steve harrington x reader fanfiction | strangers to lovers | college! reader | damaged! (but soft) steve | 90s | upside down events didn’t happen | slow burn | angst | eventual smut | some fluff | secrets | emotional baggage | trauma | tension | mutual pining
c/w: detailed in each chapter. mainly tension. secrets. violence description. wounds description. alcohol consumption
words: 79k
summary: steve harrington arrives in the city carrying too many secrets for someone supposedly looking for a new beggining.
between your friends' warnings, the pressure of your final semester and the ghosts you can barely outrun yourself, getting involved with him should be easy to avoid.
turns out, it isn't.
a/n: ongoing series. comment/reply to be added to the taglist. english is not my first lenguage + this is my first time sharing my work around here, so be patient with me !!
୨୧ teaser
୨୧ chapter one: another one bites the dust
୨୧ chapter two: you can't go on thinking nothing's wrong
୨୧ chapter three: every now and then i fall apart
୨୧ chapter four: i could drink a case of you
୨୧ chapter five: for nobody else gave me a thrill
୨୧ chapter six: everybody wants to rule the world
୨୧ chapter seven... (coming soon)
⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆
Summary: Late-night patrol turns filthy when you slip Ethel Cain’s “Gibson Girl” onto the aux in Gator Tillman’s cruiser. As the haunting lyrics fill the dark North Dakota roads and you start softly humming along, Gator hears the song for the first time… and quickly loses control.
Word count: 2.4K
Warnings: NSFW, rough sex (unprotected p/v), dirty talk, car sex (police cruiser), fingering, creampie, light choking/biting, hair pulling
A/N: Gator is so Ethel Cain coded that this felt like the right thing to do
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The cruiser’s tires whispered over the cracked asphalt of County Road 17, the only sound besides the low rumble of the engine and the occasional crackle from the radio dispatcher who’d gone quiet hours ago. It was past two in the morning, the kind of North Dakota night that felt like the world had folded in on itself, black sky pressing down, frost already webbing the windshield edges. Gator Tillman had one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming idle patterns on his thigh, his deputy uniform rumpled from the long shift that had bled into this aimless patrol. No calls, no drunks, just the two of you and the endless flat nothing.
You sat shotgun, boots kicked up on the dash, the heater blowing warm against your bare legs where your skirt had ridden up. Gator’s cruiser was your private world tonight. No one out here to see, no one to care. He’d picked you up after closing at the diner, like always, muttering something about “needing to clear his head” before he’d kissed you hard enough to leave your lipstick smeared on his collar. Now the silence between you felt charged, the way it always did when the night stretched empty and he was half-hard just from the way you looked at him.
You reached over without asking, fingers brushing the aux cord dangling from his phone mount. He glanced sideways, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’re you doin’, baby? My playlist’s fine.”
“It’s not,” you said, soft, already plugging in. Your thumb scrolled quick, queuing up the album you’d been listening to on loop for weeks: Ethel Cain, Preacher’s Daughter. You hit play on “Gibson Girl” and let the first slow, haunting notes bleed through the speakers. The synths were low and pulsing, like a heartbeat under dark water. Gator’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t kill it. He never killed your music.
The opening verse slid in, Ethel’s voice low and velvet-rough:
You wanna love me right now
You wanna get alone with me
You wanna get my clothes off
And hurt me
You started humming it under your breath, barely audible at first, just the melody curling around your tongue like smoke. Your eyes stayed on the road, but you felt Gator’s gaze snap to you, sharp, surprised. He’d never heard this before. You knew that. His playlists were all country grit and trap beats, shit that made his truck shake. This was different. Slower. Filthier in the quiet way it crawled inside your chest.
He shifted in the seat, leather creaking under him. “The fuck is this?” His voice came out rougher than usual, that Midwestern drawl thickening. “Sounds like some haunted church pussy music. Who even sings like that?”
You didn’t answer right away. Just hummed a little louder as the pre-chorus built:
Black leather and dark glasses
Pouring another while I shake my ass
Your fingers traced the edge of the seatbelt across your chest, pressing it just enough to make your tits shift under your thin sweater. Gator’s knuckles went white on the wheel. He was listening now, really listening. The lyrics weren’t subtle. They were a dare wrapped in honey, and you could see the exact second they landed behind his eyes.
He’s cold-blooded so it takes more time to bleed
Obsession with the money, addicted to the drugs
Says he’s in love with my body, that’s why he’s fucking it up
You hummed the next line right along with her, soft and breathy, almost moaning it: And then he says to me… “Baby, if it feels good, then it can’t be bad…”
Gator let out a short, startled laugh that died quick. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, eyes flicking from the road to your mouth and back. The cruiser drifted a little over the centerline before he corrected. “You put this on purpose, didn’t you? Fuckin’ tease.” His free hand dropped from the wheel to your thigh, palm hot through your skirt. Fingers dug in, possessive. “Never heard nothin’ like it. Sounds like she’s beggin’ to get wrecked.”
You turned your head, still humming, and let your gaze drag down his body: uniform shirt half-unbuttoned, badge glinting, the obvious bulge already straining against his dark pants. The song looped into the second verse, Ethel’s voice dropping lower, more intimate, like she was whispering right in his ear. You matched it, voice barely above a whisper now:
You wanna love me right now…
Gator’s breath hitched. He wasn’t driving straight anymore; the cruiser slowed to a crawl, tires crunching gravel as he veered onto the shoulder of an old access road that dead-ended in a snow-dusted field. No houses for miles. Just cornstalks long since harvested, frost sparkling under the headlights like broken glass.
“Pull over,” you said softly, still humming the hook.
“Already am,” he growled. The cruiser jerked to a stop, lights killing with a click. The song kept playing, filling the cab, low bass thumping under the lyrics like a second pulse. Gator killed the engine but left the keys in, the aux still feeding the music through the speakers. He turned to you fully, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. “First time I hear this shit and you’re hummin’ it like you’re the one sayin’ it. Like you want me to do every fuckin’ thing she’s singin’ about.”
You let the hum fade into a smile. “Maybe I do.”
He was on you before the next line even dropped.
Gator’s mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and desperation, one big hand fisting your hair to yank your head back. The kiss tasted like stale coffee and the mint gum he chewed to hide the cigarettes he wasn’t supposed to smoke on duty. His other hand shoved your skirt up to your hips in one rough motion, fingers immediately hooking into the lace of your panties and tugging them aside. No preamble. The song swelled around you, “You wanna get my clothes off and hurt me” and he groaned into your mouth like the lyrics were permission.
“Fuck, baby,” he panted against your lips, two thick fingers sliding through your slick folds without warning. You were already wet, had been since the first verse and he felt it, cursed low. “Listen to her. Listen to what she’s sayin’. That’s you, ain’t it? Want me to hurt you just right.” He pumped his fingers deep, curling them hard against that spot that made your back arch off the seat. The cruiser’s bench was narrow, but he used it, crowding you against the door, knee shoving your thighs wider.
You moaned, head thunking back against the window, and picked up the hum again, breathy and broken now as he finger-fucked you faster. You came alone to me… from however far away…
“Shit—keep doin’ that,” Gator rasped. His thumb found your clit, rubbing messy circles while his fingers scissored inside you. “Hum it while I make this pussy cry. Never heard a song make me this hard. Sounds like she wants to get used up. Like you do.” His cock was straining so hard against his zipper it looked painful. You reached down, palming him through the fabric, and he bucked into your hand with a strangled sound.
The song hit the pre-chorus again, louder in the sudden quiet of the cab:
And if you want it good, downright iconic… Something they all want that only you can have…
You matched it, voice wrecked: humming the melody while your hips rolled against his hand, chasing the stretch. Gator’s eyes were glued to your face, watching your mouth move with the words he’d never heard before tonight. It was like the song had peeled something open in him, his usual cocky swagger cracking into raw, filthy need.
He yanked his fingers out suddenly, slick and shining, and shoved them into your mouth. “Taste how bad you want it.” You sucked obediently, humming around them as the lyrics kept rolling, “You wanna fuck me right now” and Gator watched, jaw clenched. “That’s my girl. My dirty little Gibson Girl, huh? Singin’ about gettin’ her clothes ripped off and her pussy wrecked in the back of a cop car.”
He fumbled his belt open with one hand, the other still feeding you his fingers. The zipper rasped loud. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed dark, already leaking at the tip. He stroked himself once, twice, smearing the precum, then hauled you across the bench like you weighed nothing. Your back hit the seat; he climbed over you, uniform shirt hanging open, badge cold against your chest as he shoved your sweater up and latched his mouth onto one nipple. He bit down hard enough to make you keen around his fingers.
