pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader (spiderman au)
summary: you find out that he’s spiderman
warnings: just fluff, they’re in a situationship
a/n: the new trailer inspired me :)
At first, it didn’t make sense.
Not even a little.
Steve Harrington was many things —charming, annoyingly pretty, chronically late—
—but he was not Spider-Man.
He was the guy who complained about running. The guy who once said, very seriously, that “cardio is a scam.” The guy who got winded carrying groceries up two flights of stairs.
So no.
There was no way.
And yet—
There were too many coincidences.
First, the pattern.
You didn’t notice it all at once.
It started small.
Steve canceled plans.
A lot.
“Something came up.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
“Rain check?”
At first, you didn’t care. You weren’t serious.
That was kind of the whole point.
You and Steve were… something in between.
Late-night drives.
Shared fries.
Kisses that lasted a little too long but never got talked about after.
No labels.
No expectations.
No questions.
Until you started asking them anyway.
Because Steve didn’t just cancel randomly.
He disappeared right before something happened.
Sirens in the distance.
News alerts on your phone.
Helicopters circling downtown.
And then, twenty minutes later—
Spider-Man spotted.
Every time.
Then, the first clue.
The first real crack in your denial came on a Tuesday.
You were sitting across from Steve in a diner, his milkshake melting as he talked about something you weren’t really listening to.
“…and then Robin says—are you even paying attention?”
“Mm,” you hummed.
Your phone buzzed.
Breaking: attempted robbery downtown.
You frowned slightly.
“Hey, isn’t that like… five blocks from here?”
Steve stilled.
Just for a second.
Barely noticeable.
Then he grabbed his jacket.
“I—uh, I gotta go.”
You blinked.
“Right now?”
“Yeah, I—something came up.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“Steve.”
“What?”
“You literally just said you had nothing to do tonight.”
He hesitated.
And that—
That was new.
“…I forgot something.”
“You forgot something,” you repeated slowly.
“Yeah.”
“Five blocks away. During a robbery.”
“Okay, when you say it like that—”
“Steve.”
He was already standing.
“I’ll call you, okay?”
“You never call.”
“I will this time.”
You watched him leave.
Watched him jog out of the diner—
Jog.
Steve didn’t jog.
Your stomach dropped.
You told yourself it was nothing.
For exactly one day.
Then you started paying attention.
Really paying attention.
You kept track.
Not in a creepy way.
Just… mentally.
Every time he disappeared
Every time Spider-Man showed up minutes later
It lined up too well.
Too perfectly.
And then there were the injuries.
“Fell down the stairs,” he said once, with a split lip.
“Walked into a door,” another time, with bruised ribs.
“You don’t walk into a door that hard, Steve.”
“Big door.”
“Shut up.”
You laughed it off.
But you noticed, you always noticed.
The confirmation didn’t come from logic.
It came from instinct.
And a really bad decision.
You followed him.
It wasn’t planned.
You were leaving his place after a movie night—nothing special, just the two of you on the couch, his arm around you like it belonged there.
He kissed you at the door.
Soft. Distracting.
“Text me when you get home,” he murmured.
“I always do.”
You took three steps down the hallway.
Then you heard it.
Sirens. Too close.
You turned back just in time to see Steve freeze.
Again.
That same hesitation.
That same look.
“I—uh…” he started.
You didn’t let him finish.
You just… watched.
And then—
He ran.
Not a jog.
Not casual.
He ran.
Fast.
Like he’d done it a hundred times.
Your heart started pounding.
“Steve?” you called.
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t even look back.
And that’s when you knew.
You shouldn’t have followed him.
You knew that.
But you did it anyway.
Up the stairs.
Out the back.
Through the alley.
You lost him twice.
Found him again.
And then—
You saw it.
A flash of red and blue disappearing onto a rooftop.
Your breath caught. No. No way.
You climbed up after him, hands shaking slightly.
And there he was.
Standing at the edge.
Back to you.
Suit on.
Mask half-off.
Steve.
Steve.
“Wow,” you said softly.
He froze.
Slowly—so slowly—he turned around.
Mask in his hand.
Eyes wide.
“…you weren’t supposed to see that.”
You crossed your arms.
“You’re terrible at lying, you know that?”
“Okay, in my defense—”
“You told me you walked into a door.”
“It was a very aggressive situation—”
“Steve.”
He stopped talking. You stepped closer.
“You’re Spider-Man.”
It wasn’t a question.
He swallowed.
“…yeah.”
Silence.
The city hummed below you.
“You could’ve told me,” you said quietly.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” he ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, nervous—“because if something happened to you because of me—”
You blinked.
“…to me?”
“Yeah.”
The way he said it—
like it was obvious.
Like it mattered.
Your chest tightened slightly.
“We’re not even—” you started.
“I know,” he cut in quickly.
Too quickly.
“That’s the problem.”
You frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Steve looked at you for a long second.
Like he was debating something.
Like he was losing.
“It means,” he said finally, quieter now, “that I don’t get to ask you to stay out of it.”
You softened.
“…Steve.”
“But I want to,” he added.
Your heart skipped.
“I really want to.”
The wind shifted between you.
Carrying the noise of the city, the distant echo of sirens.
You took another step closer.
“You’re an idiot,” you said.
“Yeah, I’ve been told.”
“No, like—” you shook your head, a small smile breaking through—“you thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
“You disappear every time there’s a crime.”
“In my defense, crime is very inconveniently scheduled.”
You laughed.
Actually laughed.
And something in his expression softened instantly at the sound.
God.
He looked at you like—
like you were something fragile.
Something important.
“…you’re staring,” you said.
“Sorry.”
He didn’t look away.
You tilted your head.
“No, you’re not.”
“…not really.”
The air shifted again.
Different this time.
Quieter.
Closer.
“You could’ve told me,” you repeated, softer now.
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t have… freaked out.”
“I know.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly.
“…you just didn’t trust me.”
His expression changed immediately.
“No—hey, no. That’s not—”
“Then what?”
He hesitated.
And for once—
it wasn’t about lying.
It was about saying too much.
“It’s because I like you,” he said finally.
Your breath caught.
“…Steve.”
“And not like—casual, whatever this is supposed to be,” he went on, words coming faster now, like he couldn’t stop them—“I mean like… I actually care. More than I should.”
The world went very, very quiet.
“You don’t get to say that now,” you said softly.
“I know.”
“After months of—whatever this is.”
“I know.”
“After lying to me.”
“I know.”
You stepped closer anyway.
Close enough to see the tension in his shoulders.
The way his hands flexed at his sides.
“…you’re still terrible at lying,” you said.
He huffed out a breath.
“Yeah.”
“But you’re even worse at pretending you don’t care.”
That made him look at you again.
Really look at you.
And this time—
he didn’t hide it.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
“I’m really bad at that.”
You didn’t think.
You just reached out, grabbing the front of his suit and pulling him down into a kiss.
He froze for half a second.
Then melted into it.
Completely.
His hands came up to your waist instantly, pulling you closer like he needed you there.
Like he’d been waiting for this. Like he’d been holding back for way too long.
You pulled back slightly, breath uneven.
“…so this is why you keep disappearing,” you murmured.
He let out a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours.
“Yeah.”
“Kind of inconvenient.”
“Tell me about it.”
You smiled.
Then, softer:
“…I’m not going anywhere.”
His grip on you tightened.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Steve exhaled, something in him finally relaxing.
“Good,” he said.
Then, after a beat—
“…because I think I’m already in too deep.”
You smiled slightly.
“Yeah.”
You already knew.
author’s note: don’t forget to like and repost if you liked it!
pairing: joe keery x fem!reader
summary: a cozy and cutie (wanted to scream) morning with your boyfriend.
warnings: suggestive, established relationship,
a/n: hihi, i will try to be more active so heres a new fic :)
The first thing you notice is the warmth.
Not the sunlight — that’s still faint, barely slipping through the curtains — but the warmth wrapped around you.
His arm.
Joe’s arm is draped over your waist, heavy and loose, like he fell asleep mid-thought and just… stayed there.
You don’t move at first.
You just lie there, eyes still closed, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest behind you. His breath is warm against the back of your neck, uneven in that way that means he’s not fully awake.
Or maybe he is.
With him, it’s hard to tell.
Your fingers curl slightly into the sheets.
Everything feels… quiet.
Soft.
Like the world outside the room doesn’t exist yet.
Then his hand shifts.
Barely.
Just enough for his fingers to press a little more firmly against your side, like he’s checking you’re still there.
You smile to yourself.
“Joe,” you whisper, voice rough with sleep.
A pause.
Then, right against your neck, his voice — low, husky, still half-dreaming:
“Mm… don’t.”
You let out a small breath of laughter.
“Don’t what?”
His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer without effort.
“Don’t move.”
You can hear the smile in his voice, even if he hasn’t opened his eyes.
“Why?”
“Because,” he murmurs, pressing his face further into your shoulder, “if you move, I have to wake up.”
“That’s usually how mornings work.”
“Not today.”
His hand slides slightly, fingertips brushing under the edge of your shirt — nothing rushed, nothing intentional enough to be teasing… just instinct.
Comfort.
You inhale softly.
“Joe…”
“Five more minutes,” he mumbles.
You tilt your head just enough to glance back at him.
His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes, lips slightly parted, still caught somewhere between asleep and awake.
He looks… softer like this.
Less like the version of him everyone else sees.
“Five more minutes turns into an hour with you,” you say.
“Good.”
“You have things to do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You literally—”
He shifts again, this time pulling you fully against him, chest to back, legs tangled without thinking.
His voice drops even lower.
“I had things to do,” he corrects. “Now I’m busy.”
“With what?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, his nose brushes lightly against your neck, slow and absent-minded.
“Sleeping,” he finally says.
You huff out a quiet laugh.
“Liar.”
His thumb traces a lazy line along your side.
“Okay,” he admits. “Maybe not just sleeping.”
There’s a pause.
Not awkward.
Just… heavy in a different way now.
You feel it in the way his hand lingers. In how neither of you is really trying to pull away.
Your voice softens.
“You’re clingy.”
“Only with you.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is this morning.”
You turn slightly in his arms, enough to face him.
The movement is slow, careful, like neither of you wants to break whatever this is.
Joe opens his eyes just a little as you do.
They’re still sleepy. Warm.
Focused entirely on you.
“Hi,” you whisper.
“Hi.”
There’s a moment where neither of you speaks.
His hand is still resting at your waist, thumb brushing small, absent patterns against your skin.
Your face is close enough that you can feel his breath.
Close enough that—
“Don’t start something,” you murmur.
He raises an eyebrow, faintly amused.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re looking at me like you are.”
“Like what?”
