesitated, like he wanted to say something else. He shook his head and pointed towards the radio instead.  “Keep the ranch radio on if you need anything.” And just like that, he left.

A minute later, you heard his cruiser start outside, and another few minutes later, the ranch radio crackled. 

“Unit seven just passed north gate.”

“Copy that.” That’s it, he was really gone. You slowly got out of bed, feeling like you were hit by a train. The ranch outside looked fully alive already, like a little armed town.  The radio continued crackling constantly in the background, irritating you a little.

“…Need two more hands near the west fence…”

“…Horse fucking got loose again…”

“…Sheriff wants inventory moved before noon…” The constant voices made the place feel claustrophobic, so you put your hands over your ears, hoping to drown out the sounds.

About twenty minutes later, you spotted the tow truck arriving in the distance with your car. A man on a ATV was leading him towards Gator’s barn. As you looked closely, you recognized him, it was the younger gate guard, the one you had begged not to tell anybody you came back for your stuff before you ran away. An idea suddenly struck you.

You rushed downstairs and out the front door in a heartbeat, just in time to see the man climb off the ATV while the tow truck driver carefully unloaded your car nearby. Once it was finished, the tow truck pulled away again and the young guard turned to leave too, but you called after him. 

“Wait !” He paused cautiously, looking around to see if anyone else heard you too. “I need help.” Your words made him nervous, he glanced around one more time before walking closer. 

“What kind of help ?” Okay, he didn’t shut you off right away, that’s a good start. You realized you didn’t even know his name. 

“What’s your name ?” He hesitated, looking around nervously for the third time in less than two minutes. 

“…Alex.”

“Alex, okay, I need to ask you something.” He looked uncomfortable, not sure if he was even allowed to talk to you. 

“What ?” 

“The ranch gates.” Alex frowned, confused.

“What about them ?”

“They’re watched all the time ? Like all the time ?”

“Yeah. Twenty-four seven.”

“No breaks ? Never ?” He shook his head, still wondering why you asked him these questions. 

“Nobody gets in or out without us knowing.” Okay, great, that means the first step of your plan was working. Now let’s do step number two. 

“You keep records ? Of like, people coming in or something ?”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of records ?” Alex shrugged, even more confused now. 

“Everything.” He started counting on his fingers. “Time in. Time out. Vehicle model. License plate. Driver’s name. Umm … If there’s passengers, we log them too.” Okay, fuck it was working. Your heart started beating faster. 

“Do yo also do that when the Tillmans get in or out ?” He took half a step back after hearing their name, like he knew it was dangerous and needed to stay away, but he still nodded. You exhaled, relieved, before looking at him in the eyes. “Alex, I need a favor.”

He immediately looked alarmed, shaking his head. “Oh no, I can’t.”

“It’s small.”

“That’s what people say before asking illegal stuff.” You stepped closer to him, desperate, deciding to go for it anyways. 

“Four nights ago, when Gator left suddenly.”

“…Okay ?”

“He told me he came right back, like maybe thirty minutes maximum. But I need to know if that’s true.” Alex looked increasingly nervous now, still glancing around to see if anyone else was watching. 

“You want me to check the logs ?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“I can’t do that.” You stepped even closer, he was your last chance at knowing the truth. 

“Please, Alex, I’m begging you.” He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking.

“There’s always two guards at the gates. Other guy’s gonna wonder what I’m doing.”

“He keeps me here.” Your voice cracked at that, and your eyes were glassy. That made Alex hesitate. “I think he’s lying to me. He won’t let me leave. Please, I need to know the truth.”

Alex looked conflicted, he probably felt some sort of pity for you but was also scared of the Tillmans. That’s when you realized he was really young, probably new to all of this, and his next words confirmed your suspicions. 

“This is a new job for me, I don’t want problems with Gator or the sheriff.”

“I’m not asking for anything huge.” He didn’t reply right away, and you could almost see the gears turning in his head, before he sighted. 

“…I start gate duty in an hour, and I’m off around seven.” Your face fell right as the words came out of his mouth. 

“Gator will be back before then.” That made Alex think for a second, eyes on the ground. Suddenly, both his and your ranch radios crackled at the exact same time. 

“…Need somebody near south pasture ASAP…” Alex looked down at the radio clipped to his waistband, and then towards the open door of Gator’s barn, where the sound had came from. 

“You got access to ranch frequencies ?”

“…Yeah.” His expression shifted a little. He lowered his voice. 

“Okay. Seven o five tonight.”

“What ?”

“There’s an unused frequency.” He reached into his pocket for a pen and a piece of paper, writing a bunch of numbers on it. “Use this channel.” You took the piece of paper and hid it inside your pocket. “I’ll tell you over radio.”

Relief flooded you, you felt so grateful you could cry. “Thank you.”

“But you gotta be there exactly at seven o five. After that I leave and it’ll look weird if I stay around.” Alex warned you. 

“I understand. I’ll be there.” He nodded once before turning around and climbing back onto the ATV, driving away. Only then you looked at the clock. 

10:02 AM. 

Jesus Christ. This was going to take forever. You remembered your phone was still hidden under your car seat, so you hurried inside to pick up your keys left inside your purse. You unlocked the car and retrieved it, but the battery was dead, of course it was. 

You made your way back inside, digging through Gator’s stuff to find a charger and plugging the phone in at the kitchen counter. Then, with absolutely nothing else to do, you started wandering around the barn.

The downstairs shelves held surprisingly normal things for Gator, like old hunting magazines or several unopened boxes of ammunition. But other things stood out more, like one drawer contained dozens of carefully folded newspaper clippings, mostly articles about Roy, sheriff elections or political endorsements. Almost as if Gator was collecting proof of his father’s importance.

Another shelf held old rodeo trophies from when Gator was younger. they were mostly damaged, and one looked like it had been thrown hard enough to crack. 

Upstairs in his room, you found an old photo shoved halfway beneath his bed. Young Gator, maybe ten years old, standing beside a woman you recognized as his mother. Linda smiling warmly with one arm around him. Gator looked so happy in it that it hurt to see how he turned out now. You shoved the picture back where you found it.

A few minutes later, your phone turned back on, and immediately exploded with notifications. Missed calls flooded the screen, almost all from Gator. Voicemails too, dozens of texts… Your eyes caught a few of them, things like ‘where are you ?’ , ‘I’m begging you.’ , ‘answer your fucking phone right now’ and the last one ‘please don’t do this to me’. 

Your stomach knotted reading them, you were torn, only hoping Alex would confirm Gator wasn’t lying tonight. 

There were messages from Caleb and Nate too. You decided to text both of them back, just saying you were okay but couldn’t really explain right now, deciding on leaving out the details, because after everything happening with Roy and Gator, you genuinely believed they might be listening, somehow.

So, you just sat back down near the window, the ranch radio crackling nearby, and waited for Gator to come home.

The front door opened hours later, making you look up from your phone. Gator stepped inside, his tactical vest half zipped up, dust clinging to his cargo pants. His smell hit you, a mix of sweat and gunpowder, making your nose crinkle. He noticed you sitting at the kitchen counter but you looked away again, refusing to meet his gaze and pretending you were scrolling on your phone.

“Hey.” Your reply was silence. He tossed his keys onto the counter near you. “You eat anything yet ?” Silence again, eyes still on your phone. He exhaled hard through his nose when you got up and walked past him towards the sink. Gator watched you, dumbfounded. 

“You’re still doing this shit ?” Nothing again. You grabbed a glass and filled it with water, ignoring him completely. His jaw flexed. “Baby…” You drunk your glass looking out the window. Being ignored like this snapped something in him. He crossed the room fast, grabbing your wrist before you could move away again. “Look at me.” You tried pulling away.

“Let go.”

“No.” His grip tightened, not painful, but firm. “Look at me.” You refused, knowing you’d be too weak to resist him if you looked into his eyes. Gator’s breathing grew heavier. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He muttered. 

Suddenly, both of his hands were on your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were exhausted and red, almost desperate. “You need to drop this fucking Jenna shit.” You stared at him.

“You lied.”

“I didn’t.”

“You disappeared all night.”

“I told you what happened.”

“No, you told me your version.” Frustration flashed across his face.

“What do you want me to say ? That I fucked her ? I didn’t, I swear !” He snapped, voice getting louder. You looked away again, and that hurt him. “Fuck…” His hands dropped from your face, something in him cracking completely.

To your absolute shock, Gator dropped to his knees in front of you, actually begging. “Please, baby.” Your breath caught, he was looking up at you like he was drowning. “Please believe me.”

You had never seen him like this, he wasn’t angry, wasn’t manipulative, just terrified.  “I swear to God, I didn’t touch her. I was pissed off and stupid and I went there when she asked, alright ? But the second she opened the door I knew it was fucking wrong and I shouldn’t be here.” His voice cracked, tears forming in his eyes. “I wanted you. I always want you.” He looked destroyed saying it.

And suddenly, you believed him. You’re not sure why, but seeing him on his knees in front of you begging for you to believe him was the proof you needed. It was enough to realize maybe he really had spent those hours spiraling in the hay barn alone, enough to realize you had dragged an innocent guard into this by asking about the gate logs. But the worst part was that it was enough to realize you loved him way too much.

Slowly, you raised your hand towards his face, and touched his cheek, making Gator freeze, like he couldn’t believe you were really touching him. His eyes shut for a second and he leaned into your hand so hard it almost hurt to watch. “There you are, my baby.” He whispered hoarsely, making your chest ache.

He stood up, grabbing your face again before crashing his mouth against yours into a desperate and messy kiss, all relief and panic at once. He backed you into the kitchen counter hard enough to make you gasp, hands gripping your hips like he was terrified you would disappear again.

“I fucking need you.” He whispered against your mouth. Fuck, you knew you were too weak, so you kissed him back, and that was all the permission he needed. He lifted you onto the counter, pushing between your knees while kissing you harder, rough hands sliding under your shirt.

Right now, it was just mouths, hands, heavy breathing and tension finally breaking after days of paranoia and fighting. His hands were shaking, like he couldn’t handle one more second of being away from you. Without breaking the kiss, he hooked his fingers into the hem of your shorts, and pulled them down, taking your panties with it. 