The song looped seamlessly, Ethel’s voice filling every inch of the cab like she was in the backseat watching:
And then he says to me… “Baby, if it feels good, then it can’t be bad…”
You pulled off his fingers with a wet pop and gasped the line back at him: “If it feels good… then it can’t be bad.”
Gator lost it.
He shoved your panties down your thighs in one brutal yank, not even bothering to get them all the way off just enough to spread you open. The head of his cock nudged your entrance, thick and hot, and he pushed in slow at first, letting you feel every inch split you open. “Fuck—tight as always. Listen to that song, baby. She knows. She knows exactly what you are.” He bottomed out with a groan that vibrated against your throat, hips flush to yours, balls pressed tight. The cruiser rocked once as he started moving, deep, punishing thrusts that punched the air out of your lungs.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and started humming louder, right against his ear. The melody wove through your moans as he fucked you harder, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with the music. You wanna love me right now… You wanna get alone with me…
“Goddamn right I do,” Gator snarled. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping onto your tits as he pounded into you. One hand braced on the headrest; the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. “Wanna keep you right here, stuffed full of my cock every night. Make you hum that filthy shit while I fill you up.” He angled his hips, hitting that spot again and again until your vision sparked white. The song built to its hazy, drugged-out chorus, and you came with it, clenching around him, crying out his name mixed with broken fragments of the lyrics.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow. Just fucked you through it, hips snapping relentless, the cruiser’s shocks creaking loud. “That’s it—sing for me while you cum on my dick. Never heard nothin’ hotter.” His voice was wrecked, that cocky deputy edge gone, replaced by something darker, hungrier. He pulled out suddenly, flipping you over the bench seat so your chest pressed to the leather, ass up. The position was cramped, your knees on the floor mat, but he didn’t care. He slammed back in from behind, one hand fisting your hair to yank your head back so you could still hear the speakers.
The song hit the bridge you loved most, Ethel’s voice raw and pleading, repeating the hook like a prayer:
You wanna get my clothes off… And hurt me…
Gator leaned over you, chest to your back, teeth sinking into the junction of your shoulder as he rutted deep. “You hear that? That’s what you do to me. One song and I’m losin’ my fuckin’ mind.” His free hand snaked around to rub your clit in tight, mean circles. “Gonna cum inside you. Right here where anyone could drive by and see the sheriff’s son balls-deep in his girl. You want that? Want me to knock you up to this song?”
You nodded frantically, humming yes-yes-yes into the leather, the vibrations traveling straight to his cock. He fucked you faster, sloppy now, chasing it. The lyrics looped again and Gator came with a guttural shout, hips stuttering as he flooded you. Hot pulses deep inside, so much it leaked out around his shaft, dripping down your thighs onto the seat.
He stayed buried, panting, the song still playing soft in the background like a dirty lullaby. After a minute he pulled out slow, watching his cum spill from your swollen pussy with a satisfied hum of his own. He swiped two fingers through it, pushed them back in, and made you taste the mix, his and yours while you kept humming the fading melody.
“First time I hear that song,” he murmured, voice hoarse, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to the bite mark on your shoulder, “and it’s gonna be stuck in my head forever now. Every time I’m on patrol, I’m gonna remember you hummin’ it while I wreck this pretty cunt.” He tugged your panties back up, trapping the mess, and settled back into the driver’s seat, pulling you into his lap instead of letting you return to shotgun. His arms wrapped around you, one hand idly stroking your thigh as the song queued up again automatically.
You rested your head on his chest, still humming the chorus under your breath, softer now. Gator’s heartbeat thundered against your cheek. Outside, the night stayed empty and black. Inside, the cruiser smelled like sex and leather and the faint ghost of his cologne, and Ethel Cain kept singing low and sweet about wanting to be loved right now, hurt just right, clothes off and bodies wrecked.
He started the engine eventually, but didn’t pull back onto the road right away. Just sat there with you in his lap, thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip, listening to the song wind down one more time.
“Play it again,” he said quietly, almost shy. “Whole album if you want. I think… I think I get it now.”
You smiled against his neck and hit repeat. The night was young, the roads still empty, and Gator Tillman, cocky deputy, your man, had just heard his new favorite song for the first time.
The cruiser rolled back onto the blacktop slow, your humming blending with Ethel’s voice once more as his hand slipped back under your skirt, already teasing, already promising round two before the next verse even dropped.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: after a bad breakup, you start therapy to fix your intimacy issues. your new therapist, steve harrington, is younger than expected and far too way attractive. what starts as professional help slowly turns into something more complicated and probably forbidden.
wc: 8.9k
warnings: porn with plot, +18 (minors do not interact), explicit nsfw, therapist / client relationship, thigh riding, cheating mention, fingering, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), creampie, dirty talk, female masturbation, semi-public if you squint, internal conflict, p in v, consensual sex, kinda forbidden sex, big dick steve.
author's note: hihiii sorry for not posting tysm for 490+ followers and ty ani for the idea & nic for the help. i have a lot of exams but i wanted to post this before locking in and coming back with all requests and fics <3 love yall
four years. that's how much time passed since the night marcus –your now ex– broke up with you.
the breakup with him didn’t happen because you were unavailable. it happened because he was a lying cheating piece of shit.
and the memory still lingered like a bruise that refused to fade completely.
you found out a random tuesday evening. a mutual friend posted a story on instagram: nothing dramatic, just a casual photo for a party the previous weekend. in the background, clear as day, you saw him with his tongue down another girl’s throat.
the same weekend he told you he was ‘’too tired to hang out’’ and needed ‘’space.’’
you confronted him the next night when you two went out to have dinner. you played your role perfectly; laughing at his jokes and leaning at the right moments.
you were good at faking. you always had been.
you wanted to talk about that, and when you did, he didn’t even try to lie.
‘’yeah. i slept with her. so what? you’re never really present anyway. you’re always halfway out the door emotionally.’’
you tried not to cry. not in public. not in such a luxurious restaurant. you were about to speak, but he interrupted you.
‘’maybe if you actually talked to me instead of acting like some mysterious untouchable girl… i wouldn’t have needed to find pleasure in someone else.’’
his words were cruel, but the betrayal burned deeper than the insult.
you had let him in more than most. you shared pieces of yourself you usually kept hidden. and he rewarded that vulnerability by cheating you and then blaming you for it.
that night you drove home in silence, your hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. you didn’t cry until you took a shower.
the hot water was burning your skin as reality settled in: trusting someone backfired spectacularly.
after marcus, something inside you shifted.
you stopped believing that real intimacy could be safe.
every man who showed interest felt like a potential traitor. every sweet word sounded like manipulation waiting to happen. every touch made you wonder what that guy was hiding behind that smile.
you still went on dates. you still flirted effortlessly and still let men take you home and fuck you. but you never truly let them close.
the second things started feeling real –the second a conversation turned vulnerable, when sometime tried to stay the night and hold you, or even when a touch became too tender– you disconnected. you left your own body and watched everything from above.
years passed like this.
a string of shallow relationships that never lasted more than a few weeks. you became an expert at keeping people a comfortable distance while making them believe they were close.
but you never stayed. not emotionally at least.
your best friend watched this cycle repeat itself with growing worry and frustration. she was there the night you found out about him cheating. she held you while you cried angry tears. and she was tired of seeing her best friend never letting anyone in.
one afternoon, after you mentioned yet another guy who slowly ghosted you after a few dates, she sat you down on her couch with two glasses of wine and a look that said she wasn’t going to let you dodge the conversation this time.
‘’i love you more than anything in this world,’’ she started quietly. ‘’but i can’t keep watching you destroy any chance of real connection because of what he did to you four years ago. you deserve to feel something.’’
you tried to brush it off with some humor, but she wasn't having it.
‘’you need therapy,’’ she said. ‘’you’re so scared and that fear is costing you years of your life. just go to one session. if you hate it, i’ll never bring it up.’’
‘’i don’t need therapy,’’
‘’yes, you do. you think you’re fine because you can still flirt and get guys, but you’re not fine. you’re lonely when you’re with someone.’’
you let out a bitter laugh.
‘’i’m not scared. i’m smart. after what marcus did, why the hell would i let someone in again? so they cheat on me and then blame me for having trust issues? no, thanks.’’
‘’not every man is marcus. but you’ll never know that if you keep pushing everyone away before they even have a chance. you deserve to feel safe with someone. you deserve to be loved and not just desired.’’
you looked away.
‘’i’m handling it.’’ you repeated stubbornly.