You hesitate.
“…like last night didn’t end.”
His lips twitch slightly.
“Did you want it to?”
You don’t answer.
And that’s answer enough.
Joe leans in first.
Slowly.
Like he’s giving you time to stop him if you want to.
You don’t.
The kiss is soft.
Sleepy.
Barely there at first — just a brush of lips that lingers longer than it should.
Then again.
A little deeper this time.
His hand shifts at your waist, pulling you closer without urgency, just enough to close the space between you completely.
You hum quietly against his lips.
“Joe…”
“Mm?”
“We’re not going back to sleep, are we?”
He smiles against your mouth.
“Probably not.”
You sigh, but you’re smiling too.
“Your fault.”
“Yeah.”
Another kiss.
Slower.
Warmer.
Like neither of you is in a rush to be anywhere else.
Outside, the light gets a little brighter.
Inside, neither of you notices.
Because for now, the world is just this:
His arm around you.
Your fingers tangled in his hair.
And a morning that neither of you is trying to end.
summary: just a cute moment in the backstage of lollapalooza
warnings: suggestive, established relationship, fluff, making out
a/n: all these new content made me want to write again…
You could hear the crowd chanting his name from the other side of the barricades.
“DJO! DJO! DJO!”
You leaned against one of the metal railings in the backstage corridor, arms crossed, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you listened to it echo through the humid Buenos Aires night.
You had seen him perform hundreds of times.
Tiny venues.
Secret shows.
Crowded festivals.
But this one felt different.
Maybe because it was Lollapalooza. Maybe because Argentina crowds were insane. Maybe because you had watched him rehearse this exact set in your living room for months, headphones half-on, guitar balanced on his knee while he said:
“I’m gonna come and find you.”
The stage lights finally dimmed.
Crew members rushed around with cables and equipment, and then you spotted him.
Joe appeared from the side entrance of the stage, hair damp with sweat, guitar still strapped across his chest, cheeks flushed from adrenaline.
For a second he didn’t see you.
He was still half in performance mode — smiling at the crew, thanking people, running a hand through his messy and recently blonde hair.
Then his eyes landed on you.
And everything softened.
His grin turned into something quieter. Warmer.
“Hey,” he said, walking straight toward you.
You pushed yourself off the railing.
“Hey, rockstar.”
He laughed under his breath, dropping the guitar to a stagehand before reaching you.
“Did you watch the whole thing?”
“Front row of the side stage,” you said. “Best seat in the house.”
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I swear that crowd was insane. I thought my in-ears were broken because I could hear them over the band.”
“They were screaming every lyric,” you said. “You realize that, right?”
Joe looked at the ground, almost shy.
“That’s… weird to hear.”
You stepped closer, reaching up to brush a damp curl away from his forehead.
“They love you.”
Your voice softened.
“And I’m really proud of you.”
That made him look up.
For a moment the chaos of backstage faded into background noise — people walking past, carts rolling, someone shouting in Spanish across the corridor.
Joe studied your face like he was memorizing it.
“You’ve been saying that since the first show,” he murmured.
“Because it’s always true.”
His hand slid around your waist instinctively.
The two of you had been together long enough that the touch felt automatic — natural in a way that barely needed thought.
Fans had known about your relationship for years now. It wasn’t a secret anymore.
But moments like this still felt private.
Like something that belonged only to the two of you.
“You were amazing tonight,” you continued, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “Seriously. The songs? The crowd went feral.”
Joe huffed out a quiet laugh.
“Feral is the word.”
“Especially during End of Beginning.”
“Oh god,” he groaned.
You leaned closer, teasing.
“They were screaming your name.”
He tilted his head.
“You were screaming too.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m allowed.”
Joe smiled slowly.
“And why is that?”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Because I knew you before the screaming.”
He looked at you for a second longer.
Then his hand slipped lower on your waist.
The gesture was casual at first — until his fingers hooked lightly at the back pocket of your shorts.
You felt the familiar pressure of his palm resting just a little too low.
Your eyes widened.
“Joseph.”
“What?”
“You know there are cameras everywhere.”
He glanced around the backstage corridor like he was considering the risk.
The area was quieter now — most people had moved toward the dressing rooms or equipment trucks.
You were standing near a stack of lighting crates, half hidden from the main walkway.
Joe looked back at you with that slightly mischievous grin he always got when he knew he was being a menace.
“I don’t see any.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
Your sentence cut off when his hand squeezed your hip — very deliberately.
“Joe!” you whispered, trying not to laugh.
“What?”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours.
Your voice dropped to a murmur.
“You just performed for fifty thousand people.”
“And?”
“And maybe act like a normal person for five minutes.”
Joe tilted his head.
“Define normal.”
Before you could answer, he kissed you.
It wasn’t dramatic.
Just a warm, lingering kiss that tasted like adrenaline and sweat and the faint sweetness of the drink he’d chugged before the set.
Your hand instinctively slid into his hair.
Joe deepened the kiss slightly, his other hand settling firmly on your waist while the first one — still very much on your backside — gave another playful squeeze.
You pulled back with a laugh.
“Oh my god.”
“What?”
“You are literally grabbing my ass backstage at Lollapalooza.”
He shrugged.
“You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You said you were proud of me.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
He kissed you again.
This time shorter.
Just a quick, affectionate press of his lips against yours.
When you pulled apart, both of you were smiling.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said.
Joe nodded.
“Probably.”
A distant cheer from the crowd echoed through the night again.
He glanced toward the stage.
“I still can’t believe that just happened.”
You squeezed his hand.
“Get used to it.”
Joe looked back at you.
“Only if you’re there.”
“Always.”
He leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to your temple.
Somewhere behind you, a camera shutter clicked.
Neither of you noticed.
Later that night the internet noticed.
Very quickly.
Within an hour, photos started circulating across social media.
Grainy backstage shots taken from the edge of the restricted area.
One picture showed Joe with his arm around your waist, smiling down at you.
Another captured the exact moment you were kissing — half hidden behind equipment cases.
And the third…
The third photo was the one everyone was losing their minds over.
Joe’s hand very clearly gripping your butt while you laughed into his shoulder.
@indiedjo: JOE KEERY GRABBING HIS GIRLFRIEND’S ASS BACKSTAGE AT LOLLAPALOOZA ARGENTINA I’M SCREAMING
@djoarchives: the way she’s smiling… yeah that’s real love actually
@strangerthingsfan: not them recreating that evan peters coachella energy 😭
@joekeerysupremacy: respectfully they are the hottest couple alive
@djosetlist: those are my parents
@indiekidsclub: i’m not jealous. i’m not jealous. i’m not jealous.
@lomlenergy: THE ASS GRAB????? HELLO?????
@festivalcam: someone said they were tucked behind the stage like they forgot cameras exist 😭
@musicfestivalera: god i see what you’ve done for others
@joekeerynation: if he doesn’t look at me like that i don’t want it
@djoendofbeginning: they’re so in love it physically hurts
And somewhere in a Buenos Aires hotel room later that night, Joe scrolled through the posts with a quiet laugh.
“Uh oh,” he said.
You looked up from the bed.
“What?”
He turned the phone toward you.
Your eyes widened at the photos.
“Oh my god.”
Joe grinned.
“Guess they found us.”
You buried your face in your hands, laughing.
“I told you there were cameras.”
“Worth it,” he said.
You peeked at him through your fingers.
“Joe.”
“Yeah?”
You smiled.
“I’m still proud of you.”
He set the phone down and leaned over to kiss you again.
author’s note: hi! sorry for not posting, was really busy with school and stuff 💔 remember to like and repost if you enjoyed and my requests are open!
warnings: angst | too late | emotional burnout | quiet breakup
part one
It starts small.
That’s the ironic part.
Not with some grand gesture. Not with flowers or a speech or him crying on your doorstep.
It starts with a text at 6:42 p.m.
Skipping drinks tonight. Wanna order Thai?
You stare at it like it’s written in a foreign language.
Skipping drinks.
You blink.
You almost laugh.
It’s funny how the bare minimum suddenly feels monumental.
You type back carefully.
Sure.
He comes home early.
Actually early. Not “midnight but technically still the same day” early.
He’s carrying takeout and something else—something fragile in his expression. Like he’s aware he’s walking on thin ice.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey.”
You take the bag from him. Your fingers brush. He lingers for half a second too long.
He notices things now.
That’s new.
You sit at the table instead of the couch. He puts his phone face down without you asking.
That’s new too.
“I’ve been thinking,” he starts.
You brace yourself automatically.
“I haven’t been… present,” he says carefully. “With you. And that’s not fair.”
You nod slowly.
“I know.”
He winces slightly, like he expected resistance. A fight. Not agreement.
“I want to do better,” he says. “I can do better.”
You look at him for a long moment.
You believe him.
That’s the problem.
⸻
The next few weeks feel like a version of the relationship you used to imagine.
He texts more. Calls between shoots. Leaves events early. Invites you out instead of assuming you’ll stay home. Introduces you properly instead of vaguely.
He tries.
God, he tries.
And the worst part?
You can see the effort.
You see him hesitate before accepting plans. See him put his phone away mid-conversation. See him watching you like he’s checking if you’re still there.
You are.
Physically.
But something inside you has gone quiet.
It hits you one afternoon when he shows up with coffee at your job.
You didn’t even tell him you were having a rough day. He remembered.
“I figured you’d need this,” he says, smiling nervously.
You take it.
Your coworkers stare a little, whisper a little. You ignore it.
Joe looks proud of himself. Hopeful.
And you feel…
Nothing.
Not irritation. Not anger.
Just a dull ache where excitement used to live.
It’s funny how you begged for this version of him for months.
And now that he’s here, you’re too tired to enjoy it.
⸻
That night, he finds you sitting on the edge of the bed, unusually quiet.
“Did I do something?” he asks immediately.
There’s fear in his voice now. Real fear.
You shake your head.
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
You look up at him.
And for the first time in a long time, you don’t laugh.
That’s what scares him.
“I think,” you say slowly, “I ran out.”
“Ran out of what?”
“Energy. Hope. Whatever it was that kept me fighting for us.”
His face falls.
“I’m fighting now.”
“I know.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re already gone?”
Because I am.
You swallow hard.
“You remember how I used to joke about it?” you ask quietly. “About you being out drinking while I was at home?”
Joe stiffens.
“I thought if I laughed, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”
His voice is barely above a whisper. “It did hurt.”
“Every time.”
Silence fills the room.
“I didn’t know,” he says.
“I know.”
“And I’m trying now.”
“I know.”
He steps closer. Desperate but controlled.
“Then let me fix it.”
You look at him—really look at him.
He looks exhausted. Determined. Scared.