Without a word, he dropped to his knees again, his hands wrapping around your thighs spreading then open, bringing you closer to the edge of the counter. He didn’t even hesitate before bringing his mouth to your core, and licking a long stripe along your folds. You gasped, making his hands hold onto you tighter. 

He laid his tongue flat on your clit, before licking it again and again, making you squirm. You arched your back into him before putting your hands in his slicked back hair, slightly pulling at it. After about two minutes, he pulled away from you. 

“I can’t mama, you taste too fucking good and I missed you so much, I’m gonna cum.” As he said that, he unbuckled his belt and pushed his pants and briefs down just enough to let his cock spring free, hard and ready. He pushed you off the counter and on your feet, spinning you around until you were now bent over the counter, one of his hands between your shoulder blades. 

He spit on his cock and spread it around before nudging his tip right at your entrance. The hand resting on your shoulder blades lowered to rest on your hip while he pressed a kiss on your back, before bottoming out inside you in one swift motion. You both moaned at the same time, and he didn’t waste any time before thrusting into you, his other hand coming up in front of you to rub circles around your clit. 

“I missed you so fucking much baby, never do this to me again.” He begged you, pumping faster and faster into you. “You feel too fucking good, you were made for me.” His words combined with the fingers rubbing against you sent you over the edge, making your walls clench around his cock. 

“Oh my God baby yes, squeeze me tight mama, take all of me.” He said as he rutted into you, hips snapping hard against your ass. He groaned as he came inside you, resting his forehand against your back while pushing his cock as deep inside you as physically possible, the both of you breathing hard. After a few seconds, he pulled out of you, lifting you towards the couch to lay down with him. 

Tangled up together on the couch, Gator closed his eyes before exhaling loudly.  “You’re staying, I can’t do this shit again.” Your heart dropped at that, suddenly remembering the radio call with Alex. You trusted him now, not sure you should bring this poor guard into the mess anymore. But on the other hand, it could only confirm that Gator wasn’t lying. 

Your eyes flicked towards the clock on the microwave. 7:01PM. Fuck, you jerked up suddenly, making Gator flinch a little. “What ?”

“Nothing.”

“You just tensed.”

“I didn’t.” He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. You needed him out fast. You tried to think of something fast. “You don’t have any eggs left and I was planning on making some for breakfast tomorrow.”

“What ?”

“Eggs, I want eggs tomorrow morning. You have none left, can’t you just go and ask Karen if she could spare some ?”

“There are other things in the fridge for you to eat tomorrow.” 

“No, I want eggs.” He started at you in disbelief. 

“I’ll go get some tomorrow morning, it’s fine.”

“I’ll be up before you, and hungry, I’m just really craving eggs. Please.” You forced out an annoyed sigh. “Why are we arguing over fucking eggs ? Just go ask Karen please.”

“Because you’re acting weird.”

The clock hit 7:03, making your heart stammer. You decided to look at him with puppy eyes. “Please, baby.” The pet name was his weakness. Gator sighed heavily, rubbing his face.

“You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.” Damn, his words sent a shiver down your spine. He grabbed his keys again. “I’ll be right back.” You forced yourself not to react too fast so he wasn’t suspicious. 

“Okay.” The second the door shut behind him, you moved fast, grabbing the folded paper from your pocket and lunging for the radio. It was 7:05PM. Static exploded through the speakers as you turned the dial desperately towards the frequency Alex wrote down earlier. Your pulse was deafening now.

“…Hello ?” Alex’s voice. You pushed the button to talk right away. 

“Yes ! It’s me.” He took a few seconds to reply. 

“Okay. I checked. That night, Gator left the ranch at 11:53PM, so right before midnights.” You swallowed hard, not sure why your heart was beating that fast because you believed him when he said he came back almost right away.

“Okay. And… he said he came back fast … thirty minutes later maybe ?” Silence crackled over the radio, you felt sick waiting.

Outside, you heard the distant sound of a cruiser engine somewhere on the ranch road. Fuck, hurry Alex, please hurry. After a few seconds, his voice echoed through the radio again. 

“Umm… No. He came back a little after four in the morning.”

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@vigilantlysparklingskeleton @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles  @transparentbreadtac @simsimstay2017 @partydulce @exooojongdaeee

[sheshouldbesleeping]

i love my morally questionable boyfriend

[gatorgirlie]

this edit broke me

[dearose]

I want to be in a threesome with both bi men talking about me as if I'm not present, "Look how wet she is." "How bad do you want to fuck her?" "What position do you want her in?" "She's got you so hard, look at you, you're throbbing."

[stwritings]

[prsphnie]

[stevenose]

needy when i’m needy (18+)

the drunk steve touching himself in the car fic you all have been waiting for…

contents: gender unspecified reader; reader with a vagina; drunk, needy, desperate steve; steve masturbating in the damn car; mouthy and pathetic steve; sort of cocky steve also!; spit

this is also kind of sort of part of the august writing challenge with the addition of the word shelf because i am a cheater <3

i hope u enjoy!!

Steve’s in the late-stage part of his drunkenness. He’s slurring, giggling nearly nonstop, uneasy on his feet. His cheeks are dark pink and there’s sweat forming on his brow. And it seems that all he wants to do is dance, even though the music playing is really not danceable. It’s some chilled out music that Robin selected.

He’s also the only one dancing.

You finally get him off of the makeshift dance floor, which is the middle of Robin’s living room. You have to manhandle him on to the couch.

You stand in front of him, scolding softly. “Steve, you’re drunk.”

He furrows his brows and shakes his head at you. “Uh, I don’t think so, baby.” He tugs on your hand and pouts. “And why aren’t we dancin’?”

You roll your eyes and sit beside him. Someone makes a comment and he scoffs, leaning his body into yours.

Five minutes pass and he lifts his head, cupping his hand around your ear.

“I have a secret.”

Your lips curl into a smile. “What is it?”

He giggles. “i’m drunk.”

“I already knew that.”

“Wanna know another secret?”

You try to bite back your smile. “Sure.”

He giggles again, but this time, it’s breathy. Makes your skin prickle at your neck and shoulder. The hand not dramatically cupped at your ear rests on your thigh.

“I’m really hard.”

“Okay,” you say, face hot.

When you turn to look at him, he’s staring intensely. Licking his lips.

“Let’s get you home, alright?”

His hand squeezes your thigh again. “‘s a great idea.”

You have to pull his shoes on for him while he gently pats your head, leaning against Robin’s front door. She’s half awake and half asleep, stumbling towards you.

“Make sure he’s safe,” she says, poking her finger a little to hard into your chest.

“I promise. He’s going right to bed.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, we are!”

You and Robin both scoff. You wrap your arm through Steve’s to support him as you walk onto her porch. Robin bids you farewell, and you turn to guide Steve towards his car. You already have his keys.

He giggles beside you, squeezing your arm in his.

“Has too much today, huh?” you ask, approaching the passenger door.

“Not too much of you.”

“Aren’t you sweet.”

“Y’gonna do somethin’ ‘bout it?” Then he gasps and spins around. “Think I left my beer on the shelf by the —“

You turn him back around. “Uh-uh, baby, we’re not taking it home.”

He nods slowly. “Right. We have beer at home.”

You do not have beer at home, but you still say, “Right.”

“Y’so smart, baby.”

You smile at him, opening the door, leading him into his seat.

You press a kiss to his cheek and pull away before his lips could chase yours.

“You’re such a charmer, Steve.”

He smiles up at you, eyes and face glowing.

You love him.

You shut his door gently and make your way into the driver’s side. The moment you shut it, Steve’s big hands reach for your face. He cups your cheeks and pulls you in, pressing his mouth to yours.

You let him kiss you. He tastes like beer and cigarettes and very strongly of mint, like he might have snuck one while you were lacing up his shoes.

You appreciate the effort.

He giggles against your lips with his forehead pressed against yours. You giggle, too, because his joy is simply infectious.

“Wanna fuck you,” he murmurs, “right here.”

You really almost let him, but you know better, and so you pull away and slide the keys into the ignition.

He’s devastated.

“Huh?” he asks. “What? Why not?”

“It’s one in the morning and you’re going to have a killer headache tomorrow. You need to sleep.”

Like a petulant child, he scoffs, throwing his head back and stomping a foot.

“But you love car sex.”

You laugh, pulling out onto the road. “You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

“‘s that the problem?” he asks, sitting up and leaning over the console. “That I’m drunk? Baby, I w- I want you to fuck me so bad. Y’not taking advantage of me - or - or —“

“Stevie,” you sigh. “You need to sleep.”

He sighs louder than you and slinks down in his seat.

“Don’t know what you do t’me,” he says, playing with his nails. Acting all pitiful. “Breakin’ my heart, honey. Leavin’ me over here all alone aching for you.”

You laugh again. “You won’t die, I promise.”

He groans, his head lolling to the side to look at you. “You’re really gonna make me handle it myself?”

Your stomach tenses. “If you can’t wait until the morning, then yes.”

Steve sighs. Several times. About two minutes pass and you think he actually may have dropped it, but then you hear him unzipping his jeans.

“Jesus, Steve,” you say incredulously.

You focus on the road ahead of you, even when Steve moans breathlessly.

But then he says, so sweetly, “Please look at me.”

You look over, intending to give him a quick peek. But he’s palming himself, looking at you intensely. Lying low in his seat, biting his bottom lip, eyes raking across you. Drinking all of you in.

You look back at the road, a bit speechless. “Oh my god.”

“What?” he breathes. “You’re so goddamn pretty, y’know? Couldn’t help myself.”

You steal another glance.

You could crash the car. He looks wrecked. His body blushes, from his cheeks down to his chest. One hand palms himself through his underwear and the other sits on his thigh.

Steve smirks, all smug, pretty brown eyes hooded.

“Wanna see? How hard y’get me?”

You try to remind yourself that you’re ten minutes from home. Just ten minutes. You can stay strong.

“No.”

He groans. “Fine. Whatever. Have fun lookin’ at the road.”

You do still watch out of the corner of your eye. Of course you’re intrigued.

Steve lifts his palm to his mouth and spits.