‘’you’re not handling it,’’ your friend said softly. ‘’you’re surviving. there’s a difference.’’
she slid a small business card across the table toward you.
hawkins behavioral health.
you didn’t book the appointment right away.
for nearly three weeks, the small business card your best friend gave you sat in your kitchen like a quiet accusation. every time you went to drink water, you saw it. every night you came exhausted from work, it was still there.
at first, you ignored it completely.
you told yourself you didn’t need therapy. but the words felt thinner every time you repeated them.
you started researching the place anyway – mostly out of boredom, you convinced yourself. hawkins behavioral health had a clean website and good reviews.
but one name kept appearing with particularly strong feedback: dr. steve harrington.
you read review after review.
‘’he actually sees you. doesn’t just nod and write things down.’’
‘’first therapist who called me out on my bullshit in the kindest way possible.’’
‘’made me feel safe enough to be honest.’’
you closed the browser more than once, annoyed at yourself for even considering it.
then came the date with tyler. a guy you met.
it was supposed to be casual, just drinks at a nice bar. he was charming, successful, and funny.
on paper, he was perfect. in reality, he spent most of the night talking about himself.
when you finally opened up a little, he didn’t seem to care. but there was a specific comment that hurt.
‘’guys don’t want to deal with a bunch of emotional baggage, you know?’’
the comment stung more than it should have.
later that night, when he kissed you outside the bar and invited you back to his place, you went. but the entire time you felt hollow. you two didn’t even kiss there, just talked at night and he let you stay to sleep.
the next morning you drove home in silence. when you walked into the apartment, the little business card was still on the counter. you picked it up, turned it over in your hands for a long time, and finally sighed.
‘’fuck it,’’ you whispered.
you called hawkins behavior health that same afternoon and booked an appointment for the following thursday.
the day of your first session arrived faster than you expected.
you spent the entire morning convincing yourself you could still cancel. you changed outfits three times and almost turned the car around twice on the way there.
but somehow, you ended up walking through the front doors of the building.
the reception area was warm and comforting, with soft lightning and exposed brick walls. behind the desk stood a woman with short brown hair and energetic presence.
her name tag read: robin buckley – office coordinator.
she looked up and gave you a bright welcoming smile.
‘’hi! you must be the 4:30. first time with us?’’ you nodded, gripping the strap of your bag a little too tightly.
robin’s smile softened, sensing your nerves.
‘’totally normal to feel anxious. everyone is on their first visit.’’ she typed something on her computer. ‘’you’re here to see dr. harrington, right?’’
‘’yes.’’
‘’he’s really good,’’ she said kindly. ‘’a little young for a psychologist, but perceptive. something annoyingly so, but don’t tell him i told you that.’’ she gave you a playful wink. ‘’just be honest with him. he can candle the truth.’’
she printed some forms and handed them to you.
‘’fill these out and i’ll let him know you’re him. deep breath. you’ve got this.’’
ten minutes later, robin returned and led you down a quiet hallway lined with plants.
she stopped in front of a wooden door and gave you one last encouraging smile.
‘’dr. harrington? your 4:30 is here.’’
you took a deep breath and stepped inside.
the office was nothing like you had imagined. it didn’t feel clinical or cold. warm afternoon light poured through tall windows, bathing the room in a soft golden hue.
one wall was lined with tall bookshelves filled with psychology texts, novels, and a few personal items – like a small framed picture of a group of friends, and what looked like a tiny hawkins high keychain hanging from a shelf.
two comfortable deep armchairs faxed each other with a low wooden table between them. a box of tissues on the table and a long couch that looked untouched.
and he was rising from one of the armchairs. steve harrington.
he was younger than you expected even if robin told you before.
much younger. early twenties, if that.
he looked tall even if he was sitting, with messy brow hair that looked like he’d run his hand through it several times that day.
and he had warm hazel eyes. big hazel eyes you weren’t able to ignore.
he also wore a brown jacket over a button-up shirt.
steve looked more like a handsome graduate student than a licensed psychologist.
‘’hi,’’ he said with low warm voice. ‘’i’m steve harrington. you can call me steve if that makes you feel more comfortable. come in, please.”
he gestured toward the empty armchair across from him.
‘’sit however you’d like. there are no rules in this room.’’
you gave him a small smile and sat down, crossing your legs neatly and folding your hands in your lap. you studied him from a moment: the way he moved, the way he looked at you.
he was annoying attractive. too attractive to be doing this job.
steve sat down across from you, leaning forward slightly with his hands clasped loosely between his knees. he didn’t speak right away. he just looked at you –not staring, but truly paying attention– and it made your skin prickle.
‘’so,’’ he said gently after a few seconds, offering a small smile. ‘’what brings you here today?’’
you let out a soft breath and gave him a smile.
‘’well…. apparently i’m very good at making men want me, but terrible at actually letting them stay.’’ you titled your head a little, letting your gaze linger on his face for a second. ‘’my last boyfriend said i’m emotionally unavailable. among other things.’’
you finished with a light laugh, hoping it would steer the conversation into safer waters.
steve didn’t laugh with you.
he simply watched you with a calm and thoughtful expression.
after a moment, he talked.
“you started with a joke,” he noted gently. “and a compliment hidden inside it. you smiled while talking about something painful. that’s interesting.”
you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your expression light.
“are you always this direct?”
“well… i’m noticing some things. you are trying to deflect,” he replied but not unkindly. “you’re very good at it. you use charm and humor to keep things from getting serious.”
you felt a flicker of irritation mixed with uncomfortably and nervousness.
“you’re very observant for someone so young,” you said, your tone was still light but with a subtle edge. “does that usually work for you? reading people before they even say anything?”
steve’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.
but his eyes remained steady.
“you’re doing it again,” he said softly. “shifting the focus onto me and testing my reactions.” he paused, then added. “it’s okay. we don’t have to rush. this is your space.”
you sat back slightly, studying him.
he was good. too good.
and the fact that he was young somehow made it worse.
he shouldn’t be this perceptive.
he shouldn’t be able to see through you this easily.
steve waited patiently, giving you time. his presence was calm, steady, and strangely grounding.
those hazel eyes never left yours, but they weren’t intimidating either.
they were patient. kind. like he really had nowhere else he’d rather be.
“so,” he said again. “when you say you’re “terrible at letting people stay”… what does that feel like for you?”
you opened your mouth, ready to give another polished half-joking answer.
but for the first time in a long time, the words got stuck in your throat.
steve didn’t push. he simply waited, watching you with that calm gaze.
the silent stretched between you, not awkward, but heavy. for once, you didn’t know what to say. you didn’t have a clever line prepared. you didn’t have a flirty deflection ready.
after a long moment, you let out a slow breath and looked down at your hands.
‘’i don’t know how to… stay,’’ you admitted quietly. ‘’when things get real. when someone starts looking too closely. i just… leave. not physically. but emotionally. i go somewhere else in my head. i smile. i say the right things. but i’m not really there.’’
steve nodded slowly, his expression soft but attentive.
‘’that sounds lonely,’’ he said gently. ‘’being with someone but no really being with them.’’
you swallowed hard.
‘’it is,’’ you whispered. ‘’but it’s safer.
steve leaned forward sightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
‘’can you tell me more about that? when did you start feeling the need to protect yourself from the others like this?’’
you hesitated. the memories of your ex came rushing back – his cruel words, the way he blamed you for his own cheating, the humiliation of realizing you tried to be vulnerable with someone who never deserved it.
‘’four years ago,’’ you said, voice quieter now. ‘’i was with someone. i thought i was letting him in. i was trying and he cheated on me. then told me it was my fault and after that… it just felt easier to never let anyone close enough to hurt me again.’’
steve listened without interrupting. you liked that. and his eyes never left your face.
when you finished, he spoke carefully.
‘’so you learned that being vulnerable leads to pain. and now, even when you want connection, your mind and body protect you by disconnecting.’’
you looked up at him, surprised by how gently he said it.
‘’you’re very young to be this good at this,’’ you said, trying to regain some control with a teasing smile.
steve’s lip curved into a faint smile.
‘’and you’re deflecting again,’’ he replied softly, but there was no judgment in his tone. ‘’it’s okay. we’ll work on that. one step at a time.’’
he paused and then asked gently.
‘’when you’re with someone now… physically… what does that disconnection feel like in your body?’’
you shifted in your seat, feeling exposed under his attentive gaze. you hadn't expected him to go there so directly, yet so kindly.
‘’it feels like… im floating,’’ you admitted. ‘’like i can do everything right but i’m not really feeling anything. it’s like automatic.’’
steve nodded slowly, processing your words.
‘’and does that bother you?’’ he asked. ‘’or has it become normal?’’
you stayed silent for a long moment.
‘’.. it bothers me,’’ you finally whispered. ‘’but i don’t know how to stop doing it.’’
he gave you a small nod.