And you love him.
You do.
But it feels like loving someone from behind glass.
“I needed you to fix it when it was breaking,” you say softly. “Not after it shattered.”
His eyes gloss over.
“I can’t go back,” he says helplessly.
“I know.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s trying to solve a problem on stage.
“I thought giving you space was the right thing. I thought you were strong enough to handle it.”
“I was,” you say. “That’s the issue.”
You were strong enough to swallow it.
Strong enough to wait.
Strong enough to laugh instead of cry.
Until you weren’t.
“Do you still love me?” he asks finally.
It’s the simplest question.
The hardest one.
“Yes,” you say immediately.
Relief flashes across his face—
—and then fades when you don’t smile.
“But I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m constantly adjusting to you. Waiting for you to choose me. Hoping this version of you sticks.”
He shakes his head. “It will.”
“But I don’t have it in me to test that.”
That’s the part he doesn’t understand.
You’re not angry.
You’re tired.
And tired doesn’t scream. It doesn’t throw things. It doesn’t beg.
It just… lets go.
Joe kneels in front of you like you’re something fragile.
“I can be what you need,” he says.
You give him a small, sad smile.
“I needed you to be what you said you were.”
That lands deeper than you intended.
He exhales shakily.
“So that’s it?” he asks. “You’re just done?”
You hesitate.
Because part of you wants to say no. Wants to give him one more chance. Wants to believe timing can still bend in your favor.
But you remember all the nights on the couch.
All the Instagram stories.
All the laughs that were just shields.
“I think,” you say quietly, “I stopped crying about us a while ago.”
He looks confused.
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
You shake your head.
“No. It means I already grieved it.”
That’s when it finally breaks him.
Not loudly.
But visibly.
“I’m here now,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“And it’s still not enough.”
You reach out and touch his face gently.
“No. It’s just too late.”
He doesn’t argue after that.
That’s the saddest part.
He just sits there, hands gripping your knees like if he lets go you’ll disappear.
“I never meant to make you feel small,” he says.
“I know.”
“I never meant to make you laugh so you wouldn’t cry.”
warnings: angst | emotional neglect | unbalanced love | quiet heartbreak | joe being an asshole
It’s funny how quiet your apartment is at night.
Not peaceful. Not calm.
Just… empty in a way that feels personal.
You’re curled up on the couch in your old sweatshirt—one of his, technically, though he probably forgot he ever left it here. Your phone is face-down on the coffee table, like that might stop you from checking it every thirty seconds.
It won’t light up.
It hasn’t all evening.
You glance at the TV, where something mindless is playing, the laugh track too loud, too artificial. You’re not really watching. You’re counting. Minutes. Hours. The space between messages that never come.
It’s funny you’re out drinking.
You picture it without trying. Joe in some dimly lit bar, arm slung over the back of a chair, laughing with people you don’t know. People who know his face. His name. The version of him that doesn’t come home exhausted and quiet.
Funny I’m at home.
You snort softly at that, a dry, humorless sound, because yeah. That tracks.
You didn’t always mind being the one who stayed in. You liked routine. Normality. A life that didn’t revolve around premieres and press and strangers who felt entitled to pieces of him.
Joe used to say that’s why he loved you.
Loved. Past tense. Even if neither of you has said it out loud yet.
⸻
When you first met him, he was… different.
Not unknown—never that—but softer around the edges. Less guarded. He used to show up at your place with takeout and a crooked smile, collapsing onto your couch like the world hadn’t already started pulling him away.
“I just need somewhere normal for a bit,” he’d said once, forehead pressed to your shoulder.
You were normal. Comfortably invisible. No cameras. No expectations.
You didn’t realize, back then, that normal was something he’d eventually outgrow.
⸻
Your phone buzzes.
Your heart jumps embarrassingly fast before your brain catches up.
A notification. Not him.
Just a mutual friend’s Instagram story.
You tap it before you can stop yourself.
There he is.
Joe, flushed and smiling, drink in hand. Someone’s tagged him. The bar’s loud, crowded. He looks good—effortlessly so, like he always does when he’s not trying. Like the version of him the world gets.
The caption reads: “Best night 💥”
You stare at it longer than you should.
Funny everybody knows something I don’t.
You close the app.
Your chest feels tight, like something’s sitting there, heavy and immovable. You tell yourself not to spiral. You’re not dramatic. You’re not clingy. You’re not the girl who needs constant reassurance.
You’re just… tired.
⸻
Joe had texted earlier.
Running late. Might grab a drink after. Don’t wait up.
No question mark. No is that okay?
You’d replied with a joke, because that’s what you do now.
Wow, living the dream. Say hi to the bar for me.
He reacted with a laughing emoji.
That was it.
It’s funny how much damage a single emoji can do.
You replay the past few months like a highlight reel you never asked for.
Missed calls.
Plans rescheduled.
Conversations cut short because he’s “exhausted” or “swamped” or “about to lose signal.”
And every time, you laugh it off.
“Yeah, yeah, go be famous,” you’d tease.
“Don’t worry about me,” you’d say.
“I get it,” you’d insist.
You’ve said I get it so many times it’s started to feel like a lie you tell yourself more than him.
⸻
Your phone buzzes again.
This time, it is him.
Your fingers hesitate before you pick it up, like you’re bracing for impact.
Still out. You okay?
You stare at the screen.
It’s such a simple question. Such a harmless one.
You laugh.
Out loud, this time. A short, brittle sound that echoes a little too much in your living room.
Funny how I do this. Every single time.
You type, delete, type again.
Yeah. Just watching TV. Have fun.
You send it before you can overthink it.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Then nothing.
You wait.
You always wait.
⸻
You don’t remember when laughing became easier than crying, but now it’s instinctive.
Like a reflex.
Your friends have started to notice.
“You’re taking this really well,” one of them said recently, concern masked as admiration.
You’d smiled. Made a joke. Changed the subject.
What you didn’t say was that crying feels too honest. Too dangerous. If you start, you’re not sure you’ll stop.
Laughing, at least, keeps you intact.
So funny that I have to laugh just so I don’t cry.
⸻
Joe comes home around 2:17 a.m.
You know because you’re still awake, staring at the ceiling, the TV long forgotten. The door clicks open softly, like he’s trying not to wake you, even though he never checked if you were asleep in the first place.
You hear him kick off his shoes. The familiar sounds feel foreign now, like muscle memory without the comfort.
He steps into the living room and freezes when he sees you.
“You’re still up,” he says quietly.
You glance at him. He smells like alcohol and cold night air. His hair’s a mess. He looks… happy. Or at least lighter than he has around you lately.
“Insomnia,” you reply, shrugging. “Very trendy.”
He huffs a small laugh, but it fades quickly.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to stay out that late.”
You sit up, pulling your knees to your chest.
“It’s fine.”
He frowns. “You always say that.”
You smile, sharp and tired. “Funny, right?”
That gives him pause.
Joe drops onto the armchair across from you instead of sitting beside you like he used to. The distance feels deliberate, even if he doesn’t realize it.
“You mad at me?” he asks.
You consider it.
Mad implies energy. Passion. A desire to fight.
“I’m not mad,” you say honestly. “I’m just… here.”
He rubs his face, uneasy. “I texted you.”
“I know.”
“I asked if you were okay.”
“And I said I was.”
Silence stretches.
Joe looks at you like he’s trying to read something written in a language he never bothered to learn.
“You can talk to me,” he says.
You laugh again.
God, you’re so good at that now.
“About what?” you ask. “How funny it is that you’re living your life and I’m watching it through other people’s stories?”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
You stand, suddenly exhausted.
“I think I’m going to bed,” you say.
He nods, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Me too. Long day.”
You pass him without touching.
That’s when it finally hits you—not like a dramatic wave, but like a quiet truth settling into place.
You’re lonely.
Not alone.
Lonely with him.
And somehow, that’s worse.
As you close the bedroom door behind you, you let out one last soft laugh, pressing your forehead against the wood.
Because if you don’t—
You’ll cry.
author’s note: first joe fic!! like and repost if you enjoyed 🩷
imagine his girlfriend filming him while doing a trend and him so being so clueless.
HE'S JUST KEN !
i.
You told Joe to stand with a cushion in front of the camera and though he had no idea why, he did. Because you told him to.
"What's going on?" he asked, watching as you set up the camera.
You were backstage of a show he was prepping for, hour or so before he was set to take the stage. As he liked to, he relaxed with cups of tea to ease his voice, not a big crew around him, just you. His only person.
Typically you sat together, talked or read or he ran through some song choices he was thinking about and other things he was working on.
Today, you changed it up.
You stood next to him, with a cushion in your own hand.
Joe looked around, confused but with a smile. "What?"
"Just listen."
Joe squinted at the camera, regretting his glasses left on the side.
"Who was interested first?"
Before Joe could even register the question your pillow hit him in the chest with a soft whack.
He stumbled back at the force un-accounted for and looked back to you as you laughed. His jaw was agape even as your knees buckled from your force of laughter. "What the he-"
"Who said I love you first?"
Joe at least had a second to prepare, holing up his pillow before yours hit him again. He heard the question, he got the gist of what was going on and wasn't going to deny it. He remembered the picnic in central park he took you on when he first said I love you.
"Who is more protective?"
Both of your cushions went up and hit into each other, the force stumbling you both.
"You so are!" you argued.
"Yeah but so are you!" he said.
You hit him with the cushion again as he cowered in laughter.
"Who cleans more?"
Joe hit you.
"Who eats the most?"
Joe was ready before the question even ended he. He spun and whacked you in the ass with the pillow, throwing you back onto the sofa. "Oh shit!" he laughed.
The both of you were in fits of laughter. The camera picking up on you lying on the sofa, arm over your stomach with laughter while Joe loomed over you, laughing.
"Who spends the most money?"
Joe ignored the question, laying a hand on your back.
You tried to lift the pillow to hit him but he grabbed your wrist and put it down.
"No I don't!"
"Who is most likely to start an argument?"
Joe straight up dropped the cushion. He held his hands up in surrender, not willing to take the hit or make it. Maybe it was the two years you'd been together but neither of you started arguments. Who wanted to get into arguments?
Your own cushion was clutched to your chest as you were still laughing, trying to get up but Joe not letting it happen.
"Who falls aslee-"
The audio kept going and the last shot the camera got was Joe falling on top of you on the sofa in his dressing room, throwing the cushion at the camera and plunging the tikok into to darkness.
View all comments:
the way he dropped the cushion so fast
he really said we do not argue in this house
may this love attack me
y/n feeding us with joe content
JOE SAID I LOVE YOU FIRST
ii.