You whimper.

it’s impossible to focus on driving when he starts gasping. Pathetic little whimpers, all breathy, slurring something under his breath. You can see the movement of his arm in your periphery. Up and down, nice and slow.

And you hear it, too - how wet he is. Each schlick that accompanies every stroke. His breath hitches, he sighs prettily, trying to hold back little whimpers.

Then he moans.

You imagine him, blissed out, his thumb swiping along the slick, ruddy head of his shaft.

Your jaw clenches.

“Fuck,” Steve sighs.

It’s real vulgar of him. He sounds fuck drunk when he says it, too.

“Could be you.” His voice is thick with lust. “Could be stretchin’ you out right now.”

You clear your throat and shift in your seat, clit aching. “Whatever.”

“You want it. Think I don’t see how your thighs’re clenched?”

“Steve, shut up.”

“Oh, I love it when you talk mean.”

“Stop it,” you say, biting your cheek. You tap the clock on his dashboard. “We’re seven minutes to home, which means you have seven minutes to cum. I’m not helping you when we get back.”

“Shit,” he murmurs, and doubles down his efforts. Spits again, right down onto his cock, groaning before continuing to jerk himself.

You’re in a frenzy. He sounds so good. You feel so empty knowing his fat, heavy cock is in his hand and not inside of you. You’re almost jealous of it, in fact. Your teeth dig into your cheek, and even though you could turn the radio up to tune him out, you don’t. You love hearing him.

Steve gets louder. You see his hips bucking. His free hand reaches for you and grips tightly onto your thigh.

“unh!”

You look at him now. You can’t not.

His eyes are squeezed shut, mouth open in pleasure. His pink lips are spit-slick and he whines. He opens his eyes, revealing stars inside of them while he stares intently at you.

He slurs something you can’t decipher. The car swerves and you gasp, quickly looking back to the road. Steve doesn’t seem to notice - his hips buck into his fist and he squeezes your thigh harder.

“Need you’,” he begs. “‘m so close, need — touch me, please.”

He kills you. You’re two minutes away from home and your resolve is cracking. Actually, it’s past cracked.

“Please,” he repeats, desperate. “Only — can only cum if you… oh, shit, need it so bad.”

You exhale shakily before moving your hand blindly over to his lap. He takes your hand, spits on it messily, then guides it to his shaft.

You wrap your hand around it and stroke him. Slow and firm. He whines, white-knuckling the handle of the passenger side door, his other hand in his hair. You take another glance when he groans and you see that he’s pulling on his sun-kissed strands.

“Oh my God,” you repeat. You don’t know what else to say.

His hand rests over yours, keeping it steady, before rutting himself into your fist. He cries out, back arching, feet planted firmly onto the floor.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck wanna fuck you so bad, pull over, ohmygod please pull over, wanna cum inside of your pussy, wanna feel it, shit!”

You’re speeding, the tires of Steve’s car screeching as you pull into the driveway, awkwardly putting it into park with your left hand. You don’t unbuckle yourself before leaning towards him and kissing him.

He can’t even keep his goddamn mouth shut while you do. He’s moaning filthily, licking into your mouth, panting heavily. You feel his cock twitching, his warm hand making yours move against it slickly. Your Steve-senses are good enough to know when he’s coming, and you’re quick to take your other hand and over it above his tip so that he doesn’t make a mess.

But he still does. He comes with a loud cry, panting in your mouth, eyes squeezed shut and a string of unknown expletives flying off of his lips. You feel his warm, sticky cum hit your palm and you can hear how wet it makes your fist as he fucks himself through it. He cums for a while, whimpering and whining through it before his hips and hand still, letting yours go.

Steve leans back, panting and sweating. His hair looks like hell, and he looks beautiful all wrecked like this. The car smells like sex and sweat and, well, your hand is covered in him.

“Look at this mess,” you say, sort of incredulous.

He grabs you by the collar of your shirt and pulls you into him, even though you’re messy, even though you can’t prop yourself up on your elbows.

“Just mad it isn’t in you,” he asserts, cockiness coming back. “C’mere ‘nd I’ll fuck some into you, angel.”

“Steve,” you warn, uneasy as he pulls you towards his lap.

“Get it on me, don’t care,” he rasps.

You hover over him. His cock isn’t even softening, even after all it gave. Steve’s hands move to your hips, quick to shove your pants down towards your knees.

“But sleep,” you say weakly, hands still held up awkwardly, his cum cooling on your fingers.

Steve’s lips find your neck. “I’ll sleep once I cum in y’r sweet little pussy, believe me.”

[stevenose]

contents: dubcon!!!!!; toxic!boyfriend!steve x fem!reader; reader with a vagina and breasts; jealous!steve; possessive/obsessive!steve; light bondage; slight stalking; piv; steve is pushy and overprotective but he really genuinely thinks it’s what’s best for you :( <\3… something something it’s very hot when a man loves you so much that he won’t let you go…

thinking of boyfie steve being protective of you to the point where it’s borderline toxic. or maybe even outright toxic. like, he was always looking out for you as friends, but some sort of switch flips the literal moment you say “yes” to being his girl, sitting in his car at lover’s lake one summer evening.

all of your problems are suddenly his to fix. flat tire? he insists on you sitting in the car while he fixes it up, even though you know what you’re doing. it’s chilly out and you’re not wearing a jacket? he’ll buy one for you so that you don’t catch a cold. not drinking enough water? he notices, and he won’t let you out of his sight until you’ve finished at least one glass in his presence.

it’s nice at first, being taken care of like this — but soon it feels a little condescending and sometimes even chauvinistic. there are boundaries you try to set with him, stressing that you’re not stupid. and steve does know that! you’re the smartest prettiest angel he’s ever seen! but a little thing like you shouldn’t have to carry the world on your shoulders. he sweet talks you, calms you down, telling you that he simply loves spoiling you and could very happily do so for the rest of his life.

but it doesn’t really feel like he’s spoiling you when he’s sizing up a guy who you were making small talk with while waiting for your drink at the bar. you watch your sweet steve turn from a puppy into a watch dog, his fingers digging into your waist and ushering you away from the presence of whatever “sleaze” was just “trying to fuck you.” that’s how steve sees the interaction, at least. as a threat. someone who wants to take you away from him.

you blow up at him when the cool outside air hits you. breaking out of his grip to shove your pointer finger into his chest and scolding him, words vicious, things you don’t really mean but you’re just so sick of him acting like you’re incapable of existing without him.

“i’m a big girl, steve, i can fucking handle myself!”

this is where steve disagrees with you. but he lets you rant at him until your throat hurts, and he lets you poke at his chest until it turns red. he lets you seethe in the car on the way home. most shocking of all, he doesn’t argue with you when you tell him you need a little space, a few days to just breathe without him watching you as if you might choke on air at any given moment.

he gives you a few days. it’s agonizing torture for him, and he sort of hopes it’s the same for you, too. though you do actually seem a lot happier when he watches you from the parking lot of the hawkins public pool, dressed in a goddamn bikini, one that he bought you, one that you’re only supposed to wear at his place. surrounded by friends with your tits barely concealed, where the lowliest trash in town can have an eyeful of your body.

he has half the mind to get out of his car and drag you away, but he knows better than to blow his cover now. so he waits until you’re tucked in bed that night to knock on your window and sweetly ask if you’d let him in. just to talk. nothing else. promise!

but would steve really be a loving boyfriend if he let you get away with that shit? no! he’s gotta fight for you, doesn’t he? even if that means tying you to your headboard haphazardly with a silk scarf when you get all combative again. even if that means slapping his hand over your mouth so that you’d just listen to him instead of arguing. until he finally shoves your underwear into your mouth with a regrettable sigh because you’re acting like someone you’re not.

“where’d my good girl go?” he asks softly, hands tracing down your body, cloaked in one of his oversized hawkins basketball shirts and nothing more. “what happened, baby? hm?”

you try to argue with him, but nothing quite makes sense past the cotton in your mouth.

a hand lingers at the base of your neck, steve’s finger gently tracing over the golden s that hangs on an expensive chain he got you. he’s at least pleased that you haven’t removed it, but it seems that, perhaps, it’s not doing such a good job at reminding you of who you belong to.

“i know you’re mad at me,” he says, sounding absentminded as his fingers continue to stroke his initial. it looks so pretty on you. “let me make it up to you, okay?”

you let him push your legs apart. you let him push his old t-shirt up over your breasts. you let him kiss down your neck while your chest rapidly rises and falls, clearly worked up — pissed at him and so wildly turned on that your sheets are darkening under you, wet with your arousal.

he fucks the look right out of you. spreads your legs wide and hitches them up on his shoulders, bending you in half. pushes in with one brutal thrust, a perverse sense of pride overtaking him while he watches your eyes widen and your fists clench above you.

“said you were a big girl,” he groans. “now you’re lookin’ at me like you can’t take it. need me to help you, huh?”

you clench hard around him, hips bucking, trying to get away from the stretch.

steve laughs. “yeah. just like i fuckin’ thought.”

every thrust is rough, but there’s intention behind it. each push of his hips is slow and deep, tilted just right, the tip of him sweeping over your g-spot over and over. you couldn’t even find it with your dumb little fingers before him. each press is a kiss to the deepest part of you — i love you. i love you. i love you. let me.

“i can be better,” he groans in your ear. “fuck, honey, let me show you.”

that doesn’t mean he’ll take a step back — instead, he means that he’ll help you get used to him. to his hand on the small of your back, to his overwhelming need to take care of you, to the rest of your lives together where you don’t lift a fucking finger except for him to put a ring on it and for you to take care of his kids.

and, considering how dumb you get when he has you like this, all spread open and at his mercy, it may actually be an easy lesson for you. and if it isn’t, that’s okay. he’ll keep you here as long as necessary. and you’ll thank him for it.