‘’that’s why you’re here,’’ he said gently. ‘’we’re going to figure that out together. no pressure. just honestly, at whatever pace you need.’’
for the rest of the session, steve listened carefully as you spoke. he didn’t interrupt. he didn’t judge.
he simply asked thoughtful questions and noticed things you hadn’t even realized about yourself; the way you joked when things got heavy, the way you crossed your arms when you felt vulnerable…
by the time the session ended, you felt strangely drained. but also lighter.
steve stood up when the hour was over and gave you a warm smile.
‘’you did really well today,’’ he said. ‘’i know it wasn’t easy. same time next week?’’
you nodded, feeling a strange mix of nervousness and relief.
as you left his office, you couldn’t stop thinking about how easily he had seen through every wall you tried to put up.
then the days after your first session passed in a strange haze.
you went back to your routine: work, nights with your best friend… but something felt different. lighter, maybe. or perhaps just more aware.
you tried dating again. not because you suddenly believed in love, but because you wanted to prove to yourself (and maybe to steve), that you could try.
his name was daniel. he was kind, funny and worked as a graphic designer.
he didn’t try too hard.
on your first date, you talked for almost three hours about music and movies. on the second, he kissed you goodnight outside your car.
you wanted this to work.
you returned for the second session. you spent the entire week thinking about steve’s words.
the way he looked at you. the way he actually listened. it was unsettling how much space he was taking up in your mind.
when you walked into his office and steve was already waiting, sitting in his usual chair. he wore a blue polo shirt that made his hazel eyes stand out even more.
the moment you entered, he gave you a warm smile that made your stomach tighten.
‘’hi,’’ he said. ‘’it’s good to see you again. come in, make yourself comfortable.’’
you sat down in the armchair across from him, crossing your legs and folding your hands in your lap. for a few seconds, you didn’t know where to begin.
steve waited patiently, as always – never rushing you, never filling the silence.
‘’i’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,’’ you started quietly. ‘’and… i went out with this guy named daniel. a few times, actually.’’
steve nodded slowly, giving you his full attention.
‘’tell me about that,’’
you took a deep breath.
‘’he’s really kind. patient. he doesn’t pressure me. we talked for hours and he actually listens.’’ you paused, then added more softly. ‘’i wanted it to be different this time. i want to try going somewhere serious with him. not just casual.’’
steve listened, his eyes steady on you. when you finished, he spoke carefully.
‘’that’s a significant step – choosing to try something real with someone after being hurt. how did it feel for you?’’ you looked down at your hands.
‘’at the beginning it was okay. i felt present. but then i slipped away again.’’ you let out a small breath. ‘’i hate that i keep doing that.’’
steve was quiet for a moment, processing your words with care.
‘’what you’re describing is a very common trauma response,’’ he said gently. ‘’after being betrayed by someone you tried to trust, your nervous system learned that vulnerability equals danger. so when intimacy starts to feel real, your mind protects you by dissociating.’’
you looked up at him, surprised by how good he explained it. steve continued.
‘’the fact that you’re aware of it happening is already a progress. most people don’t even notice when they disconnect.’’
his words wrapped around you like a blanket. you felt your cheeks grow warm and you bit your lip.
‘’thank you,’’ you whispered. steve’s expression softened further.
he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
‘’would you like to practice some grounding exercises? things you can use when you feel yourself starting to flow away?’’
you nodded. and for the next thirty minutes, steve guided you through several exercises with patience and care. his voice was incredibly calm and silky as he spoke.
he watched you practice, his eyes never leaving you.
‘’good,’’ he said when you did it correctly. ‘’that’s really good. you’re picking this up quickly.’’
every time he praised you, even subtly, you felt warmth spread through your chest. you found yourself feeling timid under his attention.
steve remembered details from your previous session and wove them in naturally.
‘’you mentioned last time that you tend to perform because you want others to feel good,’’ he looked at you. ‘’we can work on finding balance.’’
you felt exposed but safe. the way steve spoke made you feel truly seen.
when the session was nearing its end, steve looked at you.
‘’you did really well today,’’ he said softly. ‘’you were honest about something difficult. you let yourself be vulnerable.’’
his praise hit you deeply. you felt your face flush.
you left his office with warm cheeks and the confusing realization that your therapist’s gentle praise was starting to affect you far more than any touch from daniel ever had.
after that, you continued seeing daniel. the relationship –if it could even be called that yet– developed slowly and sweetly. he was consistent in a way that was almost foreign to you.
but every time the moment leaned toward something more intimate, you gently stopped him.
daniel was always understanding. he’d kiss your forehead and never made you feel guilty. and yet, every time you left his apartment, you felt a quiet frustration with yourself.
you wanted him fully. you wanted to be normal. but something inside you still head back.
in the other way, your therapy sessions with steve became the anchor of your week. you found yourself in that office. steve seemed to look better each time you saw him.
sometimes it was the way his hair fell across his forehead.
sometimes it was the soft sweaters that hugged his biceps and shoulders.
sometimes it was simply the way he looked at you.
the flirting on your part was subtle, almost unconscious. quiet and soft words while tucking your hair behind your ear.
steve never crossed any lines.
he remained perfectly professional. but his gaze would linger a second longer than necessary, and his voice would drop into that low silky tone when he praised you.
you told yourself it was nothing. he was just doing his job.
one afternoon, after a particularly long session, you met your best friend for a coffee. the moment you sat down, she studied your face with a knowing look.
‘’so… how are things going with daniel?’’ she asked, cutting into her avocado toast.
you smiled, a small genuine one.
‘’they’re good, actually. he’s really sweet. we’ve been seeing each other a couple times a week. we haven’t slept together yet… but i feel like i might be getting closer to wanting that.’’
her eyes lit up.
‘’that’s great! i’m really happy for you. he sounds like a good guy.’’ you nodded, stirring your coffee.
there was a comfortable pause. then she took a sip of her drink and asked casually:
‘’and how’s therapy going? you haven’t told me much about it lately.’’
you hesitated for a second, then shrugged lightly.
‘’it’s… going well, i think. my therapist is really good. he’s patient, he actually listens, and he explains things in a way that doesn’t make me feel like i’m broken. we’ve working on grounding exercises so i can stay more present, especially with daniel.’’
she raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
‘’tell me more about him. what’s he like?’’
you looked down at your cup, feeling a little shy.
‘’he’s… younger than i expected. really perceptive. he remember everything i tell him. he just helps me understand why i do it.’’
she stayed quiet for a moment. then she leaned forward with a mischievous grin.
‘’okay… i have to confess something. after you told me you started therapy, i got curious and looked him up on google.’’
you blinked. ‘’you what?’’
‘’i googled him,’’ she said, laughing. ‘’dr. steve harrington. i found his profile on the practice’s website and some pictures. girl… he’s ridiculously hot. like, stupidly attractive. i mean… i get why tour sessions feel intense.’’
you felt your face heat up instantly. you looked down at your latte.
‘’he’s just my therapist,’’ you said quickly, trying to sound casual. ‘’he’s professional. really good at his job. that’s all.’’
‘’sure. that’s why you are blushing right now.’’
after that comment, you may have started seeing steve a little bit differently.
maybe more handsome.
maybe with more interest.
you tried to think it was just nonsense, that your best friend’s talk was inside your brain.
while waiting in the reception area for your session, you made the mistake of checking the practice's recent google reviews on your phone.
several new ones appeared. from women in their twenties.
one in particular caught your eye:
‘’dr. Harrington is incredible. i’ve never felt so understood in my life. he’s helped me so much with my intimacy issues. 10/10, would recommend to anyone.”
there were several more like that – all women praising how attentive and emotionally available steve was.
your stomach twisted with an ugly feeling you didn’t want to name.
jealousy.
then, as you were sitting in the waiting room, the door to steve’s office opened.
a pretty brunette woman stepped out, smiling brightly. steve followed her to the door, speaking to her in that same gentle, warm tone he used with you.
“see you next week. you did great today.”
she left, laughing at something he said. you felt a sharp pang in your chest.
when Steve turned and saw you waiting, his expression softened immediately.
“hey,” he said warmly. “ready?”
you forced a small smile and followed him into the office, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot of jealousy twisting inside you.
you sat down in your usual armchair. steve settled across from you, leaning forward sightly with his elbows on his knees.
‘’how has your week been?’’ he asked softly.
you hesitated for a moment and opened your mouth to give a vague answer, but steve continued you could speak, his tone calm.
‘’you mentioned last session that you’ve been seeing someone. daniel, right? how are things going with him?’’
the question caught you slightly off guard. he had remembered the name.
of course he had.
you shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling exposed.
“they’re… going well,” you said carefully. “he’s really kind. patient. we’ve been spending more time together. we talk a lot, we kiss… but we haven’t slept together yet.”
steve listened with complete focus, his eyes never leaving your face. he nodded slowly, processing your words.