When you started posting Joe, you should've expected the fallout. The comments of 'hard launch of the century' or people aghast you were even together even if you hadn't been trying to keep it a secret. You also weren't trying to make it public-public.
But Joe liked it.
He liked boasting. His friends knew that. A hand always on each other when hanging out, if you were going out he liked to give you a hat of his to wear. And if nobody could see that love they could hear it in his songs.
So, you went again. A harmless little prank.
Your phone was in hand, the record button hit as you flopped next to your boyfriend on your sofa in your NYC apartment. On instinct, Joe's arm went around your shoulder.
You started with casual chat.
Then: "Oh my god, I forgot to tell you."
The camera picks up on the immediate interest in his face.
"Tell me, tell me," he said, abandoning his own task on his phone.
"I found Joe Quinn on Raya."
Joe didn't even think. He laughed, pushing back his hair. He leant closer toward you. "Did you? Did you really?"
"Yeah," you said with your own amused grin.
"But wasn't he- I thought he was dating-" Joe began, his head leant in hand as he dug his elbow into the sofa, watching you.
You shook your head, trying to keep back your laughter. You didn't want any other names to be involved in a Tiktok that would be posted online. You'd just picked Joe because he was yours and Joe's friend and you knew he was recently single. "No."
You watched your boyfriend think about it and for a second, you thought you were caught out.
"Did you see the picture released of him as George Harrison?" he asked instead.
You laughed but nodded. "Yes."
Joe was momentarily confused why it was so funny but moved past it. "Wait can I see the photo's he-" the camera picked up on the very moment he realised. "Wait, Raya?"
You pitched forward with a laugh, as Joe laughed too, though more confused.
Joe chuckled. "Why are you on Raya?"
"I'm not."
"You're not?"
You picked your phone up and showed him the Tikok you were filming.
Joe rolled his eyes playfully and tugged you in closer. "Oh my god-"
View all comments:
Joe was so ready for the gossip
Never have I ever wanted to gossip with joe more
The panic and then he realised
Isn't this so distasteful, his ex literally cheated on him
It was a prank
I just know at the end of the day he's so ready to gossip
They're so cute together stfu
iii.
When you saw how much the people liked to see it, or some who hated to see the two of you in love and happy, you didn't want to stop.
Just like your boyfriend with his film camera you were there with your phone, taking pictures or videos of him at any time of day.
The two of you couldn't get enough.
So when your fans got a notification- you'd posted another Tiktok- they were excited to see what it could have been.
They found you, in the lap of Joe's. It was clearly Joe. His arms were around you with drumsticks in hand as he played the drums, tapping around, with you in his lap. Your chest to his.
It got over a million like in twenty-four hours and everyone was obsessed.
View all comments:
Is it in?
I don't know who I want to be more
I feel like I shouldn't be watching
This is what I pay wifi for
GET IT! GET IT!
iv.
Or another harmless little prank here and there. One where you wiped off a kiss he gave you when you were recording a Vogue get ready with me. It was clipped from the Youtube video and did the rounds on Tiktok.
Your 'prank' didn't work however as he only plunged the camera into darkness by blocking the both of you out of view to give you a kiss you couldn't so easily rub off.
Or another where you were cooking and dragged Joe into view, naming him your 'current boyfriend' to which he only shrugged and corrected you with one word.
"Husband, but sure."
Which then sparked a huge marriage rumour. You were not married. (Or at least not yet)
But you tried again, all for your own enjoyment. Where some didn't understand if Joe wanted to be on Tiktok or not, it was clear all he wanted was to be with you. Around you. Involved with you and your life however that presented itself.
You had your phone set up, acting as if you were using it as a mirror while you got yourself ready for the day.
Joe was pottering around behind you, throwing on different hats till he found the one he wanted for the day, getting a bag and his guitar to go to the studio. "Okay baby, I love you, I'll see you later," he said, pressing his lips atop your head so he didn't ruin the makeup you were doing.
He was on his way out the door when you called back.
"See you soon!"
The camera could just see Joe half way out the door, hands till holding it open as he looked back.
"Okay, love you," he said, trying it as casual as he could again.
"Bye!"
Joe waited a second, wondering if maybe there was a delay. "Babe?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"I know, i'll see you tonight."
Joe looked back and saw the camera. He stared at it blankly as he understood what you were doing. He flexed his muscles, showing his biceps to the camera before he went back to being 'serious.'
You watched him through the camera as he leant his guitar on the wall and headed over to you. He leant over you and gently and playfully cupped your chin, getting you to look at him.
"Say it," he said through his teeth playfully with a glint of mischief in his eyes.
"I love you," you chuckled.
Joe's face lit up in a grin. "Love you too, I'll see you tonight." He took his time, his lips against yours sweetly before he left for the day.
Nobody could ever doubt the love you had was anything other than true.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the rumor going around the moms of the hawkins little league team is that coach steve harrington is single. it's a good thing you don’t partake in petty small-town gossip.
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: coach!steve, singlemom!reader, established (secret) relationship, piv sex, overstimulation, pleasure-dom!steve, multiple orgasms, prone/headlock+light choking, rough sex, teasing banter, possessive dirty talk, light/pretend jealousy, light degradation, pet names, aftercare, angst abt being a single parent, fluff, brief child's pov, happy ending (6.4k)
𝐚/𝐧: started as dumb smut, somehow ended up with plot and angst. story of my life.
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
The resounding rumor in the Hawkins Little League baseball program—more specifically, among the women who occupy the third row of bleachers at Elm Street Ballpark every Tuesday and Thursday—is that Coach Steve Harrington is single.
Very single.
“There’s just no way,” Sharon McIntyre sighs for the third time this inning. She squints toward the field, shading her eyes with one hand like she might be able to spot a wedding ring from home plate. “I mean, look at him. Nobody looks like that coaching a little league team.”
“I’m telling you, Shar,” Kelly Dunlop chimes in, iced coffee rattling in her hand. “My sister works mornings at the diner. She says he comes in all the time. Always alone. No ring, no girlfriend, nothing. If he had someone, she’d know.”
Across the field, practice is in full swing. Kids swarm the infield, shouting over one another, cleats kicking up clouds of dust. A bright, metallic clang rings through the air, signaling a clean hit. The whole team erupts into cheers as little Johnny Peters takes off for first, freckles flashing beneath his helmet.
You smile, eyes following the chaos fondly.
“God,” Sharon mutters, gaze fixed entirely elsewhere, “I know he’s young, but does he really have to look like that?”
“How old is he, anyway? Twenty?” another mom asks.
You take a slow sip of your coffee, keeping your expression neutral. You’ve gotten very good at that lately.
“It’s the whole authority thing, right?” Kelly says after a pause. “Give a guy a whistle and suddenly—"
“—suddenly he’s attractive,” another mom finishes.
“Well,” Sharon adds, “I think it’s a little more than the whistle.”
A soft ripple of laughter moves down the row.
Just then, the sharp blast of a whistle cuts through the air.
The effect is instantaneous.
It’s like Pavlovian conditioning, the sudden hush that settles over the stands. Conversations drop off mid-sentence. Heads lift in near-perfect unison. Like suburban meerkats sensing a storm, all eyes snap toward the field.
Every mom here knows exactly what that whistle means.
Coach Steve Harrington steps out from the dugout, lips still wrapped around the whistle, hands signaling a time-out as he jogs toward the pitcher’s mound. His cap is pulled low, shades perched on the bridge of his nose. The top two buttons of his Dodger-blue jersey are undone—as usual—revealing tanned collarbones and just the faintest tuft of chest hair.
He calls out a few pointers to the team, then leans over the plate to demonstrate a perfect, controlled swing.
The pivoting motion tugs his shirt upward, flashing a patch of sun-warmed skin at his stomach. It also strains the fabric of his pants, those khakis clinging to his ass in a way that’s a little snug for a public park.
A very un-subtle sigh rolls through the bleachers.
“Jesus,” Sharon mutters. “I mean, that’s just unnecessary.”
“He’s gotta know, right? There’s no way he doesn’t.”
“That shirt’s always like that. Never fully buttoned.”
A chorus of murmured agreement follows.
You press your lips together, managing to school your expression just as you hear a pair of little cleats pounding toward you.
“Mom! Mom!”
Toby skids to a stop in front of you, panting with effort, helmet crooked, knees grass-stained. He wedges himself between your legs and you reach up instinctively, straightening his helmet before it tips again.
“Mom, did ya see me? Did ya see that throw?”
“‘Course I did, honey! You were amazing!”
His grin goes blinding. “Coach Steve said I got way better this week. He said I’m really fast. Like, like, maybe fast enough to be a pro!”
“Yeah?” you smile, brushing a smear of dirt from his cheek. “You’ve been working so hard. I’m so proud of you.”
Toby nods so vigorously his helmet nearly slips again. He takes a quick gulp from the water bottle you hand him, then darts back to the dugout.
Across the field, Steve is crouched near home plate, murmuring low encouragements as he adjusts another kid’s grip on the bat.
After a moment, he straightens.
Flicks his cap off, rolls his shoulders, then lets his eyes roam over the bleachers.
When he finds what he’s looking for, he flashes a quick, casual smile.
From this distance, it’s broad enough to be meant for no one in particular.
And yet.
You look away immediately, pretending to study the condensation sliding down your coffee cup.
“Oh my god,” Kelly whispers beside you. “I think he looked over here. Sharon, was that at you?”
Sharon scoffs, though the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Please. He smiles at everyone.”
“Mm, not like that.”
You keep your gaze fixed firmly on the cup.
⚾︎
“Alright, Cubs! Awesome job today! Make sure to grab all your stuff. I’ll see you back here Tuesday, yeah?”
A chorus of okay, Coach! and bye, Coach Steve! follows.
The bleachers wake up all at once. Moms rise in unison, purses scraping against aluminum, lipstick caps popping open for quick, totally casual touch-ups meant for no one in particular. Kids spill off the field in excited clumps, chatter overlapping as they relive every hit, every near-catch. Toby’s voice cuts through it all, loud and proud as he recounts a grounder he almost snagged.
You’re stuffing a water bottle into your tote when a voice behind you makes you freeze.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
You turn.
Steve stands there, casual as ever, bat slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His jersey’s still hanging half-open, collar darkened with sweat.
“Hi.”
You purse your lips, stifling a smile. “Hi.”
He stares for a beat too long before he shakes himself, clearing his throat.
“Uh—I just wanted to say Toby did really great today. Kid’s a natural. Solid throw, great hustle. And..." his eyes flick briefly toward the chaos of children behind him, voice dropping a notch, “...he actually listens.”
You laugh softly. “That last part’s news to me.”
Steve grins. Takes a step closer.