[valentine-night]

extremely pov rockstar boyfriend i need to sit down

[djo]

STEVE HARRINGTON Stranger Things | 4.04: Dear Billy

[djobaby]

pretty baby

[djospurnell]

HOLY FUCKING BICEPS

via rainbowmooonster on tiktok

[steelycunt]

imagine this heat and you roll over in bed an there’s some cunt there next to you. bruv id be inconsolable

[harringtonsdiary]

steve harrington x reader | angst | hopeful ending? | smut | fwb

warnings: CW: DRUG USE (coke) i already warned you, mention/description? of underaged sex, fwb, reader does it too, high sex, smut, porn with little to no plot, unprotected sex, drug mention A LOT, sad steve harrington, fingering, overstimulation, sort of body worship??internally??? idk it's in steve's pov and he really likes reader and her body... so boy, ROUGH SEX, steve has a hard time getting it up because u know... drugs, brief assplay.... (what have i become), biting, SPANKING, ambiguous ending. family video steve!!!! post s3-pre s4??? words: 8.3k summary: After the Russians and everything else the past couple of years, Steve finds himself needing an extra kick throughout his day. He's good at hiding it, until one night he calls you over for a hook-up. a/n:okay hello. this is purely because i read this fic about steve high on coke and i couldn't get it out of my head. this is me not condoning hardcore drugs but also sadly i wanted to write about steve having high sex 😧 please ignore this... just pure smut and filth... i cannot believe myself. also rip my search history for multiple things.

Steve Harrington doesn’t sleep anymore.

Not really. 

He closes his eyes sometimes, when the sun comes up and his body finally gives out, collapsing into something that resembles rest but feels more like drowning. He surfaces hours later. Three, maybe four if he’s lucky— with his heart already racing, shirt soaked through with sweat that smells wrong, chemical and sour.

The nightmares don’t stop when he wakes up. That’s the thing nobody tells you. They linger in the corners of his vision, in the fluorescent flicker of the Family Video lights, in the static hum of the television playing previews on loop.

He keeps moving. That helps. Movement means he’s not back there, not strapped to that chair with his face throbbing and blood in his mouth and Robin screaming his name through the drugged haze. Movement means he’s here, now, stocking shelves and rewinding tapes and pretending he’s a person who works a normal job in a normal town where normal things happen.

The coke helps too.

He’s not proud of it. That’s the thing— he knows what it is, knows what he’s doing, knows the way his hands shake when he’s been too many hours without a bump, knows the way his jaw clenches so tight his teeth ache. He knows his mom would die if she knew. His dad would probably laugh, then disinherit him properly this time instead of just threatening it.

He's done it once or twice in high school. Tommy H and Carol would bring it over— back when they were still speaking, back when Steve's house was the designated party spot because his parents were never home and nobody cared what happened to the furniture.

He remembers those nights in fragments. The way the high made everything sharper, brighter, faster. How his fingers would drum relentlessly on the armrest of his dad's leather recliner while some movie played that none of them were watching. Tommy and Carol would start making out on his parents' couch within twenty minutes, every time, like clockwork. Then they'd escalate— clothes coming off, Carol straddling Tommy's lap, the wet sounds of their kissing filling the room.

Steve would try to focus on the TV, but Tommy would catch his eye. Would grin at him, wolfish and mean, and force Carol to look over too. They'd give him a show— moaning louder, moving slower, making sure he saw everything.

And Steve would sit there, half-hard at best despite his sex drive being kicked into overdrive, palming himself through his jeans because that's all his body would cooperate with. The coke made him want it but wouldn't let him have it properly, and that made him feel even more pathetic, more lonely. So he'd sit there listening to Tommy and Carol fuck on his couch, high off coke, nursing whiskey stolen from his dad's cabinet, feeling like the loneliest person in the world.

But it keeps him awake. Keeps him sharp. Keeps the edges of everything bright and manageable instead of soft and suffocating.

He does a line before his shift. In his car, in the Family Video parking lot, because he’s run out of places where he feels safe enough to let his guard down for the thirty seconds it takes. His hands don’t shake when he does this part. Muscle memory, maybe. Or maybe this is the only thing he’s good at anymore— the efficient mechanical process of self-destruction.

The powder burns going up. Always does. He tips his head back, pinches his nose, blinks hard against the sting. Then comes the drip, bitter and medicinal down the back of his throat, and he swallows it down with the dregs of yesterday’s Dr. Pepper from the cupholder.

The world sharpens. Everything gets louder, brighter, faster. His heartbeat kicks up— too fast, probably dangerous, definitely not sustainable— but god, it feels better than the alternative. Better than the gray nothing that settles over him when he’s sober, the weight that makes it hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to care about anything beyond the fact that he’s still somehow alive when he probably shouldn’t be.

When he walks into Family Video, he’s smiling. It’s not real— hasn’t been real in months— but it’s there. Keith barely looks up from his magazine. Robin does, though. Robin always does.

She’s behind the counter, reorganizing the candy display with the kind of focused intensity that means she’s either avoiding her own thoughts or overthinking his. Probably both. She glances up when the door chimes, and her eyes do a quick assessment, that flash of concern she tries to hide but never quite manages.

“Hey,” she says, and it’s careful. Everything with Robin is careful now, like he’s made of glass, like one wrong word will shatter whatever’s holding him together.

Maybe she’s right.

“Hey,” he says back, and his voice comes out too bright, too fast, words tripping over themselves. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was insane. Well, not insane, but you know, backed up near the… anyway, I’m here. I’m good. We good?”

Robin’s mouth does something complicated. Not quite a frown, not quite a smile. “Yeah. We’re good.”

She doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe him either.

But he moves, because that’s what he does now. Stocks the returns, alphabetizes the new releases, helps a middle-aged woman find something “fun and sexy” for her Pamper-Chef party. His hands move too fast, fumbling tapes, dropping things. His jaw works constantly, chewing nothing, grinding teeth, tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth.

He talks too much. Knows it, can’t stop it. Words pour out of him like water from a broken faucet. It’s jokes that don’t land, observations nobody asked for, rambling tangents that lose their point halfway through. Robin listens, responds when she can, but he sees the way she watches him. The way she’s always watching now.

“You okay?” she asks during their break, sitting on the curb behind the store, watching him smoke a cigarette he doesn’t actually want.

“Yeah,” he lies. “I’m good. Great, actually. Feeling really good today.”

“Steve.”

“I’m fine, Robin.”

“Steve.”

He takes a drag, hands trembling slightly, and doesn’t meet her eyes. The sun is too bright. Everything is too bright. His skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit right anymore, like he’s wearing someone else’s body and doing a shit job of pretending it’s his.

“I’m handling it,” he says finally.

“This isn’t handling it.” Her voice cracks slightly. Even though she probably has no clue what “this” entails, she knew it was something to worry about. She saw right through him now, even when they’ve only been friends for less than a year. 

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because she’s right, and he knows she’s right, and knowing doesn’t change anything. Knowing doesn’t make the nightmares stop. Doesn’t make the mall go away. Doesn’t bring back the version of himself who existed before that summer, before the Russians, before he learned exactly how much pain a human body can endure before it stops feeling like a body at all.

He finishes his shift. Smiles at customers. Makes change. Recommends movies he hasn’t seen and probably never will. When it’s over, when he’s back in his car in the empty parking lot, he does another line because the crash is coming and he can’t face it sober.

The high doesn’t feel as good the second time. Never does. But it keeps him moving, keeps him functional, keeps him from having to think about the fact that he’s nineteen years old and his life has already ended twice.

He drives home with the windows down, radio too loud, heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape. The Harrington house is dark when he pulls up. It’s always dark. His parents are in Indianapolis, or maybe Chicago, or maybe they’re dead and nobody bothered to tell him.

He doesn’t go inside.

Instead, he sits in his car, engine running, hands gripping the steering wheel, and tries to remember what it felt like to want something. Anything. A future, a purpose, a reason to keep doing this day after day after day.

Nothing comes.

So he turns the car back on and drives until the tank is almost empty, until the sun starts coming up, until the coke wears off enough that exhaustion finally drags him under.

And tomorrow he’ll do it again.

Because Steve Harrington doesn’t know how to do anything else anymore.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

.-.-.-.

Another thing Steve Harrington is strung out on is sex.

Steve Harrington has been fucking. A lot. It gives him almost the same rush as the coke does— that brief obliteration of self, that momentary escape from his own head.

Steve loves sex. Loves the heat of it, the mechanics, the way bodies fit together in configurations that make sense when nothing else does. He loves watching a girl take him, the way her face changes when he pushes inside, the small adjustments her body makes to accommodate him. He loves when they call out his name— proof that he exists, that he's real, that he's here. He loves the pretty sounds they make, the gasps and whimpers that mean he's doing something right. He loves when they tell him he's good at this, that he's making them feel good, because it's the only thing he's still good at anymore. He loves giving those praises right back, feeling them tighten around him when he calls them “pretty” or a “good girl.” He loves pleasing them, loves the focused simplicity of it—read the signs, adjust accordingly, make her come. He loves the rush, the high, the brief euphoria when he finishes, that thirty-second window where his brain goes mercifully quiet.

Then it's over and he's alone again and nothing's changed except now he's sticky and tired and the girl is getting dressed and he has to pretend he'll call.

Tonight when he gets off work, the loneliness hits him the moment he steps inside his empty house.

Robin didn't work today— had the day off, probably spending it with her mom or locked in her room listening to records. He'd been stuck with Keith for the entire shift, and Steve had tried his hardest to handle it. 

He can quit anytime he wants. That's what he tells himself. He knows how and when. So it's no big deal that he kept disappearing to the bathroom to get a bump, something he needed to survive eight hours of Keith's breathing and Keith's commentary and Keith's existence.

On his third trip, Keith had made some joke about him shitting his pants— loud enough that the pretty customer Steve had been on his way to help could definitely hear. The girl he'd been planning to flirt with, get her number, take her out, fuck her, forget her.

Now it's Friday night and Robin is busy. Dustin is busy with whatever nerdy shit he does nowadays. And Steve is bored and alone, still wearing his Family Video vest and polo and jeans, standing in his kitchen that echoes with emptiness.

He'd taken another hit twenty minutes ago and he's never felt more alive, more awake, more like his skin is electric. And unfortunately, with the wake comes that desire— low and insistent in the bottom of his belly, pooling heat that demands attention.

It's almost ridiculous that he doesn't question who to call.