“and how do you feel about that?” he asked with a soft voice. “about holding back with him?”
you let out a slow breath.
“i feel guilty sometimes,” you admitted. “he’s a good guy. he deserves someone who can give him everything. but i’m scared. every time things get more physical, i feel myself starting to disconnect again. i don’t want to perform with him… but i don’t know how to stop doing it.”
steve was quiet for a few seconds. His expression remained calm and professional, but you noticed the subtle tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tightened slightly around his pen.
“it makes sense that you’re scared,” he said gently. “after being betrayed by someone you tried to trust, your mind and body learned that intimacy equals danger.”
he paused, then added in that low silky tone he had.
“but I also notice that when you talk about daniel, you describe him as ‘nice’ and ‘kind.’ you don’t talk about desire. about wanting him. does that feel significant to you?”
his question felt more direct than usual. you felt your cheeks warm under his steady gaze.
“i… i don’t know,” you whispered. “maybe I’m still not ready. or maybe i’m comparing how i feel with him to… other things.”
steve’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. he didn’t push further on that comment, but the air in the room felt heavier.
you felt your face flush. you looked down at your lap, unable to meet his eyes.
a shy, nervous smile formed on your lips as you played with the hem of your sweater and your fingers trembled slightly.
you left his office with the confusing realization that steve’s gentle praise affected you.
and no matter how many times you told yourself he was just being a good therapist.
the feeling was getting harder to ignore.
another day that daniel texted you asking if you wanted to do something casual. you said yes before you could overthink it.
the night arrived. he was the same as always: easy to talk to, interested in what you said, and never pushy. he brought you flowers –white daisies– and remembered your drink.
when dinner was over, you ended up on his couch. the kissing started slow and sweet. his hands were careful as they slid under your sweater, caressing your back.
for a while, you stayed present. you felt the warmth of his body, the softness of his lips, the way he whispered how beautiful you were. it felt nice.
but the moment his hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your jeans, something inside you tightened.
you pulled back gently, placing a hand on his chest.
‘’daniel… wait,’’ you whispered. he stopped immediately, looking at you with concern.
‘’is everything okay?’’ he asked softly.
you sat up a little, pulling your sweater back down.
your heart was racing, but not from desire – from anxiety.
‘’i’m sorry,’’ you said quietly. ‘’i thought i was ready, but… i’m not. not tonight.’’
daniel nodded without hesitation. he sat back and gave you a kind, understanding smile.
“that’s completely fine,” he said. “we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. i’m really happy just spending time with you.”
you felt a wave of relief mixed with guilt.
yet you still couldn’t give him what he probably wanted.
you stayed for a little while longer, talking on the couch, but the atmosphere shifted.
when you left his apartment that night, you hugged him goodbye and told him you’d text him soon. the drive home was quiet. you felt disappointed in yourself.
by the time you got home, took a shower, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the frustration had built up to a breaking point.
now it has been months. months of this same cycle. flirting, dating, getting close, but then freezing or performing the moment things became truly intimate.
you were tired of it. exhausted.
you arrived at your session feeling a mix of determination and deep embarrassment.
steve was already seated when you walked in. he wore a sweater that made his shoulders look broader. when he saw you, his hazel eyes softened with that familiar warm attention.
“hi,” he said gently. “come in. make yourself comfortable.”
you sat down. steve noticed your body language immediately.
“you seem a little nervous today,” he observed softly. “would you like to tell me what’s on your mind?”
you took a deep breath and decided to be honest.
“i’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,” you said quietly. “about why i disconnect during sex. i… i want to understand it better. so i can try to fix it with daniel.”
steve nodded slowly, his gaze steady and kind.
“i’m glad you want to explore this,” he said. “to help you, i’m going to ask some personal questions about your sexual experiences. you don’t have to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable. but the more honest you can be, the better i can understand what’s happening and help you work through it. is that okay with you?”
you swallowed hard and nodded. steve kept his voice low and professional.
“when you’re with daniel, or with previous partners… do you feel any physical pleasure at all? or does it become purely mechanical after a certain point?”
your cheeks started burning.
“sometimes… at the beginning,” you whispered. “i feel warmth. tingling. but then it fades. i start focusing on what i should be doing instead of what i’m feeling.”
steve nodded, completely focused on you.
“do you touch yourself when you’re alone?” he asked calmly. “masturbate?”
your face went hot. you looked down at your lap, fingers twisting nervously in your sweater.
“…yes,” you admitted.
“how does that feel compared to sex with someone else?” he asked gently. “do you stay present when you’re touching yourself?”
you bit your lip, feeling incredibly exposed.
“mostly yes,” you whispered. “it’s easier when i’m alone. i can control everything. i don’t have to worry about what the other person is thinking.”
steve’s voice remained soothing.
“that’s very common,” he said. “when you’re alone, there’s no fear of judgment or betrayal. your body feels safe enough to stay present. but when someone else is involved, that safety disappears and your mind protects you by dissociating.”
he paused, then continued.
“when you masturbate… what do you usually think about? do you stay focused on the sensations in your body, or does your mind wander to fantasies?”
your face was burning now. you couldn’t look at him.
“i… try to focus on the sensations,” you mumbled. “but sometimes i fantasize. about… being wanted. being seen. not just fucked.”
steve was quiet for a moment, giving you space. the silence felt heavy but not uncomfortable.
when he finally spoke, his voice was even softer, almost careful.
“thank you for being honest about that,” he said. “that’s really helpful information.”
he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
“as an exercise for this week, i’d like you to try something at home. when you masturbate, i want you to focus completely on the physical sensations. you don’t have to do it every day, just when you feel comfortable.”
your heart was beating fast. the idea of doing that and then telling him about it made your stomach twist with nerves.
“and… you want me to tell you how it went?” you asked, voice small.
steve nodded calmly.
“only if you feel comfortable sharing. this is your space. but yes, talking about it next session could help us understand what makes it easier or harder for you to stay present.”
you swallowed hard, cheeks still burning.
“okay,” you whispered. “i’ll try.”
the drive home was quiet. your hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly the whole way.
steve’s voice kept echoing in your head.
the way he looked at you when you spoke. the subtle way his fingers tapped against his knee.
by the time you stepped into your apartment, you kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed, replaying steve’s words from the session.
you lay back on your bed, still wearing your clothes from the day. you slid your hand inside your now pajama pants and started slowly rubbing yourself over your panties.
you tried to focus on the sensation, on your own body like steve suggested. but after a few minutes your mind began to wander.
you kept thinking about him.
about the calm way he looked at you when he spoke.
about how low and steady his voice got when he explained things.
about the way his hands rested on his thighs during sessions.
you imagined those same hands on you and immediately felt a rush of heat between your legs.
you slipped your fingers under your panties and touched yourself directly, circling your clit slowly. soft sounds left your lips as you got wetter.
every time you tried to push the thoughts away, they came back stronger.
you pictured steve’s face, his kind eyes, the slight scruff on his jaw, the way he said your name.
guilt twisted in your chest even as pleasure built between your legs.this is wrong, you thought.
he was your therapist. he was trying to help you and you were here touching yourself while thinking about him.
still, you didn’t stop. your fingers moved faster, sliding inside yourself while your other hand gripped the sheets.
your breathing grew heavier. you whispered his name once, very quietly, like a secret you couldn’t keep inside.
when you finally came it was sharp and intense; your thighs shaking, a soft broken sound leaving your throat.
you felt dirty. wrong. like you had crossed a line you could never uncross.
steve trusted you.
he was patient and professional and genuinely trying to help you heal, and here you were fantasizing about him.
“what the hell is wrong with me…” you whispered into the quiet room.
the next few days were hell.
you tried to pretend it never happened.
you told yourself it was a one-time mistake. that it wouldn’t happen again.
but when thursday afternoon came and you walked into steve’s office, your hands were already shaking.
steve was sitting in his usual chair, wearing a soft beige sweater, looking calm and professional like always.
he smiled gently when you entered.
“hey,” he said warmly. “how have you been since last session?”
you sat down on the couch across from him, legs pressed tightly together.
“fine,” you mumbled.
he studied you for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
“did you try the homework i gave you?” he asked, voice gentle but direct. “touching yourself without pressure?”
you stayed silent, staring at the floor. your throat felt tight. steve waited patiently.
“you don’t have to share details if you don’t want to,” he continued softly, “but it would help if you could tell me whether you did it or not… and if you did, what came up for you. what you were thinking about.”
you still didn’t answer. your fingers twisted in your lap.
steve tilted his head.
“it’s okay,” he said. “you can sit over here if it feels easier to talk.” he gestured to the smaller couch closer to his chair, only a couple feet away. “sometimes being a little closer helps.”
you didn’t move.
after a few seconds of silence, steve slowly reached out and placed his hand gently on your knee, warm and steady, trying to get your attention.