His voice slides into a familiar cadence you’ve come to recognize, warm and teasing. “So... I heard you might be on snack duty next week.”
You raise a brow. “You did, huh?”
“Yep. And, you know, I run a pretty serious operation here. Snack’s are a very important part of team morale. So I thought maybe we should… discuss our options.”
You can’t hide the smile this time. “Oh? And what exactly were you thinking, Coach?”
“Well…” he leans closer, eyes glinting. “We might need to talk details. You know… what kind of chips to get, how many… make sure everything’s perfect.”
“Mm,” you nod solemnly. “Sounds important. Why don’t I—”
“Mom! Mom!”
Toby barrels toward you, juice box clenched in his hand like a trophy, still buzzing with post-practice adrenaline.
“Mom, can I sleep over at Jackson’s tonight?”
You blink. “Tonight?”
“Yeah! He’s got the new Super Mario game! And, and, he said we can have pizza while we play!”
You glance up to see Jackson’s mom waving from a few yards away, already herding kids toward her van.
“You sure, baby? I made that lasagna you like.”
“Nooo, Mom, please? Everyone’s going.”
You give in with a smile, smoothing his hair back. “Okay. You want me to bring your stuff over?”
“Nope, he’s got extras!”
“Alright. Be good at Mrs. Miller’s, okay? And say thank you.”
“I will!” He vibrates in place just long enough for you to bend down and kiss his cheek.
“Okay, bye Mom! Love you! Bye, Coach Steve! See you next week!”
“Bye, buddy,” Steve waves. “Great job today. Let me know how that game goes, yeah?”
Toby nods furiously before sprinting off.
When you turn back, Steve’s grinning at you.
Hand shoved in his pocket, rocking lightly on his heels.
He's more boyish than ever, looks downright fucking pleased.
“Well,” he starts, tilting his head, “I don’t know about Toby, but…”
He shrugs, eyes flicking to you with warmth and something unmistakably like intent.
“I could definitely go for some lasagna.”
⚾︎
“You know all the—mmph—the moms are... t-talking about you, right?”
Even with your face shoved into the pillow, words muffled, jaw slack and drooling, you know exactly the kind of shit-eating grin that’s hovering behind you.
“Yeah?” His voice comes perfectly level, lazy with a familiar taunt. Like he’s not ramming you within an inch of your life. “What’re they saying?”
“Mm, Shar... Sharon thinks you’re—fuck, Steve!”
There’s no warning, just the sudden crush of his weight shoving you flat onto the mattress, pinning your stomach against the sheets. His hips snap forward, driving all the way to the hilt in one, long thrust, your body jolting up the bed from the sheer force of it.
You let out a strangled yelp, hands flailing back instinctively, scrabbling at his arms, his hips. You squirm desperately for leverage, clawing at the Dodger-blue fabric bunched around his waist, but he pins you easily, weight sinking down like an anchor. A thick forearm comes around to hook under your chin, wrapping around your neck to hold you there.
“She thinks I’m what?” he breathes, lips pressed to your temple.
“She... she...”
He allows you a moment of merciful reprieve, thrusts slowing to a teasing grind, hips rolling in deep, languid circles against your ass.
“Into her,” you manage. “S-she thinks you’re into her.”
“Huh,” he pants, thoughtful. “Mrs. McIntyre?”
You nod weakly as he adjusts his grip around your neck, pressing up until you can feel your own pulse thundering along the column of your throat.
Then, before you can find your next breath, the weight over you lifts, the pressure around your neck releasing. You suck in a long, trembling gulp of air—the first real one in what feels like forever—just as you feel a pair of hands wrap around your hips, flipping you swiftly onto your back.
You hit the pillows with a startled gasp, chest heaving, legs splaying open instinctively.
Your cunt glistens between your thighs, weeping a slow, sticky trail into the sheets. It’s twitching uselessly, clenching around open air as if it could pull him closer.
From between your knees, your man watches.
The late-afternoon sun cuts through the room in slanted gold, draping his body in warmth and shadow. You take him in helplessly, all the familiar lines of him—the sloped planes of his shoulders, thick biceps and a toned chest that melts into the soft curve of his stomach. The pale-white scars that shimmer along his sides, stark and beautiful against flushed skin.
He’s naked except for that blue jersey. Hanging open at the front, hem brushing over his hips. The last two buttons are gone, thanks to your handiwork.
It’s a miracle his shirt’s stayed intact at all, what with the way you were climbing over each other the moment the door slammed shut.
Savage, open-mouthed kisses giving way to ragged gasps as you staggered through your living room, tripping over the ottoman, narrowly avoiding a vase as you dragged each other toward the bed. His dirt-stained khakis discarded mid-stride, he barely managed to tear your clothes off before hauling you onto the mattress.
Predatory.
It’s the only word to describe the way he’s looking at you now, honey-brown eyes darkened with intent, burning hotter than the molten orange sunset bleeding through the curtains behind him.
He takes his sweet time.
Holds your gaze, unblinking, as he shrugs the jersey the rest of the way off, letting it drop away. He raises a hand up to his chest, palm flat, and drags it slow across his skin. Slides it over his ribs, his stomach, the trail of coarse hair running below his navel, reaching down, down, down, until his fingers brush against the sticky patch of curls at his base.
A pleased, knowing smile spreads across his face as he drinks in your reaction.
“Mrs. McIntyre, huh? I had no idea.”
And even this fucked up—dazed and boneless from the way he’s been drilling his cock inside you for the better part of an hour, buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach—a tiny part of you can’t resist pushing back.
Just enough to test him, to see how far he’ll let you go.
“Don’t act like you’re surprised…” you murmur, words slurring. “You were smiling at her today.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then a low, incredulous laugh.
“At her?”
The hand on his stomach moves lower, thumb and four fingers splayed to form a wide ‘V’ as he cradles the imposing monument he calls a cock. The head of it’s all swollen, leaking, skin flushed from friction and glossed all over with your arousal.
“Huh,” he intones mildly, gaze flicking down between your legs, tongue gliding slow across his bottom lip. “Did I make my girl jealous?”
You scoff, pushing weakly against his shoulders as he makes his way back down, boxing you in between his elbows. “You wish, Harrington.”
He laughs under his breath, soft and playful, before he slams his lips against yours in a filthy kiss, tongues clashing until you’re left panting for breath.
Pulls back with a wet smack, eyes hooded, blazing with amusement.
“Sorry, honey,” he breathes, head tipped in mock sympathy. “Had no idea.”
You roll your eyes, instantly betrayed by the tremor in your voice. “I don’t care.”
“Mm,” he smiles, dipping his head to nuzzle your cheek, mouthing along your jaw while he reaches a hand down without looking. “I think you do.”
His cock drags against your inner thigh as he positions himself against your opening.
“And I think,” he adds softly, “you mean Coach Harrington.”
You laugh despite yourself, breathless, feeling him bury a smile of his own against your neck.
“Nice try... ‘m not calling you that in bed.”
“Worth a shot.”
“Uh-huh.”
Your amusement quickly dies on a moan when he nudges the head of his cock against your swollen clit, dragging it down in a slow, wet schlick to your entrance. The pressure makes you clench, whining when he rubs insistently against your folds without pushing in.
“Steve—"
“Shh, I know, baby,” He smooth a warm palm up the inside of your thigh, pushing it back, spreading you wider. “I got you.”
In and in and in, he bottoms out in one stroke, stretching you endlessly until his pelvis is flush against yours. You take him well—pussy warm and slick from earlier rounds—but the weight of him, the sheer girth pressing into you, draws a low whimper from your throat.
“Yeah?” he breathes. “Is that good?
His lips trail soft, lingering kisses across your neck, one hand coming up to smooth your hair back, cradling the top of your head to shield it from bumping against the headboard.
It all runs so counter to the way he’s thrusting—slamming inside in quick, deep thrusts, hitting your g-spot with such merciless accuracy that your eyes prick with tears.
“God,” he huffs, brow furrowed in pleasure, jaw going slack as he starts hitting that rhythm proper, “You have any idea how hard it was to behave today? Couldn’t stop fucking staring at you. Couldn’t... couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
His eyes roam greedily over the fresh trail of bruises he’s already mapped across your body: deep wine-reds that bloom just underneath the skin, running down your neck, your collarbone, the soft underside of your tits.
“You were looking at me too, huh?” he murmurs, already knowing.
Head lolling back against the pillow, you can only nod, too dizzy and breathless to do more.
“Yeah, baby, I know you were,” he coos, dropping his forehead to yours, lips brushing in a slow, teasing ghost of a kiss. “Sitting up there… looking so pretty. Bet you were making a mess out of the bleachers, huh? Getting yourself all wet.”
You groan, arching against him. “Steve—”
“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with need. “Tell me how good this feels. Tell me how much you need this cock.”
“I—fuck—I need it. I’s so good. Feels... feels so good.”
He lets out a guttural groan, pressing down harder, pulling you closer.
“Drives me… drives me fucking insane, you know that? Acting all polite out there, ‘Yes, ma’am…’ ‘Oh, he did just great today...’ When all I want—” He draws his hips back, slamming back inside to punctuate his next words “—is this.”
“Fuck, Steve—!”
The pleasure is blinding, a violent flash-bang to the senses that knocks the breath straight out of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping onto his shoulders for dear life as you tip into your third orgasm of the day. He fucks you through it, murmuring praise, hips pistoning so hard it makes the mattress squeak, the headboard rattle.
And even as the high fades, he doesn’t relent. Light, shallow thrusts that leave you whining, twitching, your clit jolting each time he brushes against your tender g-spot.
“Mm…” you squirm, legs trembling against your will. “Steve...”
“Hm?”
“Can’t... ‘s too... too sensitive...”
“Just one more, baby.” He pants, lifting himself up on his hands. The playful edge in his eyes replaced by a look that’s all earnest now, all intent. “Want you to come one more time for me.”
You groan weakly, shaking your head. “I can’t.”
“You can,” he leans in close, nudging his nose against yours, pressing a soft peck to the tip. “Just one more. One more, baby. For me?”
Your response breaks into a loud groan when his hand slides down to your clit, middle and ring finger pressing slow, firm circles across the sensitive nub, making your cunt spasm around him with each pass.
“Come on, honey,” he whispers, voice soft but insistent, almost petulant in its coaxing. “I never get to take my time with you. Never get to have you like this.”
And even in this state, you can’t stop the wet, fucked-out laugh that escapes you. “You... you had me like this two days ago.”
The memory hits in a dizzying haze. He’d invited you over to his place before practice on Tuesday. Fed you a surprisingly excellent omelet first, then wasted no time bending you over the counter, and then the couch, and eventually his bed—both of you panting and laughing by the end of it, scrambling to get dressed once you realized how much time had passed.