It's not like you and him are anything. You're a good friend. Kind. Pretty in this understated way that sneaks up on him. And maybe if things were different, if he were different, if the world hadn't ended and restarted and ended again—

He doesn't let himself finish the thought.

He dials your number, the one he knows by heart now. 

"Hello?"

Soft. Slightly cautious because it's late.

His eyes are already dilated but he feels them expand wider when your voice comes over the line.

"Steve?" You sound surprised but not unhappy. He hasn’t even said anything to let you know who it was. He hates how his stomach flips at the thought that he’s the only one who calls at this hour. "It's almost midnight."

"I know, I know." He laughs, pacing across the kitchen, cordless phone pressed to his ear. "Are you busy?"

"I'm reading." There's a smile in your voice. "Why?"

"Come over."

A pause. "Now?"

"Yeah, now. I'm bored out of my mind and—" He stops, switches tactics, drops his voice lower. "Come on, honey. You wouldn't want me to drink alone, would you?"

It's code. You both know it's code. This isn't about drinking and it never has been.

You sigh, but it's fond. "You're ridiculous."

"Is that a yes?"

"Give me twenty minutes." You arrive in twenty-two, and he's still wearing his Family Video vest because somewhere between hanging up and you knocking on his door, he'd decided— high and wired and restless— that the kitchen needed to be deep cleaned.

Now.

At 11 PM on a Friday.

He's reorganizing the spice cabinet when you walk in, letting yourself in because he always left the door unlocked for you. He can hear you giggle when you find him in the kitchen. 

"Were you cleaning?"

"Maybe." He grins, abandoning the paprika to pull you into the living room. "Want a beer?"

"Sure."

Within thirty minutes you've killed three bottles between you and migrated to the couch, your legs tucked under you, his arm stretched along the back cushions. The conversation flows easy. It’s of work stories, Robin's latest drama with Keith, the new arrivals at Family Video, but there's an undercurrent humming beneath it all.

You lean in and kiss him.

It starts slow, exploratory, your hand coming up to cup his jaw. But it escalates fast. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and you shift to straddle his lap. Your fingers grip the green fabric of his Family Video vest, clutching it tight for leverage as you deepen the kiss.

Steve groans into your mouth, hips already rolling up against you. He can feel himself getting hard, finally, thankfully, and he grinds against your thigh desperately, seeking friction. The vest bunches under your grip, polyester crinkling, and his hands slide up your back under your shirt.

Your skin is so soft. The coke makes him hyperaware of every texture—the cotton of your shirt, the smoothness of your back, the slight roughness of the couch fabric under his knees. But mostly it's you. The heat of you. The way you feel pressed against him.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, humping your leg like a teenager, unable to stop himself. "You feel so good."

You make a small sound. It’s like a half-laugh and half-moan, and you grind down on him harder. 

In one swift move he lays you down. 

Now you're kissing him harder, your back against the cushions and him half on top of you. His hands are in your hair, on your waist, pushing up under your shirt to feel bare skin. Your mouth tastes like beer and something sweet— gum, maybe, or chapstick— and he chases the flavor of it with his tongue. 

He's hyperfocused on every detail. The way your lips are slightly swollen already from kissing. The way your chest rises and falls with your breathing, faster now. The little sounds you make when his tongue finds yours. You're so responsive, so fucking perfect under him, and the high he’s on makes him feel like he could do this for hours, could map every reaction, could learn exactly what makes you gasp and whimper and moan.

You're still holding tightly to the green vest, as he desperately humps your leg, his cock aching. He can feel the heat of you even through layers of clothing and it's driving him insane.

God, you're beautiful like this. Hair mussed, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded. He wants to memorize this. Wants to burn this image into his brain so he can recall it later when he's alone and the house is too quiet and he needs something good to hold onto.

But he's jittery. Coming down from the last high, and his hands are shaking as he tries to unbutton your blouse. The buttons are small, slippery, and his fingers won't cooperate. He fumbles, curses under his breath, tries again.

"Fuck," he mutters, laughing awkwardly because he can feel you watching him struggle. "Sorry, I…long day. My hands are—"

He can't sit still. The exhaustion is creeping back in around the edges, that bone-deep tired that the coke usually keeps at bay. He's desperate for you, wants you. He wants to see more of you, touch more of you, taste more of you, but his body isn't responding the way it should and his brain won't slow down and he needs—

"I need—" he starts, then stops himself.

He stands up abruptly, crosses to where his jacket is draped over a nearby chair. His hands find the baggie in the inner pocket— muscle memory, autopilot— and he's back at the coffee table before he's fully processed what he's doing.

He pulls out his dad's credit card. The one they left behind with a note: For groceries and bills. Don't spend it on anything stupid.

He cuts sharp, clean lines on the glass surface with practiced efficiency. One swipe, two, three—the scraping sound of plastic on glass loud in the quiet room. He leans down. Inhales one line, quick and sharp, the burn immediate and familiar. His throat closes around the drip, bitter and chemical.

He notices the silence then. How quiet you've gotten.

He freezes, finger still pressed to his nose, and slowly looks over at you.

You're watching him. Not moving. Not speaking. Your eyes are wide, lips slightly parted. They’re still swollen from kissing him, and even now, even caught like this, he thinks about how good you look. Hair messed up from his hands, shirt rumpled, sitting there looking at him like... he can't read the expression on your face. Something between shock and concern and something else he doesn't want to name.

Steve sniffs hard, licking his lips where the drip is already coating them. "I'm sorry. I didn't—" He stops, swallows. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

You should leave. He knows you should leave. He's shown you the ugliest part of himself and now you're going to walk out and he'll deserve it and he'll be alone again and—

"Can I try?"

The words don't compute at first. He stares at you.

"What?"

"Can I try it?" you ask again, and your voice is steady, certain.

His eyes dance across your face, trying to see any inclination that you don't mean it. But all he sees is you. You’re pretty and patient and here and you’re looking at him like you actually want to understand this part of him too. The coke makes his heart race faster, makes the moment feel surreal and heightened, makes you look almost ethereal in the low lamplight.

His buzz has his mind like mush, thoughts moving too fast and too slow simultaneously. He should say no. Should tell you to go home, to forget what you saw, to stay away from him and his shit and everything he's become.

Instead he hears himself say, "Yeah. Come here."

You move from the couch to the floor, kneeling beside him at the coffee table. And god, the sight of you like that. On your knees next to him, looking at him with those wide eyes. It sends a bolt of heat straight through him that has nothing to do with the drugs and everything to do with how badly he wants you.

He cuts another line for you— smaller than his, because you've never done this before and he's not completely gone yet. The scraping sound seems louder now, more obscene. He watches you look at it, sees the slight tremor in your breathing. Even nervous, you're gorgeous. He wants to touch you, pull you into his lap, bury his face in your neck.

"Like this?" you ask, leaning forward slightly, and the movement makes your shirt gape at the neckline. He can see the curve of your breast, the shadow between them, and he has to force himself to focus.

"Wait." His hand comes up, gathering your hair back from your face. The strands are soft, slipping through his fingers, and when his knuckles brush the nape of your neck you shiver. He feels the goosebumps rise on your skin and it makes him want to put his mouth there, feel you shiver under his lips. "Yeah. Like that. Cover one nostril with your finger. Atta girl... now inhale through the other. Quick and sharp. Don't stop halfway or you'll waste it."

You hesitate for a second, and he can see the war happening behind your eyes. Then you lean down and do it.

The sound— the sharp inhale, the slight catch in your throat— makes his cock twitch. There's something so intimate about this, watching you do this, teaching you, sharing this fucked-up thing with you. He shouldn't find it hot. Knows he shouldn't. But the coke strips away his ability to lie to himself and the truth is he's never been more turned on in his life.

When you come back up, your face is already changing. Eyes watering immediately, nose scrunching, one hand flying up to cover your face. Even like this— eyes red, nose running— you're beautiful to him. Everything about you is beautiful to him right now, heightened and perfect and his.

"It burns," you say, voice strained and slightly nasal.

"Yeah. That's normal. It'll pass." He reaches out, thumb swiping at the residual powder dusting your nostril. Your skin is so soft under his touch. He wants to touch you everywhere. "Open your mouth."

You do, lips parting, and the sight of your mouth opening obediently for him sends heat pooling in his gut. He rubs the powder on your gums— slow circles with the pad of his thumb that make your eyes go darker, pupils starting to dilate. The bitter taste will hit your tongue, will numb your mouth slightly, and you'll chase that feeling for hours after.

He's watching your face so intently. The way your eyelashes flutter. The way your lips look wrapped around his thumb. The pink of your tongue visible behind your teeth. The coke makes him feel like he could stare at you forever and still find new details to fixate on.

As he starts to pull his thumb back, your lips close around it. Your tongue swirls, wet and warm, cheeks hollowing as you suck, and the sight of it punches the air from his lungs.

When his thumb comes out it's with a wet pop that goes straight to his cock.

"Christ," he breathes.

You're going to ruin him. He knows it with absolute certainty. This moment, this image of you on your knees with your pupils blown wide and your lips wet and swollen, is going to live in his head rent-free for the rest of his life.

Then you're on him, kissing him hard, and it's different now. Rougher. More desperate. You're both chasing something— the high, the heat, the obliteration of thought— and your mouths crash together with bruising force.

His tongue swipes into your mouth and yours meets it immediately, tasting him, and the kiss is wet and open and obscene. The sounds fill the room— gasping breaths, the slick slide of tongues, the wet smack of lips separating and meeting again, small desperate noises from both of you that might be pleasure or might be something else entirely.

Steve's hand finds your cunt through your jeans and even through the denim he can feel how wet you are, heat radiating through the fabric. "Fuck," he groans against your mouth, voice wrecked. "So wet already."

But the coke has him in its grip, and despite how badly he wants you, his cock is only half-interested. The blood hasn't rushed south yet, too busy keeping his heart racing at dangerous speeds and his brain firing in every direction.

You rock your hips against his hand, seeking friction, and he helps you. He guides you from the floor back onto the couch, positions himself under you, between your legs.