“hey,” he said quietly, voice low. “talk to me. what’s going on in that head of yours?”
your heart hammered in your chest. his hand on your leg made everything worse. you felt tears burning in your eyes.you finally whispered, barely audible:
“…i did it.”
steve nodded slowly, thumb brushing lightly against your knee in a comforting motion.
“good. that’s okay. and when you were doing it… what were you thinking about?”
you stayed quiet for a long moment, shame burning through your whole body. then, in a tiny, broken voice, you admitted:
“…you.”
the word hung heavy in the air between you.steve froze. his hand stilled on your knee.
for the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard.
steve didn’t move. the air between you grew thick.
he stayed quiet for a few seconds, processing your words, then spoke carefully.
“you need to try thinking about something like that when you’re with daniel. that kind of arousal… that’s what we’re trying to build with him.”
you finally looked up at him with glassy and frustrated eyes.
“how am i supposed to feel that way with daniel?” your voice cracked. “how do i differentiate it? how do i know what i really want with him?”
steve stared at you. his breathing changed.
the professional mask cracked right in front of you.
for a moment he looked conflicted, struggling hard with himself.
then he leaned in slowly, cupped your face with one hand, and kissed you.
the kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, but full of months of hidden tension. his lips were warm and gentle against yours. your heart slammed in your chest.
he pulled back after a few seconds with his breathing ragged.
“fuck… i’m sorry,” he whispered. “that was completely unprofessional. i shouldn’t have done that. we can’t—”
you didn’t let him finish.
you grabbed the front of his sweater and pulled him back into the kiss, harder this time.
steve froze for half a second before he gave in completely, kissing you back with a quiet groan. his hand slid to the back of your neck as the kiss deepened, growing more desperate.
both of you knew how wrong this was.
but in that moment, neither of you cared.
“this is so wrong…” he said. “i could lose my license. i could get fired. we shouldn’t be doing this.”
you looked into his eyes, desperate.
“i need you, steve,” you whispered back, voice breaking. “i don’t want anyone else. i only think about you.”
he let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting with himself.
then pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling him, your jeans rubbing against his thighs. his hands immediately gripped your hips.
“fuck… you’re going to ruin me,” he murmured before kissing you again, deeper this time.
his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and sucking on your skin as his hands worked between you.
“ride my thigh, baby,” he whispered hotly against your neck. “just like this. with your clothes on. use me to feel good.”
you moaned softly and started rocking your hips, grinding your clothed pussy against his thick, muscular thigh.
the rough fabric of your jeans created a delicious friction against your clit with every roll of your hips.
steve’s hands stayed on your hips, guiding you, pulling you harder against his leg.
“that’s it,” he breathed, sucking on the sensitive spot below your ear. “grind on me. use my thigh to get yourself off.”
you moved faster, rolling your hips in desperate circles, the seam of your jeans pressing perfectly against your clit.
you could feel how wet you were getting, the fabric growing damp as you humped his leg.
“steve…” you whimpered, burying your face in his neck.
“good girl,” he praised softly, kissing down your neck while helping you grind harder. “look at you… riding my thigh fully dressed like you can’t wait any longer.”
his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you down firmer against him with every roll. the pressure was intense, the friction making your legs shake.
“does that feel good, princess?” he murmured, voice low and rough. “humping my leg like a needy girl?”
“yes… fuck, yes,” you moaned quietly, moving faster, chasing the building pleasure.
steve kept kissing and biting your neck gently while you rode his thigh desperately, the wet patch on your jeans growing bigger with every grind.
then he didn’t even wait for you to cum and unbuttoned your jeans and tugged the zipper down. his long fingers slipped inside your jeans and under your panties, finding you soaked.
you gasped as two thick fingers touched you.
“so wet already,” he breathed against your neck, kissing and biting softly while his fingers played with your pussy. “you really do need this, don’t you?”
you moaned quietly, rocking your hips against his hand as he fingered you deeper.
his thumb found your clit and rubbed firm, steady circles while his mouth continued its assault on your neck.
“steve…” you whimpered, gripping his shoulders. “with you… i feel good.”
he lifted his head from your neck, eyes dark but full of concern. his fingers kept moving inside you, slower now.
“tell me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and careful.“i don’t feel blocked,” you breathed, grinding down onto his fingers. “i’m not anxious… i’m not overthinking. i’m just… enjoying it. i feel safe with you.”
steve let out a shaky breath, clearly worried.
he stopped moving his fingers for a moment and looked straight into your eyes, his free hand gently cupping your cheek.
“are you sure?” he asked softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “i need you to be honest with me. if anything feels wrong or too much, you tell me immediately, okay? your comfort is the most important thing right now.”
you nodded, leaning into his touch.
“i’m sure,” you whispered. “i want this. i want you.”
steve searched your face for any sign of doubt, then kissed you again, slower this time, more tenderly.
his fingers started moving once more, curling gently inside you while his thumb kept rubbing your clit in steady circles.
“good girl,” he whispered against your lips, voice full of care. “just relax. i’ve got you. tell me if you want it slower or deeper.” he whispered hotly against your skin, curling his fingers inside you perfectly. “just ride my fingers, baby. take what you need.”
his other hand slid under your shirt, squeezing your breast as he kept kissing and marking your neck.
his fingers moved faster inside you, thrusting deep while his thumb pressed harder on your clit.
you were grinding desperately on his hand, moaning softly into his shoulder, completely lost in the feeling of his fingers stretching you and his mouth on your neck.
steve groaned quietly against your skin.
“you feel so fucking good… so tight around my fingers.”
you moaned quietly, rolling your hips against his hand as he fingered you with perfect rhythm.
his mouth returned to your neck, kissing and sucking softly while he focused completely on your pleasure, always watching your reactions, always making sure you felt safe.
“you’re doing so well,” he murmured against your skin, fingers curling just right. “i just want you to feel good, baby. nothing else matters right now.”
the pleasure built quickly until it crashed over you. you came hard with a broken moan, thighs shaking, pussy clenching tightly around his fingers as waves of pleasure rolled through your body.
steve kept moving his fingers gently, helping you ride out every last pulse.
when you finally came down, breathing heavily, you reached down to palm his obvious erection through his pants.
steve immediately caught your wrist, stopping you.
“no,” he said softly but firmly, breathing hard. “not today. this is about you.”
he gently lifted you off his lap and laid you down on the couch.
he knelt on the floor between your legs, pulled your jeans and panties down in one smooth motion, and spread your thighs wide.
steve leaned in and kissed your inner thigh, then higher, until his mouth was on your pussy. he licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, tasting you.
you moaned loudly, your hand flying to his hair.
he licked you slowly at first, savoring you, then became more eager; sucking gently on your clit, fucking you with his tongue, then sliding two fingers back inside you while he focused his mouth on your sensitive bud.
“steve…” you whimpered, back arching. “oh my god…”
he ate you out with perfect focus, humming against you, curling his fingers deep while his tongue worked your clit in stead patterns.
you felt completely overwhelmed in the best way.
“it’s been so long…” you moaned, voice breaking, fingers tightening in his hair. “i haven’t felt this good with anyone in so long… steve, fuck—”
he groaned against your pussy, the vibration making you shiver.
he doubled down, sucking harder on your clit while his fingers thrust faster.
you came again with a loud cry, thighs clamping around his head as intense pleasure flooded your body.
steve kept licking you gently through it, drawing out every wave until you were trembling and oversensitive.
he finally pulled back, lips shiny, breathing heavily. he looked up at you with dark, worried, but undeniably hungry eyes. then he slowly stood up, towering over you as you lay on the couch.
he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at you for a long moment.
“do you really want me to fuck you?” he asked, voice low and rough. “because we’ve already broken every rule… if we do this, there’s no going back.”
you nodded, still catching your breath.
“yes,” you whispered. “i want you.” steve let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting with himself one last time.
he quickly unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, pulling out his cock. he was big — thick and long, the head already leaking.
you stared at it, a mix of nerves and excitement flooding you.
“you have to be quiet,” he warned, voice serious. “no matter what. if someone hears us, i’m done.”
you nodded quickly. steve pulled your jeans and panties completely off, then climbed on top of you on the small couch.
he rubbed the head of his cock against your soaked pussy before slowly pushing inside.you gasped at the stretch. he was so big it almost hurt, but it felt so good.
he covered your mouth with his large hand as he sank deeper while his eyes were locked on yours.