“But we were still rushing then,” he counters, and you can’t muster the energy to argue that three and a half rounds don't exactly count as ‘rushing,’ but maybe for Steve Harrington they do.
“Please, baby,” he murmurs, still thrusting gently. “We’ve got all night today. Wanna see how many times I can make you come.”
“Fuck...” you sigh, head tipping back as another shudder rolls through you. You were convinced you’d come up against a wall, but the moment he angles his thrusts upward, fingers continuing their precise, coaxing swipes over your clit, the smoldering tension in your stomach catches kindling.
The high starts climbing back, somehow, sharper and brighter than ever.
“God, you’re so pretty... so fucking gorgeous,” he whispers, driving in a little harder. “Can’t believe you think I’d look at anyone else when I’ve got you.”
You whine weakly at his words, at the way his voice dips on the words I’ve got you, unmistakably possessive yet so bruisingly tender.
“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he mumbles against your lips. “No one gives it to you like this, hm?”
Your response is a trembling, breathless gasp, mouth brushing against his on every thrust, pressed so close it’s impossible to tell when you’re not kissing.
Long, slow, filthy passes of his tongue as he pries your lips open, gliding into your mouth; he craves this point of connection, always. Every sound you make is swallowed eagerly, turned into something shared.
He breaks easiest when you’re this close, when the air between you disappears and his control gives way to raw, aching need. Instinct pulling him toward a singular desire to stay close, to share breath and spit and praise while he takes you.
“Oh... oh my god—Steve, I’m—"
“Yeah, that’s it, honey. Let go, I’ve got you.”
It almost hurts, this time around.
The slow, exquisite, endless pull of pleasure, cruel hands of a thousand little deaths come to strangle you off. Every nerve in your body feels raw and frayed, tears leaking freely when you shut your eyes tight. You bury your face into his shoulder, nails pressing hard enough to break skin, clinging desperately to his words for some fragment of relief.
“Good girl... ah, shit, s-squeezing me so tight. That’s it. Keep coming, baby. There you go.”
Your cunt spasms uncontrollably around him—long, drawn-out pulses that keep him from pulling back out. He ruts the last few inches inside before spilling deep, groaning against your neck.
“Fuck, yes, just like that. God, baby....”
He always stays inside you afterward, for as long as he can. Kissing, kissing, always kissing, like he just can’t help himself, lips roaming over any patch of skin he can reach. When he finally draws his hips back, he does so carefully, softening the distance with more kisses when you whine at the loss of him.
“C’mere,” he pants, breath still ragged as he rolls onto his side, tugging you in until you fit flush against him. “I’ve got you.”
Warm, gentle strokes against the curve of your back as you level out together, syncing your breaths. The window’s cracked just enough to let the evening air roll in, cooling against heated, buzzing skin.
“You okay?” he murmurs after a while.
You hum in response, nodding once as you tuck your nose closer to his chest, breathing him in. Citrus cologne. Sweat. Steve.
“Wow,” he exhales, half a laugh caught in his throat. “What was that, three times?”
“Four,” you mumble, words muffled against his skin.
“Oh my god,” he laughs fully now, warm and boyish, chest vibrating beneath your cheek. He dips his head to press a quick kiss to your temple. “We’ll do five next time. Promise.”
You groan softly and shove at his shoulder, rolling away to hide your face in the pillow.
You hear him chuckle behind you as he slides off the bed. The soft pad of bare feet follows, sliding across hardwood, then the click of the bathroom light. Water trickles quietly from the sink.
You’re still catching your breath when the mattress dips again.
His fingers brush the backs of your legs, gently coaxing you to turn onto your back. You do, cheeks burning as he carefully swipes the warm, damp towel between your thighs, focused and attentive.
It’s something he’s done countless times before.
And still, it’s the part that always makes your chest tighten.
You push yourself upright once he’s done, settling against the headboard. He tucks the sheets around your waist, smoothing the fabric over your hips before reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand.
Brings it to your lips.
“Steve,” you laugh softly, still flushed, “I don’t need you to hold it.”
“Ssh,” he murmurs, lips quirking. “Small sips.”
You narrow your eyes at him but drink anyway, hands folded uselessly in your lap while he keeps the glass steady. When you’re done, he takes a long drink himself before setting it aside.
He turns back, catches you staring.
“What?”
You shake your head, smile faint. “Nothing.”
He studies you for a beat longer, searching your face, but doesn’t push. Instead, he stretches with a low groan, shoulders rolling until something pops.
“God,” he mutters. “You hungry?”
“Sure. I could eat.”
“You said there’s lasagna, right?”
“Uh-huh.” You start to scoot toward the edge of the bed, but his hand lands firmly on your arm.
“Woah, hey. Where are you going?”
“To... get the lasagna?”
He shakes his head, already moving away. “Nope. Just tell me where it is.”
“Steve, it’s fine, I can—”
“Not happening.” He nudges you back against the pillows, then tucks another one behind your back for good measure. “I got it.”
You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already pulling his boxers on.
“Is it in the oven?” he calls over his shoulder.
“...Yeah.”
“'Kay. Be right back.” He leans in for a quick kiss, lifting a finger at you as he backs toward the door. “Don’t move, alright?”
You purse your lips, watching him go.
He’s back not ten minutes later, balancing two plates in his hands. Steam curls from the lasagna, edges crisp and bubbling.
“You gonna feed it to me too?” you ask dryly as he settles beside you.
He doesn’t even blink. Just picks up a fork and starts cutting into one of the slices.
“Jesus, Steve,” you laugh, grabbing the plate from him. “I was kidding.”
He hands it over with a grin, watching you take the first bite before digging into his own.
“Oh, hey,” he asks after a while, swallowing around a mouthful. “Did Toby like the new glove? Didn’t see him with it today.”
“Yeah,” you nod. “He loves it. I think he’s saving it for when the old one gives out.” You hesitate before adding, quieter, “Thank you, by the way. You really didn’t have to do that.”
Steve pauses mid-bite, fork hovering for half a second before he lowers it, lips pressing together.
“Yeah,” he nods softly. “Of course.”
You glance down at your plate, tracing a smear of sauce with the tip of your fork. “You know… if he knew it was from you, he’d probably never use it. He’d want to put it on a shelf or frame it or something.”
He snorts quietly. “Guess it’ll be our secret then.”
“Hm,” you nod, the sound coming out thin.
You don’t eat much after that. Staring at nothing, just pushing the food around, lost in thoughts much heavier than hunger.
Steve notices.
He looks up from his plate, cheeks full, a smudge of tomato sauce at the corner of his mouth. He chews slowly, studying you over the rim of his fork.
“Hey,” he says once he swallows. “You okay?”
You blink. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
He watches you for another beat, then sets his plate aside and slides closer. His hand settles on your knee, rubbing small circles.
“Did I, uh…” He glances down, then back up, eyes sheepish. “Wear you out too much?”
You nudge his ankle with your foot, managing a small smile despite the ache blooming in your chest. “No. It’s not that.”
“Okay,” he says softly, not quite smiling back. “Then what is it?”
“It’s... it’s nothing. Stupid.”
“Baby,” he reaches for your hand before you can pull away, fingers threading through yours. He shuffles closer until your knees press together. “Talk to me.”
You close your eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow breath, then another. Your chest tightens on the exhale.
“Is... is this about…?” His voice trails off, gentle, circling the truth carefully.
You sigh and turn your head, but he follows, refusing to let the space grow.
“’Cause if it is,” he rushes on, urgency bleeding into his tone, “I’m ready. Whenever you are. I mean it. I want to—”
“Steve, stop,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You can’t.”
He freezes, lips parting like he wants to argue. The light in his face shifts: eyes drooping, brows pulling together. So young, stripped of his usual bravado, it hurts to him look at him like this.
“Why... why not?”
“Because I can’t ask you to do that.”
He shakes his head, grip tightening as he pulls your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart.
“Ask me to do what? Be part of your life? Be around your kid?” He shifts closer, trying to catch your eyes. “I… I wouldn’t—look, I care about Toby. I really do. And I care about you. I lov—”
His voice falters. He swallows hard, throat working around the word.
“I love you.”
You stare at a spot on the sheets, blinking hard, vision going blurry at the edges.
“Baby,” he murmurs, thumb sliding gently under your chin. “Look at me. Please.”
You do. Lashes heavy, eyes shining despite your efforts. He smiles at you then, soft and steady, certainty radiating in a way that makes your chest ache.
“I love you,” he repeats. “I want… I want to be with you. Wake up next to you, go to sleep next to you. Take you places.” He lets out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, that old caravan I bought is a total mess, but... I thought we could fix it up together. Travel a little. Go see the country.”
His smile softens, expression sobering a bit. “And I want to be there for Toby. I know what it’s like to have a shitty dad. I would never do that to him. Ever.”
You make a small, broken sound and turn away, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb keeps tracing the same soothing path over your knuckles.
“And I’m not saying we should get married or—or move in or anything. Just… maybe a couple nights a week? I could come over, help with homework, hang out with him, just be there however you need m—”
You surge forward, pressing your lips to his in a desperate, trembling kiss. He freezes for a heartbeat, then melts into it, arms winding around your waist and lifting you onto his lap with careful, fluid strength.
You cling to each other, kissing in a messy, gasping rhythm, until the salt of your own tears brushes against his lips.
“Hey,” he whispers, pulling back, gently drawing your face into his chest. “It’s okay, it's okay."
You let yourself fold into him, cheek pressed against his bare skin.
"We’ll figure it out. We'll be okay, I promise."
You melt against him, surrendering to his warmth, letting the steady, gentle strokes of his hand calm the storm of thoughts in your head.
Eventually, a small, wet laugh slips out.
“Toby’s gonna lose his mind.”
Steve pulls back a little, meeting your eyes. “You think he’d be weirded out by it?”
You shake your head, a smile breaking through. “No, he’d love it. He already worships you. And then you two would just… gang up on me every day.”
Steve laughs, thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. His gaze is unwavering, soft and intent as he lingers over the lines of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs, eyes sparkling. “I’m pretty sure I’ll always be on his mom’s side.”
⚾︎
epilogue
Toby sits at the very end of the dugout bench, where no one else is sitting.
He’s six and a half years old, not a baby anymore, but his legs still don’t touch the ground when he sits. They just kick the air, swinging back and forth, back and forth, cleats cutting little half-circles in the air. He scoots down an inch so the tips of them can scrape the dirt, and he finds a small pebble near the bench post. He nudges it with his toe, then nudges it back, careful not to kick it too far.
Everyone else is out on the field.