You grind against him, desperate and needy, your hips rolling in a rhythm that's almost violent. His fingers dig into your sides hard enough to bruise, gripping through your shirt, holding you steady as you drag your pussy against his growing bulge. The denim-on-denim friction is too much and not enough, the scrape of it audible in the quiet room. The fabric on fabric, your breathing getting harsher, small gasps punching out of you with each roll of your hips.

He's getting harder now, finally, blood responding to stimulus even if delayed. But you don't stop. You keep moving, keep grinding, and he keeps pulling you down harder, rougher, the sounds getting wetter somehow even through all the layers. Your arousal soaking through your jeans, his cock straining against his zipper.

His mouth finds yours again. It’s sloppy and open, tongues sliding together, panting into each other's mouths. He can taste the chemical bitterness on your tongue, mixing with beer and something that's uniquely you. He pulls back to kiss down your jaw, your neck, teeth scraping skin. You whimper and it’s high and needy. The sound makes him grind up into you harder.

He pulls your shirt aside roughly, mouth finding your collarbone, and sucks a mark there. Hard. Intentional. His teeth close on skin and you moan, back arching, pushing your breasts toward his face.

His lips find them through your bra, tongue circling your nipple through the thin fabric until it's wet and you're squirming. His eyes when he looks up at you are completely blown. His pupils are so wide the hazel is almost gone, swallowed by black, and when he sees your face he knows you look the same. Wrecked and wild and desperate.

"Need to touch you," he mumbles against your breast, words slurring slightly. "Need to feel you come."

His hand works between your bodies, fumbling with the button of your jeans. He finally gets it open. The pop loud in the room, zipper rasping down, and slides his hand inside your panties.

You're soaked. Swollen and hot and so wet his fingers slide through your folds with no resistance, the obscene slick sound of it making him groan. He finds your clit, circles it with firm pressure, and you cry out loudly.

"Steve!"

He fingers you fast and rough, two fingers pushing inside while his thumb works your clit, and it's frantic— the wet sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of you mixing with your gasps, the squelch of it indecent and perfect. He’s still kissing you open mouthed and sloppy. The pace of his fingers are too quick, the pressure too hard, but you're there, you're close, he can feel it in the way you're clenching around his fingers, can hear it in the pitch of your moans climbing higher.

"Come on," he urges, voice rough and desperate. "Let me feel it. Come for me. Come on my fingers."

You do, crying out his name. "Steve, Steve, Steve.” Your whole body goes rigid before the orgasm tears through you. Your cunt clamps down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses, so tight it almost hurts, and he works you through it, fingers gentling slightly, the wet sounds continuing as he draws it out.

When you finally go limp against him he pulls his hand away. His fingers are shining, coated in you, and without thinking he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean. The taste of you— salt and musk and something sweet underneath— makes him groan.

You're both panting, sweating, hearts racing from the coke and the exertion and the need that still hasn't been fully satisfied.

He's still only half-hard, the coke keeping his body from catching up to his mind, and he needs more. Needs the friction, needs the build, needs something to chase.

"Keep going," he rasps, hands gripping your hips. "Don't stop."

This time when you grind down the angle is different. It’s harder, more focused. He can feel himself getting there, blood finally rushing where it needs to go, his cock filling out properly against the confines of his jeans.

The sounds are obscene. The fabric scraping, your breathing harsh and ragged, the small mewls punching out of you with each roll of your hips. He's gripping you so hard his knuckles go white, bruises blooming under his fingers, and you're chasing it too, chasing that edge you can't quite reach through the chemical haze.

"That's it," he groans. "Fuck, keep going. Almost there."

When he's finally fully hard, aching and straining against denim, he doesn't wait. Can't wait. He lays you down on the couch, your back hitting the cushions, and you're both fumbling with clothes. Buttons, zippers, fabric pulled and shoved and discarded until you're bare beneath him.

He can't even wait. Can't take the time to appreciate the sight of you spread out on his couch, can't slow down enough to make this good. He lines himself up and pushes inside in one thrust.

You cry out. It’s sharp and high, and he groans, the sensation muted but present. He can barely feel it, knows it's the same for you, but he can tell you're being stretched. Can see it in the way your mouth falls open, the way your hands scrabble for purchase on his shoulders.

One pump. Two. Then his pace is fast. His hips slapping against yours, the wet crack of skin on skin filling the room, rhythmic and filfthy and loud in the quiet house. He's gripping the back of the couch with one hand for leverage, knuckles white, the other splayed across your hip hard enough to bruise. One knee is up on the cushions, giving him the angle to really take you, to drive deep, and the couch creaks beneath the both of you with every thrust.

It's rough. Unrelenting. The coke has numbed you both out and he's chasing sensation through a fog, trying to feel anything beyond the muted pressure. So he goes harder, faster, like he can fuck his way through the chemical wall if he just doesn't stop.

The little punched-out ah, ah, ah sounds you make with each drive, involuntary and breathless, building on top of each other like a song he wants to memorize.

"Feels so good," you moan.

He changes angles, dropping his weight onto his forearm, bending over you to kiss you. Your tongues sliding together, wet and messy, his mouth swallowing the next gasp before it can escape. Then his mouth finds your neck, and he sucks hard. His teeth scraping skin until you twitch beneath him. Another hickey blooms under his mouth, darker than the first, and he drags his lips lower.

His mouth closes around your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the peak until you arch up into him with a sharp cry that echoes off the walls. He does the same to the other. It’s so wet a string of salvia between his lips and your tit, leaving matching marks. He then pulls back to watch.

Your breasts bounce with each thrust, the movement hypnotic, and he could watch it forever. Your mouth is forming shapes. Os and gasps and his name broken into syllables, “Ste—, Steve—, oh—” the sounds dissolving into each other. You look so sexy like this. Wrecked and flushed, sweat already clinging to your skin, hair fanned out across the cushions, whiny little gasps punching out of you with each drive of his hips like you can't help it, like he's making you make those sounds and you have no say in it.

You're trying to grab at him, trying to match his pace, nails raking down his back hard enough that he hisses through his teeth.

Then he stops.

The sudden absence of movement is almost violent. The room goes quiet. It’s only your ragged breathing and the creak of the couch settling. 

You're so oversensitive, so lost in it, that you don't notice at first. Your hips roll forward chasing friction that isn't there anymore. Then your eyes snap open. They are confused, glazed, pupils swallowed whole by black, and you're about to ask what, why, please— when he slips out of you and reaches for the baggie on the coffee table.

He's back in seconds.

He makes a line between your breasts— careful, practiced, the white powder stark and almost pretty against your damp skin. Then he leans down, nose pressing into the valley between them, one hand splayed flat against your sternum to hold you still. 

He inhales sharp. One smooth, practiced drag, the burn immediate, his exhale warm and humid against your chest. The excess dusts your skin in a fine scatter and he doesn't pull back. Just presses his nose into you, sniffing, breathing you in, his face buried between your breasts, moving it back and forth. His stubble dragging rough against your skin, and you laugh, startled, the sound bright and real and so you that something in his chest does a complicated thing he doesn't have words for.

Then his mouth finds your nipple again and the laugh cuts off into a moan.

He sucks hard, and you cry out, "Steve!" The sensation cutting through the numbness for one sharp moment.

You catch him off guard then, both palms flat against his chest, and push. He goes easily. He falls back against the couch with a breathless laugh, sprawling, looking up at you with blown pupils and that crooked grin that does something unfair to his face.

"Your turn," you say, voice sweet and breathless, and the combination of the two— the sweetness, the breathlessness— makes his stomach clench.

He's grinning as he reaches for the baggie. Makes a line at the curve of his stomach— right above where soft meets the trail of dark hair leading down, the skin there pale and vulnerable. His hand shakes slightly, the powder scattering more than he means it to, and he struggles to concentrate because he can already feel the ghost of your breath against his skin as you lean in. 

"Hold on," he mutters, more to himself than you.

You don't hold on.

Your tongue licks up his happy trail first, wet and warm, and he gasps. His abs contracting involuntarily, the baggie nearly slipping from his fingers.

"Christ—"

You smile against his skin. He can feel it.

You kiss the bottom of his belly— the soft part he's always been self-conscious about— and the second he finishes the line his hand is in your hair. Fisting the strands, gathering them back from your face, knuckles brushing your cheek. He can feel his own pulse in his palm where he grips you. 

You come up to his chest, kissing his pecs, your tongue circling his nipples, and god he wishes he could feel it properly but you look so fucking hot when you glance up at him. Eyes wide and innocent, pupils blown to black, lips parted and shining.

He hasn't told anyone. Wouldn't be doing this with anyone else. The thought hits him like a truck and he pulls you in for another kiss. It’s messy and wet and desperate. You bite his bottom lip hard enough that he should feel pain but the coke has stolen that too.

He gets you on all fours then, your knees dipping into the couch cushions as he kneels up behind you. He worships the curve of your spine with his hands, the nape of your neck with his mouth. The fat of your ass fills his palms and he grips it, spreads you open, then slips back inside.

And he's unrelenting again. Thrust after thrust, your body jolting forward with each one, gasps punching out of you in rhythm with his hips. He can feel you come again— the clench and flutter around his cock— as he circles your clit with determined fingers.

Your body shakes and he flushes his chest against your back, bicep coming around your throat in a loose headlock, his mouth finding your neck. The sounds are dirty— wet and slapping, skin on skin, your ass meeting his hips with each brutal thrust. He's being rough but it's controlled, purposeful, chasing something neither of you can quite reach.

"You feel so good for me," he whispers against your ear, breath hot and harsh.

You whimper.

"You're so fucking hot like this."

He knows his breath against your ear makes you feel something because you whisper, "Fuck, more Steve, please." the words broken and desperate.

He's gripping your ass now, guiding you to an even faster tempo, and he can feel the head of his cock brush against something deep inside you. His heavy cock twitches, finally getting close.

He lets out a curse when he feels your teeth sink into his bicep as you cry out. You give a loud moan muffled against his skin. The high makes him feel like he has to return it and his teeth find your shoulder, biting down hard.

He whimpers loudly back in your ear when he feels himself finally reaching the edge, that coiled tension in his gut starting to unravel.