“shhh, baby,” he whispered, bottoming out inside you. “fuck… you’re so tight.”
he started fucking you on the couch, deep and steady thrusts, his hand still firmly over your mouth to muffle your moans. every time he buried himself completely you whimpered against his palm, eyes rolling back.
after a few minutes he pulled out, stood up and turned you around, bending you over the desk. he pushed back inside you from behind in one smooth thrust, groaning quietly.
“quiet, princess,” he reminded you, hand returning to cover your mouth as he started fucking you harder.
the desk creaked softly with every deep thrust. steve was so big you could feel him in your stomach, stretching you perfectly.
his free hand gripped your hip tightly as he pounded into you, trying to stay as quiet as possible while giving you exactly what you needed.
“is this what you wanted?” he breathed against your ear, voice strained. “you feel so fucking good…”
you could only moan helplessly against his hand, completely lost in how full you felt and how deep he was hitting inside you.
“is this what you wanted?” he whispered, voice low and rough, lips brushing your ear. “when you were touching yourself at home… thinking about me… is this what you imagined?”
you moaned against his palm, nodding frantically.
“oh yes, steve…” you whimpered, the words muffled against his hand.he fucked you a little harder, deep and slow, making sure you felt every inch.
“you were fucking yourself thinking about my cock, weren’t you?” he breathed, voice soft but filthy. “touching that pretty pussy and wishing it was me stretching you open like this…”
you whimpered louder, pushing back against him.
“yes… yes, steve… i wanted you so bad,” you gasped against his fingers.
steve groaned quietly, pressing deeper, grinding against you.
“good girl,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck while still covering your mouth. “you feel even better than i imagined… so fucking tight and wet for me.”
he kept a steady rhythm, rolling his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. his hand stayed firm over your mouth, muffling your moans as you trembled beneath him.
“that’s it, baby… take it,” he whispered hotly. “this is what you needed, isn’t it? my cock deep inside you while you’re bent over my desk…”
you nodded desperately, tears of pleasure in your eyes.
“yes, steve… oh god, yes…” you moaned against his hand, voice broken and needy.
steve kissed your neck again, sucking softly on your skin as he fucked you deeper, slower, making sure you felt every single inch.
“you’re doing so good for me,” he praised gently, voice full of lust and care at the same time. “such a good girl… letting me fuck you like this…”
“that’s it, baby,” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough. “cum for me. let go.”
your orgasm hit you hard. your whole body tensed, thighs shaking as you came around his cock with a muffled cry against his palm.
your pussy clenched tightly around him, pulsing again and again.
steve groaned quietly, burying himself deep as he followed right after you. his hips stuttered and he came hard inside you, filling you with warm pulses while pressing his face into your neck to stay quiet.
for a few seconds you both stayed like that, breathing heavily.
then reality seemed to hit him. steve pulled out slowly and grabbed the box of tissues from his desk. he cleaned you gently first, wiping between your legs with care, then cleaned himself.
you both dressed quickly in silence. he helped you button your jeans. once you were both fully dressed, steve sat on the edge of the desk and pulled you to stand between his legs.
he looked at you softly.
“how do you feel?” he asked quietly, genuine concern in his eyes. “be honest with me.”
you took a deep breath, still a little shaky.
“i didn’t feel blocked,” you whispered. “i didn’t overthink everything like i usually do. i just… felt good. really good. safe.”
steve’s expression softened. a small, relieved smile appeared on his lips.
“that’s really good,” he murmured, sounding genuinely happy. “i’m glad you felt that way. that’s important.”
“and… is this what all your patients get?” you asked softly, half-joking but clearly a little nervous.
steve’s eyes widened. he let out a surprised little laugh and shook his head immediately.
“ohhh no, no, no,” he said quickly, almost embarrassed. “you’ve been the exception. completely. i usually stay very professional… i’ve never crossed this line before. not even close.”
he cupped your face with both hands, looking straight into your eyes, sincere.
“this has never happened with anyone else. you’re the only one.”
you bit your lip, feeling a strange mix of relief and warmth in your chest.
steve leaned in and kissed your forehead gently, then rested his forehead against yours.
“this is new for me too,” he whispered. “and probably really stupid… but i couldn’t stop myself with you.”
This originally started life as a one-shot in response to an anon’s ask, where Gator says something misogynistic and you slap him - and it turns out he likes that. That idea grew arms and legs and turned into something I’m actually really proud of.
2018. You’re working a busy Friday night shift in a bar in Dickinson. When Gator Tillman and his band of merry deputies walk in acting like they own the place, it’s the last thing you need. When Gator pushes things too far, someone needs to kick him back into line.
cw - alcohol/drinking/drunkenness, something in the region of dom/sub vibes (sub!Gator hive rise up), canon-typical misogyny, mild violence, masturbation (m solo and f to m), domestic violence (discussed/off page), drunk-driving (discussed/off page), deaths of a man and child (discussed/off page), car accident (discussed/off page).
your body was under his complete control, his large hands contorting you in whatever position he desired. his right hand snaked over your neck to pull you flush to his chest, angling himself deeper inside you. his thrusts got harsher as he choked you, breasts shaking with force. your knees threatened to buckle upon feeling his breath on your face, lips so close to yours. you whined as your eyes fell shut, pleasure already making you shut down; he was so snug inside your tight walls it felt like he belonged there. “open your eyes, baby. want you to see my face as i fuck you.” he grunted as his pelvis hit your ass, the skin slapping filling the room. “fuck—steve just—fuck like that” you moan, leaning into his harsh touch. he swallows your moans with his mouth as he kisses you hard, soft, plump lips devouring yours. he forces his tongue in your mouth with ease, licking and fighting with yours. he’s off you as soon as we were on you, yanking your head back by your hair, putting you in the perfect angle to spit in your mouth. “that’s it, baby, swallow it all,” he coos, caressing your head. you swallow without hesitation, showing him your empty mouth for approval. all the faux sympathy he had left for you was gone, tugging your hair back harder than before, surely giving you whiplash. his strokes didn’t help either, your asscheeks and pussy feeling each one equally. your eyes rolled back into your head as you clenched around him, feeling your stomach twist at how deep he was hitting. your scalp stung as he let go of your hair, letting your head hang before arching you into the bed, face getting shoved into the sheets with no remorse. your whines of struggle were music to his ears. though you couldn’t see him, you could feel the smirk on his face. “don’t go weak on me now. take that shit until i’m spilling so deep inside you you’ll feel it for days.”
pairing: gator tillman/f!reader
wc: 5.6k
tags: MDNI//SMUT- use of slut and bitch (reader likes it), sorta mean gator but not really... kinda just like a fuckboy i guess, semi-public sex, public sex, vaginal sex, dirty talk, possessive gator, fuckbuddies, lowkey panty kink, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal fingering, masturbation (f), nipple play, perhaps they have caught feelings, cutie ending bc i'm a romantic at heart
a/n: back on my bullshit 🐊🖤
&&
The perks of getting to the station at the asscrack of dawn were few and far between. As far as you could tell, there were two.
The first was the peace and quiet, without the shuffle of papers or chatter of your colleagues.
The second was Gator.
“Fuck—fuck, right there,” you half-shouted, hands scrabbling over the wood surface of the sheriff's desk, searching for purchase, as Gator held your hips even tighter, his hips slamming into your ass, driving his cock into you even further with every thrust, feeling like he was going to split you in half in the best fucking way.
“Yeah, that's right,” he said, voice gravelly from behind you as he pushed a little too roughly against you, your hands sliding over the reports placed on the desk, scattering them to the floor. Neither of you cared enough to worry about what they might have been or if they were in any particular order.
“Gator,” you moaned, just letting your upper half collapse onto the desk, not trying to move away from him but instead giving yourself the leverage to hike one of your legs up onto the surface beside you, your right knee nudging the sheriff's desk lamp and almost knocking it over, as you spread yourself even further apart for your fellow deputy behind you.
“God, fuckin' good little bitch y'are,” Gator muttered, and you groaned, reaching back with your right hand to dig your fingers into your ass cheek, holding yourself open too, now, so Gator could see himself entering you. You heard him chuckle.
“Fuck me,” you whined in response, half sprawled out on his father's desk as he slid his hands to your waist, pulling you back onto his cock as he just kept pounding into you, the slap of skin on skin audible, the wet sounds of him entering and leaving your tight pussy just serving to make your clit throb, your tongue peek out of your mouth. You were so goddamn worked up you were fucking panting.
And Gator clocked it, because of course he did. He could read your body like no one else ever had. He laughed again, derisive—your pussy clenched down on him, and he groaned before he spoke, his hand skimming up your spine through your uniform shirt, because all you'd bothered to remove was your boots and pants.
“Losin' yer breath there, huh?” Gator asked. “Need it that bad.” That one wasn't a question.