There’s the loud crack of a bat, and all the kids start shouting at once: “Mine!” “Run!” “Heads up!” The ball pops straight up into the air, and bonks Nathan Foster on the head when he tries to catch it. Everyone laughs. Even Nathan laughs, rubbing the back of his head like it didn’t hurt, even though it probably did.
Coach Steve says that kind of thing is okay. Messing up is how you learn.
Coach Steve knows a lot of things.
He knows how to line your fingers up on the bat, and how to breathe out when you throw so the ball goes straighter. He says baseball is supposed to be fun, even when you strike out, even when you’re not the best player on the field.
But Toby isn’t having fun.
He keeps his glove in his lap, hugging it tight with both arms like it might slide off if he lets go. It’s new. It's the one Coach Steve bought for him, even though his mom said his old one still worked fine. This one is stiff and smooth and smells good—like a store, or like the inside of Coach Steve’s car. Toby presses his fingers into the leather and traces the thick stitches with his thumb, over and over.
It helps a little.
There’s a worry sitting in his chest. Heavy and squishy, like when you step in mud and it won't let go of your foot right away.
He hasn’t told anyone about it. Not Miss Collins from art class. Not his mom. He didn’t even whisper it to his glove, even though sometimes he tells the glove things—like how fast pitchers make him freeze, or how scared he was on his first day of school.
Today, the worry stays stuck inside, pressing down.
A part of Toby thinks maybe he shouldn’t be worried at all.
Coach Steve said that everything would stay the same. Normal. And most of the things Coach Steve says turn out to be true. So maybe this will be too.
But Jeremy Miller said something different.
Jeremy knows stuff. His dad’s a doctor, and doctors are smart. They do important things.
Toby kicks the pebble a little harder than he means to. It skitters across the dirt floor and disappears under the bat rack with a soft clack.
“Hey, buddy.”
Toby looks up.
Coach Steve is standing at the opening of the dugout, blocking out part of the sun. His whistle hangs from his neck like always, bumping softly against his chest when he steps closer.
“You hiding from me?” he asks, grinning. “’Cause if you are, this is kind of a bad spot.”
Toby shrugs and drags the toe of his cleat through the dirt, making a crooked line. He sort of misses the pebble he kicked away. “I’m not hiding.”
Coach Steve comes in and sits down beside him, the bench creaking under his weight. His knee bounces once, then goes still.
“So,” he says, leaning his elbows on his thighs, looking out at the field. “I was kinda thinkin’ today might be the day you show off that rocket arm.”
The heavy feeling in Toby’s chest squishes tighter.
The words fall out before he can stop them.
“Are you and Mom gonna get married?”
Coach Steve freezes.
Just for a second, but Toby notices. His grin fades, and he blinks like he forgot what he was about to say. His hand comes up and rubs the back of his neck.
“Uh…” he clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, we are, buddy.”
Toby nods. He already knew that. Mom had told him. Coach Steve had told him. Grandma cried a little on the phone when they both told her together. Still, hearing it out loud again makes his stomach feel all twisty.
“Is that…” Coach Steve says, then stops. He presses his lips together. “Is that still okay with you?”
Toby sighs and draws another line in the dirt next to the first one, pressing hard so they match.
“I guess.”
Coach Steve moves a little closer, his arm brushing Toby’s. He rests a hand on his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, thumb rubbing slow circles like he does when Toby’s nervous before a game.
“Hey, if you’re feeling weird about me and your mom, that’s okay to say.”
Toby swallows. His throat feels tight, like when he’s about to cry but doesn’t want to.
“No, it’s just—” He stops, frowning. “I just want you to be my coach, still.”
Coach Steve turns his head sideways, frowning. “Why wouldn’t I still be your coach?”
Toby’s shoulders curl in. “’Cause Jeremy said that if you’re family, sometimes you can’t do stuff for each other.”
“Jeremy Miller?”
Toby nods. “Yeah. His dad’s a doctor. Jeremy had to have surgery ’cause his ap-pen-di-sigh-tis was broken, and his dad couldn’t do it. They didn’t let him.”
Coach Steve lets out a slow breath through his nose. “Oh.”
Toby grips his glove tighter. “So, if you’re my family… you can’t be my coach anymore, right?”
Coach Steve’s face goes a little funny. His eyebrows pull together, and his mouth does this wobbly thing, like he’s trying to smile and can’t figure out how. He reaches out and gently pushes Toby’s hair back, his thumb brushing across his forehead.
“Toby,” he says softly, “that’s not how that works.”
Toby frowns. “But Jeremy said so.”
“I know, bud. And sometimes grown-up rules are really confusing.” He lets out a small huff of a laugh. “Doctors have rules like that. Coaching’s a little different.”
He waits until Toby’s looking at him.
“I’m always gonna be your coach, Toby.”
Toby wants to believe him. He really does.
“…You promise?” he whispers.
Coach Steve’s face scrunches up more, eyes shiny like maybe some dust blew in from the field. “Yeah, buddy. I promise.”
Toby sticks out his pinky. He doesn’t do that at school anymore, because he’s a big first-grader now, but he still knows it’s the strongest kind of promise there is.
Coach Steve smiles, hooking his pinky around Toby’s, giving it a firm shake.
Satisfied, Toby launches forward. It’s all of him at once, knocking the air right out of Coach Steve.
“Oof, okay—” Coach Steve laughs, arms coming up to catch him. He pats Toby’s back, holding him closer as he rocks him side to side.
Toby squeezes back just as tight. The heavy feeling in his chest lifts, like taking off his backpack full of books at the end of the day.
He pulls back, smiling now, and says the thing he's been scared to say since the day he talked to Jeremy.
“Love you, Dad.”
Coach Steve goes very still. Then he clears his throat and quickly blinks up at the sky, like he definitely got some dirt in his eyes that time.
When he looks back at Toby, that funny, wobbling smile is back.
“I love you too, buddy.”
Toby grabs his glove and hops off the bench. His feet hit the ground, solid and steady.
Coach Steve stands too, quickly scrubbing the dirt from his eyes before turning back to him.
“So. You wanna go show your mom that throw we’ve been practicing?”
—summary: trapped in a radio station with the world about to end, you and steve decide there’s no better time than now to give in to desire, curiosity, and years of unspoken yearning —and because you need to know if the rumors about his measurements are true!
—pairing: steve harrington x female!reader
—word count: 3k
—content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), friends to lovers, established pining, idiots in love, suggestive banter, descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, some porn with some plot, big dick!steve, p in v sex, radio booth sex!!!, unprotected sex, creampie, body worship, praise kink, size kink, aftercare, steve being cocky and shy
writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!
“It's too big, it won't fit” Dustin openly expresses his disagreement with Hopper's absurd plan to fly a whole helicopter into the center of the wormhole.
“Steve hears that all the time, and he goes in anyway,” Robin remarks in a suggestive tone, smiling knowingly at her friend, “don't you, Steve?”
After that, she winks at you.
Steve is frowning, baffled and entirely dissatisfied with what Robin just said. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Murray, sitting on the couch right in front of him is smirking, his eyes wandering between yours and Steve's, and vice versa, puffing out a knowing chuckle.
“It's funny,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
You bite your lower lip, struggling to hold back laughter, feeling your cheeks grow warm as you sense Steve's gaze on you now.
So you just choose to play dumb. As usual.
You've heard about it, of course, many times before. Robin has told you over and over how over-sized Steve is, emphasizing that he would be exactly what you need, ever since you told her about your miserable and unsatisfying sex life.
The best fuck of your life, possibly.
“Ten out of ten,” she would say, shrugging her shoulders at your face, all contorted with skepticism and flushed with embarrassment. “That's what I heard.”
Steve's mouth opens and closes, stammering out a response, procesando todo lo que está pasando.
And unable to really say anything in his own defense, he smacks Murray on the shoulder, trying to get the man to stop giggling like a witch, but instead, he laughed even harder.
“It's very funny,” he repeats, glancing at you this time and nodding his head.
Steve doesn't deny it either, you notice.
The conversation about the final plan against Vecna and the end of the world carries on all around you, but you can no longer really focus on that.
Instead, all you can concentrate on is Steve's scent invading your nose, the perfect opening in his sweater neckline that wraps around his neck, his left hand twitching on his knee, and his other hand reaching across the backrest of the couch where you are seated to support his own weight. But his fingers seem to have a different purpose and they graze your shoulder. Intimate, complicit.
One touch of him has you as horny as the fucking midsummer sun.
How could you possibly pause to think about the potential apocalypse in six hours when you're falling downward in a spiral from the slightest touch of his fingertips on your shoulder?
His closeness is suffocating, his body heat mingling with yours, making the room feel unbearably hot.
It's not until about forty minutes later that Steve is bold enough to look at you again, offering you a small, sheepish smile and sweeping his hand across his neck as he walks toward you with purposeful little steps.
He looks so good with that ridiculous backwards trucker cap that you have to physically restrain yourself from bouncing on him right there.
“Hey, look, I—I'm sorry about Robin. She's been acting weird about—” His voice falters as the air is knocked out of his lungs the moment you lock eyes with him, looking up at him so intensely that he is literally left speechless for a long moment. “About– about us. I've been telling her to stop sticking her nose in, but she's—well, she's Robin, you know her and—”
He keeps chattering uncontrollably, his brown eyes wandering down to your hips, appreciating what a great fit those jeans are on you. You look so hot in your monster-slaying outfit that it's making his face turn bright red and distracted.
“Is it true?” you interrupt him right there, because you don't have more time to waste. I mean, time is running out for all of you right now.
But you need to know.
His mouth gapes open in confusion. “W–what?”
“Is it really that big?”
Steve's brain short-circuits.
Completely. Catastrophically.
His jaw doesn't just drop; it hangs there as he stares at you, his eyes darting to your lips and then back to your eyes, searching for the slightlest hint that reveals that you're really joking.
But you aren't. And he just realizes it.
He glances around to see if there is anyone nearby, but fortunately for both of you, you are all alone. Finally.
Then Steve steps closer to you, his face morphing into one that expresses complicity and yearning and need.
“You really want to talk about this right now?” he whispers, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates right through you. “With the world ending in, like, six hours?”
“Especially because the world is ending,” you consider, your voice surprisingly steady despite the way your heart is hammering against your ribs. “When then, if not now, Steve?”
Steve reaches out, his thumb finally finding the skin of your neck, tracing the line of your jaw with agonizing slowness.
“You want it now?” he has the nerve to ask, when you're looking at him like that, as if he were the center of the entire universe, as if the world weren't ending, as if everything weren't collapsing around you. “You want me?”
Twenty minutes later, he is only just pushing the swollen tip of his massive cock into you and you already have tears brimming in the corners of your pretty eyes.