Then his hand finds the middle of your back and presses. Flat and firm, pushing you down. Your hands clutch the armrest, knuckles going white, your forehead bowing down to meet it too as your back arches. The new angle wrings a sharp gasp out of you.

He pulls out.

The noise you make is immediate. High and bereft, hips rolling back on instinct, searching, finding nothing. Your ass lifts and wavers in the air and he watches it with dark blown eyes and says nothing for a moment.

"Stay still."

You don't.

You wiggle back toward him and it’s shameless and chasing. Steve’s palm cracks down.

"Harder," you gasp.

You wiggle again. Deliberately.

He spanks you harder, the sound sharp in the room.

"Steve." His name wrecked in your mouth. "Harder."

So he gives you harder. Everything he has behind it, palm connecting with a sound that's almost too loud, too much. The welt rises fast. The whole spread of his large hand mapped out on your skin in one angry blooming mark that he stares at for a beat too long. It feels like he has done another line right then and there of how euphoric he feels.

Then both hands grip you, nails biting in, spreading you open, and he drops his mouth to you.

His tongue finds your cunt first and he doesn't ease into it. The coke has him wired and single-minded, every nerve lit and humming, and it makes him relentless. His tongue works fast and hard, licking into you with a focused feverish energy that makes you cry out and scrabble uselessly at the armrest. He doesn't let your hips move. Holds you open with both hands and just goes, like he's trying to take you apart, like his brain has locked onto this and won't release until you're shaking.

Then he drags his tongue up to your rim and the sound you make is startled and high and desperate. He presses the tip there and works. It’s fast, hard circles that don't let up, his tongue pushing insistent and relentless, the coke driving him past any point of subtlety. A thumb keeping you open for him, as your other hand finds your cunt and rubs with the same frantic energy and you cry out something that might be his name or might be nothing at all. 

Your hand flies back, grasp his hair. Your grip is hard, fingers twisting into the roots and pulling, and the sharp tug sends a bolt straight down his spine. His breath stutters against you. Even through the coke the sensation cuts through, immediate and grounding, and something low in his chest clenches at the fact that you're holding on to him specifically. Not the couch, not the cushions. Him.

Then he guides you down. Fully flat, stomach to the cushions, your cheek pressed into the fabric. He lines himself up and drives into you in one stroke and the sound you make punches out against the fabric. It’s breathless and broken and loud.

He doesn't stop. Flesh against flesh, the wet slap of it filling the room, mixing with his grunts and the broken syllables he's making of your name, incoherent and desperate and not quite swearing but not quite words either.

Finally he can feel the numbed-out bubble popping in the pit of his stomach. He thinks he's coming. He can't quite tell through the haze, but he continues making faltered thrusts into you anyway, riding it out. 

He pants between your shoulder blades, forehead dropping there too, both of you completely still for a moment except for the heaving of your lungs. His hands are braced on either side of you, trembling slightly. Beneath him you're still clutching the cushions, knuckles slow to release, fingers uncurling one by one as the tension drains out of you. 

He thinks about the mess underneath you both. He's going to have to flip over the cushions later, hide the evidence.

He can feel the aftershocks moving through you. Little waves, involuntary, your body still working through it. You’re twitching and shivering under his weight, hips making these tiny helpless rolls that you probably aren't even aware of. Like your body hasn't gotten the message yet that it's over. Like it's still chasing something, still wringing the last of it out.

He watches it happen. Stays still and just lets you ride it out beneath him, his chest rising and falling against your back, his breath evening out slowly while yours does the opposite. Those soft broken sounds still escaping you, little exhales that aren't quite moans and aren't quite sighs.

Your whole body is flushed and damp, trembling in waves, and he can feel every shiver of it against his skin.

He presses his lips to your shoulder blade. Then between them. Quick and soft and almost reverent… almost. A string of kisses down your spine that don't match anything that came before them.

Eventually the trembling slows. Your breathing deepens. The grip on the cushion finally releases completely.

He eases back. Offers you his hand without thinking about it.

You both sit up slowly, carefully, like the room might tip if you move too fast.

He's still high but he looks at you with concern. "You okay, right?"

"Yeah." Breathless. Smiling. Your voice still hasn't fully come back.

He hates how good you look like this. Wrecked and soft, hair tangled, lips swollen, that particular fucked-out looseness in your expression that the high and the orgasm have conspired to put there. If he really tried— another bump, maybe two— you could probably go again. Go all night. His body is already filing the suggestion away somewhere dangerous.

But something in his chest twists at the sight of you.

The mascara smudged at the corners of your eyes. The marks blooming across your collarbones, your shoulders, your neck— purple and red and unmistakably his. Your hair messed beyond repair. All of it his doing, every bit of it, and the high isn't quite enough to make that feel uncomplicated.

"You sure you're okay?" He asks it before he can stop himself, and he hears it—hears the shift in his own voice, that particular register he falls into. Concerned. Careful. The boy who checks on people, who makes sure everyone got home safe, who asks twice because once never feels like enough.

There he goes again. Falling into it with someone he considers his friend. Someone he secretly, quietly, in the part of himself he doesn't examine too closely… wishes could be something more.

At first it's just the high and the afterglow doing the looking— soft eyes, dopamine-loose smile, drinking in the sight of him equally wrecked. You find the bite mark on his bicep, already darkening. The hickies scattered across his neck and chest that he didn't feel forming, that his body couldn't register through the chemical wall. You look at all of it with something warm and unhurried.

Then the warmth shifts.

It's subtle— only a flicker behind your eyes, there and gone— but he catches it. He's been watching your face all night. He knows its geography now.

Sadness. Worry. Something that looks uncomfortably close to longing.

He knows. Doesn't want to know, but knows anyway— the way you always know the things you're trying hardest not to. You're worried about him. Have been for a while, probably. Tonight wasn't just want, wasn't just the hour and the high and the phone call pulling you here. Some part of you came because you didn't want him to be alone with it.

And some part of him— the part he keeps quietest— knows you want more too. Has known for a while. Files it away in the same place as another bump and just one more night and all the other things he tells himself he'll deal with later.

"I am," you say.

But you aren't looking at him when you say it.

You end up going upstairs to his room anyway, leaving behind the mess. He turns off the lamp. The two of you navigate the dark staircase side by side without touching.

He wouldn't have asked you over if he didn't have the house to himself tomorrow. That's what he tells himself.

He'll probably stay awake anyway while you sleep.

Neither of you shower. His bed is unmade, same as always. You crawl in from opposite sides, the mattress dipping, and normally there'd be talking. There's usually talking. It’s the easy, rambling kind that fills the dark, nothing important, everything comfortable. But the crash is already pulling at him, heavier than usual, the coke's debt coming due all at once. His eyes go leaden. His thoughts slow and blur at the edges.

He thinks, distantly, that he should stay awake. Keep watch. Old habit.

He doesn't.

.-.-.-.

Sunlight hits him first.

White and merciless through the gap in the curtains, straight into his eyes, and he surfaces with a groan already forming in his chest. His head is a closed fist. 

Migraine.

It’s the specific kind that lives behind his left eye, the kind that's been his companion since that summer, another reason the sunglasses are never far, another thing he doesn't explain to people.

He turns over slowly.

Stops.

You're still asleep. Your face is toward him, lashes dark against your cheek, mascara tracked down in faint smudged lines you don't know are there yet. Your brow is slightly furrowed even now— not peaceful, not quite. Like sleep hasn't fully convinced you to let go of something.

That feeling in his chest does what it always does when he looks at you for too long. Pinches. Pulls. Fills up with something warm and complicated and shot through with shame— at the marks on your skin, at the smudged mascara, at the furrow in your sleeping brow that he put there. That he caused, one way or another. The mess downstairs. All of it.

He gets out of bed carefully. Doesn't let himself look at you again.

The living room is exactly what he left it. The coffee table. The scattered clothes. The cushions are slightly out of place.

His hands are shaking before he's fully reached the bottom of the stairs. That familiar morning tremor. He’s anxious before he's had time to think of something to be anxious about, dreading the day before it's started, bone-tired in a way sleep doesn't touch.

He crosses to the coffee table on autopilot. Sits on the ground, his back against the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

There’s still white lines on the surface of the coffee table, patiently waiting for him.

He stares at it for a long time.

He thinks about you upstairs, brow furrowed in sleep. He thinks about Robin behind the Family Video counter, watching him with that careful, knowing look she tries to hide. He thinks about Dustin calling him Steve the Babysitter like it's an insult that's actually the best thing anyone's ever said to him. He thinks about all the kids. Max and El, even sometimes Mike. All of them. They look at him like he’s someone to look up to. 

He thinks about the mall.

His eyes sting. He pinches at the corners hard, jaw working, forces it back down. He's not doing this. Not right now. Not here when it’s seven in the morning.

He swipes his hand across the table.

The powder catches the light as it goes. It’s white and fine, almost pretty, and scatters into the carpet like snow that's already melting.

He sits there for another moment.

Then he gets up. Finds the vacuum in the hall closet. Runs it methodically over the carpet until the floor is clean, until there's nothing left to see.

After, he goes to the kitchen and pulls out ingredients to make breakfast. 

Pancakes. He can do that.

He hears you pad softly into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes sleepily. You're wearing one of his shirts and it falls to mid-thigh on you.

"Good morning," you say groggily.

"Good morning," he answers back, voice rough from sleep and chemicals and whatever else.

You hop up on a bar stool, cheek in your hand, watching him. He asks, "How do you feel?"

You mumble, "I'm tired."

"Yeah," he says softly. "Me too."

He turns back to the stove. He watches the batter spread slow and pale in the pan.

And he lets himself have it. The tiredness, the quiet, the strange aching ordinariness of standing here while you sit there. He doesn't reach for anything. He doesn’t run. Doesn’t feel like he has to to get another bump to get through the morning. 

He stands in his own kitchen on a Saturday morning and lets it all be exactly as heavy as it is.

It's enough. Somehow, improbably, it's enough.