He has you sprawled out on the desk in the radio booth—his idea, since no one could hear you there even if you screamed, which you would, he had promised.
Your shirt is tossed somewhere, along with your jeans and panties and bra. You don't even know where your shoes might be.
You're too busy trying to let your body relax and let him in. Because, holy shit, he's big. Big, big.
“F–fuck,” you whine out, feeling his pulse thrumming wildly under your palm clutched to his shoulder. “It's too big, Steve—”
“Shh, you've got this, princess.” He soothes you, pressing little loving kisses on your flushed cheeks, his lips wiping away every trace of tears. “Aw, it's okay. You're doing so well, so well.”
Steve groans as he pushes forward, just a little, because you're already crying into his neck, big tears falling down your cheeks now. The air leaves your lungs with every ragged whimper that crawls up your throat, every time he forces another inch deeper into your tight pussy.
“Hmm—!” you moan, your head thumping back against a radio monitor. “Oh my fucking God...”
You look heavenly under him him, with your legs spread, the gates of paradise wide open for him.
And he's massive, filling you so perfectly that you feel your insides stretching to their absolute limit.
“I know, I know,” he coos into your ear, his voice strained and thick with the effort of holding back. He is being so patient and good to you. “Just breathe for me, baby— fuck— just breathe. Let me in, yeah?”
Because he knows he can't just dive in. He needs to open you up, that you adjust to his size, to make sure this doesn't hurt you, Steve wants to make things right with you after all.
With a shaky motion he pulls back just an inch and slides down a little more, his knees opening yours wider.
“Doing so well for me, baby. So good, I–I'm halfway there,” he's praising you in soft, trembling whispers, placing gentle, affectionate kisses all over your tear-stained cheeks. “I'm going to go in a little deeper, o–okay? Just a little more, mhm...”
You nod your head eagerly, gripping his shoulders, clawing at his back, and forcing him closer to you. Your legs wrap around his hips, urging him to thrust deeper.
He sinks in deep —all the way to the hilt— in one smooth, heavy thrust. Your eyes roll back as a strangled moan escapes your throat.
He's so big you can feel him in your fucking throat. You can feel your guts rearranging to fit his shape, molding and squeezing him so deliciously that you've got Steve whimpering on your chest, soaking your skin with drool and tears.
“There you go,” Steve whispers, his forehead dropping against your tits, “I'm all yours now. Taking me so fucking good, like no one else, f–fuck, baby. Still so fucking tight— my fucking God”
Steve's hands are shaking as they grip the edge of the desk on either side of your hips, his knuckles white as he tries to anchor himself. The feeling of being entirely encased by you, of your warmth and your tightness clamping down on his length, has his self-control hanging by a single, frayed thread.
“Steve...” you sob out, the sensation so overwhelming it's almost dizzying. “Don't... don't stop. Move— please, ohh—”
He is a good boy, so pulls back very slowly, just a little. The friction make your hips hitch off the desk, and then—he drives right back in.
Steve isn't just fucking you; he's claiming you, taking everything he possibly can of you, reaching your soul and lifting you to unknown heights. Every inch of him slides against your gummy walls with a perfect fit, hitting that special sweet spot of yours every time he bottoms out.
“You're... I—” he chokes, his voice breaking as he starts to pick up the pace.
Every time he bottoms out, his hips slap against yours with a wet, filthy sound that echoes off the metal equipment in such a pornographic way that has you all worked up and shivering.
Slap, slap, slap!
“I— I can't— you're so t-tight,” he slurs, his eyes blown wide and glassy with pleasure. “So perfect”
He looks perfect. For some absurd reason, his hair looks flawless, even though you're constantly pulling, ruffling, and tugging at it. His hands, big and veiny and craving you, cling to your flesh, marking it, claiming it, pawing at your hips, your ass, your waist. He's out of control, he finally has you there, all for himself, at his mercy and will. To touch, to kiss, to fuck, to claim as his own.
His hands caress a path down to your thighs, hiking them higher onto his shoulders to get an even deeper angle. Although his eyes display a sense of uncontrolled ferocity, his treatment is careful and gentle.
The shift allows Steve to bury himself to the all the way into the deepest part of your core, his pelvic bone grinding against yours as he sinks inside you. You let out a broken, high-pitched cry, your fingers tangling in his hair once again, pulling him down so you can find his mouth.
When your lips meet, the kiss is messy and desperate. It tastes like salt and heat and longing and love.
Steve moans right into your mouth, a deep, vibrating sound that you feel in your chest. He's moving faster now, his breaths coming in short, jagged hitches.
He's hitting that spot again, more firmly, more determinedly—the one that makes your vision go blurry and your toes curl into the air.
“God, Steve—” you gasp into the heat of his mouth, your body vibrating with the intensity of it all. “I need— I need more!”
“More?” he purrs, incredulous and playful.
He pulls out of you with a wet, loud pop that makes you whimper at the sudden coldness and emptiness he left behind, but before you can even protest and whine about it, his big hands are on your body again, hoisting you up.
“There you go, sugar,” he coos softly, “Yeah, mhm, just like that.”
He spins you around, your palms slamming onto the cluttered surface of the desk. You lean forward, your chest almost touching the wood, scattering papers and radio logs as you find your footing.
You're bent over, your spine arching perfectly, presenting yourself to him in a way that makes Steve let out a low, animalistic growl.
From this angle, he can see everything—the plumpness of your ass, open for him, the line of your spine, the gaping hole of your pulsating pussy, the wreckage that he himself has made in there.
“Look at you,” Steve breathes out in awe, his hands sliding down your back to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your ass, before tentatively slapping one of your ass cheeks, grunting at the sight of the jiggling under his palm.
He hisses as he slides a teasing finger along your folds, your pussy responding instantly to him and sucking him in on instinct.
“Look at her. You look so fucking good like this.”
Steve doesn't give you a chance to bitch about it, stopping your ass from wiggling back in search of him ravenously and just lines himself up and lunges back into your pussy, his massive length sliding back inside you in one devastatingly deep stroke.
He gazes at the way your folds stretch around his bulbous head, drool dripping from his half-open lips.
At the new position, he’s hitting your cervix with every thrust, sending jolts of pure electricity straight through your spine up to your brain.
“Oh! Steve!” you babble his name over and over, with your voice cracking. You grab whatever you can over the desk so hard your knuckles turn white, your head hanging low as you watch your own reflection blurred in the glass of the radio monitors. You're a mess. “Baby, fuck— right there!”
He’s relentless now. With his hands firmly anchored on your hips, he uses you as leverage, pulling you back onto him every time he drives forward.
“I've got you,” he answers your cries immediately, kissing down the point where your ass meets your back, “I've got you, baby.”
He's looking in awe the way your body is reacting to him, lowering his gaze to the space where his body connects with yours, admiring the sight of your pussy stretching out all around him, forming a white, creamy line around the girth of his cock.
You're taking every inch of him as if you were made for this. For him.
“You like that?” Steve snarls cockily, one of his hands landing on your lower back and forcing you to arch it for him as he notices that you are begin to squeeze impossibly. You are close. “Is it big enough for you, hm?”
“Yes—yes, please— oh, Steve!”
He obviously has you cumming sooner than you can blink. And it's a earth-shattering, soul-shaking, life-changing orgasm.
Your breath comes in ragged sobs, your vision spotting with white crazy shapes, you feel like you're floating off into the distance.
“Baby,” Steve is calling your name in a breathless whispers behind you, noticing you're still on cloud ten, shaking like jelly underneath him, so much that he has to hold you tightly by your hips, “where—”
“Inside,”you manage to croak. “Cum inside, I need it, please. Cum in me—”
You're hardly finished formulating the words when he delivers one brutal, final thrust, sinking so so hard inside you the desk groans under the weight of his force. He's growling, sobbing, praying your name, and cursing, all at the same time.
“Oh, God—” he chokes out, his body seizing.
It is God. The way your pussy is clenching him, milking out every drop he has for you.
And he is cumming so much that his seed starts to leak out around the base of his cock. He is filling you to the absolute brim, spurting ropes after ropes. Then he lets out one last, shuddering breath of your name, burying his face between your shoulder blades,kissing your sweaty skin appreciatively.
Steve is whispering sweet words of praise, repeating over and over how good and perfect and gorgeous you are.
“Is this a terrible moment to ask you out for dinner?,” he sheepishly asks after just a few seconds of silence, a moment that feels comfortable and heartwarming.
His hands are caressing your sides reassuringly, fingers trembling as he waits quietly for a response from you and pulling away from your back, not without first pressing a shy, soft kiss upon your shoulder.
Shy. As if he weren't literally buried balls deep inside you, his cum oozing out of your pussy after filling you to the fucking brim.
You let out a low, dazed laugh that vibrates through the desk, your cheek still resting against it as you try to remember how to breathe. The contrast between the animalistic intensity of the last ten minutes and his sudden, boyish vulnerability is almost enough to make you cry all over again.
“Dinner?” you say finally, your voice barely a whisper, raspy from all the moans and cries and whimpers he got out of your throat. “Steve, if we survive tonight, you can take me wherever the hell you want.”
He lets out a relieved, shaky breath, almost too shy to look you in the eye. “It's a date then. Enzo's?”
He finally begins to withdraw, the sensation of him sliding out of you leaving you feeling cold and so empty that you have a sudden urge to start complaining. You can feel the warmth of his seed beginning to trickle down your thighs.
Steve is quick to help you up, his hands steadying your waist as your knees threaten to buckle. He cleans you up with a fresh towel he finds in a nearby drawer, his gestures and gaze full of concern and care.
“You okay?” he asks so gently.
His hands lingering on your waist to make sure you’re steady before he starts frantically scanning the floor for your clothes. The air in the booth is thick, humid, and heavy with the scent of what just happened, but the ticking clock of the apocalypse is finally starting to penetrate the bubble you’ve been in
“I've never been better,” you admit, smiling. You watch him getting dressed now while you sit on the desk. “So... Enzo's?”
“Enzo's. I’m gonna wear a suit. I’ll even get the hair extra perfect for you,” a goofy, lopsided grin spreading across his face at the mere possibility of a date with you. “You don't know how long I've waited for this.”
Steve draws back toward you, like a force of nature, and you reach out to him, your hands coming up to his neck. He watches you fix his jacket, his gaze softening.
You kiss him on the cheek and he is left breathless, with that goofy little smile on his lips. Your hands caress his chest affectionately, “Robin was right. Ten out of ten.”
His smile just keeps getting bigger, that classic, cocky Steve Harrington smirk returning to his face as he adjusts that trucker cap back over his hair. “Only ten? I'll have to try harder next time.”