[crispy-apples]

Gator Tillman gif edit

[joekeerysbellybutton]

Heatwave

Synopsis: A hot night has Steve feeling restless in more ways than one.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

WC: ~2.1

Tags: MDNI, SMUT, m!masturbation, somnophilia ish, slight exhibitionism?, kinda perv!steve, sub!steve if you squint

Notes: exposing myself as British by saying the weather here is grossly hot, so naturally I’m thinking about Stevie being so hot and bothered he can’t sleep </3

Masterlist

The thing about summer in Hawkins is that it isn’t just hot – it’s wet. The air is thick like a tension that fills the town that you just can’t cut. It was the same temperature inside and out, no respite even in the dead of night. The cool tone of the moonlight filtering into the bedroom did nothing to battle the red hot heat.

04:16AM. That was the time on the clock as Steve looked over at it, just two minutes had passed since the last time he checked. He lay on his back, his sticky skin clinging to the cotton sheets under him. His sweaty palms damp as they flexed against the mattress. He was completely naked, but the humid air clothed him in a layer of sweat.

Steve managed to sleep earlier in the night, somehow. But the discomfort built to a head to rouse him at 03:30AM and he had laid there ever since, unsuccessfully counting burning sheep.

He looked over to his other side to see your figure sprawled out atop the sheets. Your limbs were stretched out, trying to circulate the air around you. You and Steve had moved far apart to stop your body heat from radiating off each other.

You, by some miracle, were fast asleep. Your brow a little furrowed, like you were fighting the heat in your sleep. You wore nothing but your most comfortable cotton underwear that still clung to your hips, sweat seeping through the white fabric, turning it translucent. Your breathing was heavy, making your chest perk up in a delectable way. Sweat collected in between your brow, your breasts, in your belly button. Steve wanted nothing but to lick it off you. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t touch you. Not when you had been given the gift of sleep in this heat, with him miles away on the other edge of the bed.

You two had tried to have sex earlier in the night, but the way your hot skin rubbed against each other was too uncomfortable. You tried different positions to make it work but you eventually pushed him off. The feeling of Steve between your legs has never been something that cooled you down.

Steve’s cock never really softened after that. And after waking up in the middle of the night, seeing you lying there, the moonlight casting your glistening body in an angelic glow, he just got so much harder.

Steve brought his hands up to rub the sweat off his face, only to find that it deposited the buildup from his palms. Something had to give. The heat he could do nothing about, but the other problem could be solved embarrassingly quickly. Maybe if he took care of one issue, it would make the other a little more bearable, he thought.

One of his hands trailed down the matted hair on his chest, following its path down his stomach to the base of his cock. His touch was so light as his grazed a finger over his hard length right to the tip. He held in a deep breath. He was going to have to be quiet.

He turned his head to you again, none the wiser of his desperation just next to you.

Steve shifted to face his body in your direction. He propped himself up on his elbow, his throbbing cock pointing toward you like it knew what he needed. He gently wrapped his hand around himself, thumb rubbing at the dampening head. He bit his lip to stop any involuntary sounds escaping him. The precum leaking from his tip and his sweaty palm was more than enough to get his cock sufficiently wet.

He started slow, not wanting to make any sudden movements that might creep into your dreams and alert you. But as he lazily stroked himself, his eyes darting over your skin, he couldn’t help but chase his release a little faster. A squeaky whine escaped him. It probably would have been a much lower tone if he wasn’t trying so hard to stay silent.

Silence was hard when wet sounds started eminently from between Steve’s hand and his cock.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself involuntarily, he froze.

His eyes shot to your face to try and see any signs that you might have heard. If anything, Steve thought your face relaxed a little more, that crease in your brow shallowing out. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

His eyes fell to your lips, open around puffs of air you let out. Steve’s hand resumed moving over his rock hard length. His eyes traced down the side of your jaw and over your neck. They settled in your collar bones, little pools of sweat filling the indents of your skin.

With much restraint, Steve worked slow. But it was hard. He knew he could probbaly cum in seconds if he just let himself go wild and fuck his fist. Hell, he could cum just as quick if he shook you awake and begged you to let him feel your insides. Both of those would mean disturbing your precious, yet precarious, slumber.

Steve held back a groan as his gaze fell further to your chest. What he would give to lean over, kiss between your breasts, lick your skin clean and suck one of your nipples into his mouth. He was drooling.

Against his better judgement, Steve spat his saliva into his palm. It felt cool for just a moment before it heated up in his hand. He lowered it back down to his cock again. Just a little more wouldn’t hurt, he thought, as he rocked his hips ever so gently into his hand.

The sheets rustled beneath him and you stirred. A slightly heavier breath left your mouth and you stretched your legs out wider. It was like you were taunting him and you didn’t even know it.

“Fuck,” Steve said through gritted teeth.

This time he didn’t stop. As much as he’d feel awful if he was to wake you, he started to find the whole situation thrilling. The thought of you catching him red handed in this vulnerable position. You finding out he was using you as his own personal Playboy. What would you do? Would you be mad? Scold him? Tell him he was perverted and make him go sleep downstairs. At least it would be cooler down there.

Or would you like it? Would it make you wanna touch yourself too? Sex didn’t work, but maybe you could get yourselves off from opposite edges of the bed.

Every possible scenario filled Steve’s dizzy head as he felt a much better feeling heat build in his stomach. His grip tightened as his gaze fixed between your legs, imagining the feeling of you squeezing around him. Those little sighs that slipped your lips as he filled you. Would you still be wet from earlier?

“Yeah, so fucking wet,” Steve said, not expecting it to actually come out rather than stay im his dirty mind.

You reacted with a little whimper, like you were losing that battle between sleep and consciousness. Your body curled in on itself, rolling on your side towards Steve. As far as he could tell, you were still asleep and he was about to break.

He flopped on his back, slapped his hand over his mouth, and stoked himself faster. He twisted and tightened his hand, trying to make it feel like you. It never did, but it was enough. He was getting so close. His palm tasted like desperation against his tongue as he tried, but failed, to stifle his moans. He was never good at keeping quiet.

“Steve…”

He heard your voice cut through the thumping in his ears – soft like butter wouldn’t melt on your tongue even in this heat. Steve couldn't be sure if it was actually you or if he was so close to the edge, his mind created a perfect replica of your voice. He should have known he couldn’t possibly recreate something so sweet himself.

Then he heard it again.

“Steve.”

Slightly more sure of itself.

He turned his face to you, still covered with his large hand. Your eyes were open, wide but clouded by a darkness in them. You were closer, just out of reach but near enough to feel your heat collide with his.

“Shit!” Steve groaned as he reluctantly pulled his hand from his cock like it burned him. It kind of did.

“Honey, I–fuck–I’m so sorry,” he blabbered breathlessly. “I just– I couldn’t sleep and we didn’t get to do much earlier, and you were there and you looked– you look so…”

“Keep going,” you said, voice level like you were unaffected.

“Wha–?”

“Finish what you started.”

With your green light, Steve’s hand was back on his aching cock. He gasped as soon as he made hot contact again. With his mouth free of his hand he let out all the needy sounds he had been holding.

You felt so hot as you watched Steve intensely. Not down at his hips thrusting, hand twisting, but his face – his gorgeously blushed, sweaty face. His head was now flung back against the pillow, his eyes screwed shut so tight he looked uncomfortable. You scooted closer, paying no attention to how your thighs stuck together. You leant into him, not quite touching, and blew cool air on his neck to sooth him.

He whimpered.

“That feel nice, baby?” You asked.

“Real fucking nice,” Steve groaned.

“How long have you been like this?”

“Dunno–ah–feels like forever.”

“Got yourself so worked up, huh?” You teased as you blew some more cold air out from your delicate mouth.

“That was all you, honey. You wouldn’t let me–hmmm–fuck you in this heat–ugh. Christ, it’s so fucking hot.”

You chuckled, “I’m sorry, Stevie.”

“You don’t sound very sorry,” he whined

“Well, you did wake me up. You expect me to just give you what you want? You can do it yourself, that’s what you were doing anyway.”

“N–ugh, but you’d feel so much better.”

“Yeah I would,” you shrugged. “But I wouldn’t get to watch you desperately fuck yourself then, would I.”

“You like seeing me like this, all needy for you?” Steve turned his head to you and opened his eyes.

You gave him a sly smile. “Uh huh.”

“You wet?”

“Uh huh.”

“Uugh fuck!” Steve’s breathing was so short and fast it was almost nonexistent. “Gonna co–uuuh, ha.”

“Let me see you come. Show me how desperate you are for my pussy.”

You knew a little dirty talk sent Steve soaring. He loved to hear obscene things come out of your pretty lips.

Your name slipped from his mouth, wrapped in a groan and tied in a bow with a whimper. Steve came hot ropes over his tummy as you blew that delightful cool air over his neck. He continued to stroke himself as he sputtered out his tip until the heat and sensitivity made it unbearable. His breathing slowed and you finally made physical contact. You brushed the stray stands of hair out his face with extreme care not to put too much of your burning finger tips in his scalp. Steve hummed contently as he looked at you taking care of him.

“I am sorry, really, for waking you,” he said, his words still a little breathy.

“Don’t be,” you replied. “I wouldn’t have wanted to miss that.”

Not even the searing heat could keep Steve from you now as he flung himself on you, rolling your body underneath his.

“Steve,” you giggled, trying to sound stern. “You’re so sticky.”

He caged you beneath him and took your lips into a passionate kiss that almost made you forget it was half four in the morning.

“I have an idea,” you said, your palms coming up to his chest to push him back from you slightly.

“Please, do share.”

“Why don’t we take a nice, cold shower, together,” you suggested. “There is no way I’m getting to sleep after that.”

“Now who’s worked up, huh?” Steve teased.

You pushed Steve harder so he fell to the mattress beside you.

“You better not tease me, Steve.” You got up from the bed and started walking backward towards the bathroom. “Or I will leave you here while I see to myself with my good friend, the shower head.”

“Oh honey…” Steve groaned. He crawled to the end of the bed. “You wouldn’t.”

“You gonna make sure of that, or what.”

You slipped into the bathroom and Steve heard you turn the water on. He practically fell out of the bed as he scrambled to catch up to you.

He would make sure.

A/N: dipping my toe into perv!steve and i like it… part two in the shower?? Maybe?? What do we think??

Taglist: @ribeiroteresa97 @purpleeyeswithgoldensparkles