“Yeah,” you agreed, knowing you were better off keeping your wits about you, since you were here for work, after all, but not quite able to shake it off. Gator was a motherfucker with a mouth on him, someone you wouldn't bring home to mama, but with how he took care of you in other ways, that was actually the perfect reason not to bring him to meet her.
“Need me t'fill up this perfect little tang a'yers,” he said, and you loosed a stuttering breath at how filthy he made you feel, the absolutely vile shit he said to you—the way it made you clench down on him, made the slide even easier because he had you gushing at the demeaning words leaving his lips.
“Please,” you moaned, and he shoved into you fully, and stopped.
“N—Gator, don't—don't stop,” you whined, and he just laughed again, pulling out of you, watching as your pussy gaped a little once you were empty, your slit fluttering around nothing.
“Turn over,” he said, waiting as you managed to flip yourself around on shaky legs, leaning back against Roy's desk, watching as he made sure the condom was still exactly where it was supposed to be, not paying you any attention at all.
Your arousal was running down one of your thighs as you stood there waiting, his thick cock jutting straight out from his front, curved up just a little, the rubber sheathing him shiny, doused with you.
“Lean back,” he said, stepping closer to you, and you did, bracing yourself on Sheriff Tillman's desk—your boss and his father, making all of this even more fucked up than it was—and before you really had your balance, Gator had hooked one of his hands beneath your thigh, pulling it up roughly, opening you for him again. He held onto it, crowding you, bullying his cock back into your loose pussy and you groaned as he bottomed out yet again, this time feeling his breath fanning over your lips and cheek, mint mixed with tobacco, his eyes on yours.
“Y'like me close like this, right?”
“Yeah,” you agreed, but you'd take him in any position in any place at any time. You weren't picky, not when it came to him.
“Yeah,” he sneered, echoing you. “Like ya like this too. Grindin' that sweet little tang all over my cock, go on, get movin'.”
He held your leg to the side, making sure that he had enough room to fuck into you as you balanced half on the edge of the desk, the wetness that had been dripping onto your thigh now smearing over his front as he rolled his hips against you.
“I said get movin',” Gator said, and with his free hand he reached back behind you, pressing his fingers beneath you to cup your ass so you were nearly sitting on his hand. It spurred you on—you bucked into him, feeling his cock press even deeper into you, drawing a groan from your chest as you felt his cheek round up as he pressed the side of his face to yours, grinning as he whispered to you. “Y'know yer mine, right?” Gator asked you.
You shuddered, nodding, but that wasn't answer enough for him. He squeezed your ass, squeezed your leg, pushing it back even more to spread you open further, fuck you even deeper.
“All fuckin' mine,” he said. “Ain't no one else ever gonna fuck you like I do, y'know that, right?”
“Yes, G—” you started to say, but he wasn't finished yet. His hips pressed tight into yours as he pushed into you all the way, stilling deep inside you. Your body was squeezing down around him, your walls clinging to him, pulsing, trying to entice him to start moving again, though the weight of him just resting inside you was still satisfying in its own depraved way.
“This pussy belongs to me,” he said, pulling out and thrusting back in. “This mouth belongs to me.” He let his lips brush over yours but didn't kiss you—he never did. “This fuckin' tight little ass belongs to me.” He dug his fingertips into the plush flesh of your backside so hard it almost hurt. “I think y'like that, don'tcha?”
“Yes,” you nearly cried out.
His cheek was against yours again, lips brushing over it as he spoke, the faint tickle of his eyelashes making you shudder. “Then give it all t'me, darlin',” Gator said. “Show me how much y'like it, c'mon.”
“Gator...” you whimpered, and he huffed a short laugh as your hands gripped his arms, shaky fingers pressing into his triceps.
“Fucked ya out already?” he mused. “Fuckin' pillow princess.”
You whined as his hand slid out from beneath your ass and moved to your thigh, splaying out there as his thumb crooked against your mound, sliding down to press between your labia. He rubbed at the hood of your clit for a moment before moving down just a little further, the pad of his finger finally making contact with your neglected clit.
“Ah, fuck, Gator,” you said, not dipping your head back but forward, resting your temple against his shoulder, tipping your chin to kiss his neck.
“Wanna feel ya come, ya little fuckin' slut,” he said, with as much affection as he could muster—which wasn't a lot, but you had done this enough times by now that you knew the tone with which he said it wasn't as harsh as it could be. “Know I ain't done 'til you are.”
“I'm close,” you said, grasping at him. The sun was rising higher in the sky—the other deputies would be arriving soon. Sheriff Tillman would be arriving soon, and if he caught his son with you in his office, one of you would be getting the boot and it wasn't Gator.
“S'prised it took this long,” Gator mumbled, rubbing your clit in slow, deep circles now, feeling it kick against his thumb, feeling your pussy ripple around him in waves. “Must be offa my game.”
“Tried to—hold it back,” you admitted, and Gator didn't pull away to look at you, just kept shallowly dragging his cock out of you and then pushing back in, giving you the depth and pressure you liked rather than the friction he needed.
“What fer?”
“Wanna feel you all day,” you breathed, and you felt Gator's cock twitch when you did, his hips rub against your thighs as his body tried to seat him even further inside you. It affected him, but of course he had to pretend it didn't.
“Think ya wouldn't if it was quick?” he said, starting to fuck you properly again, but keeping it slow for you, snapping his hips in at the last moment so his front hit yours with a little extra pressure.
You whimpered in response, and he fucked you harder, quicker, picking up the pace with his thumb too. After a few passes, he hit just the right angle, and your orgasm hit you, your whole body tightening up around him—vaguely, you heard him groan as he fucked into you one last time, his hips stuttering against yours as your orgasm pulled Gator's along with it, and you both rode it out together, his face pressed into your cheek, your lips kissing his earlobe, drawing it between your lips for a brief moment.
“Fuckin' shit,” Gator half-growled as he came down, holding onto you to ground himself before he even attempted to move.
“Jesus,” you sighed, as he lowered your leg back down but didn't pull out of you, your thighs tight on either side of his hips. You looked up at him, eyes meeting, and he studied you for a moment.
“Fit fer duty?” he asked, as he always did after he wrung you out, and you laughed, because that was what you always did too.
“As a fuckin' fiddle,” you replied, and Gator pulled out of you, the both of you flinching a little at the sensation of losing each other, not wanting to even if this was nearly an every day occurrence for you. You slid off of the sheriff's desk as Gator backed up, tying off the condom and grabbing some tissues out of his jacket pocket for the two of you to clean up.
“Got any more?” you asked, still wiping your thighs. “I'm, um...”
Out of the moment, you were never as good with dirty talk, but Gator didn't have that problem, even a little.
“Got ya soakin' wet, didn't I,” he said, handing you the rest of the tissues he had. “Had ya fuckin' drippin' down yer own leg.”
“Yeah, well,” you said, dismissively, but felt your cheeks burning.
He stepped closer, caging you in against his dad's desk, even though you were at risk of being discovered now more than ever.
“Yeah, well,” he said. “She knows who she belongs to, don't she?”
You swallowed, nodding.
“Who?” Gator asked.
You scoffed, not quite believing he was going to make you say it.
“Who,” he demanded. “Say it.”
“You,” you replied. “You, Gator.”
He put his hand on your hip, sliding it over your abdomen, his thumb dipping into your folds again to brush over your swollen clit, still sensitive and wet, making you tense a little. “Goddamn right.”
He tugged his pants back up, tucked himself away, left you standing at his father's desk half-naked and completely debauched. “Have a good day, Deputy,” he said, smug, and left the office.
&&
The coffee you stopped for an hour later did nothing to calm you the fuck down—in fact, it only made you feel even more wound up. Gator was probably doing a task for his dad—you'd heard the sheriff reaming him for something or other as you twirled your keychain around your finger and headed out to the lot to climb into your cruiser and take off on patrol, waiting to become useful to dispatch.
But it was a slow morning. You'd pulled off the highway just behind a low wooded area, hiding yourself from oncoming vehicles to try and catch anyone who might get the bright idea to speed in broad daylight on the open road, and sipped your coffee. You'd ordered it light and sweet, heavy on the sweet, and apparently the guy who'd made it for you didn't know what either of those words meant because it was still dark and barely tasted of sugar at all.
You nursed the steaming cup, settling back in your seat, watching for anything untoward happening on the highway, but you didn't spot much, other than people slowing down once they noticed your car as they were halfway to passing you.
Wasn't worth pulling someone over for going only a few over the limit. No, you were waiting for the small-dicked show-offs in their overpowered pickup trucks or bright and shiny sports cars, pushing triple-digits because they thought they could.
It didn't take long for your mind to wander—the radio chatter wasn't worth listening to, not really, so you put your tepid coffee in the cupholder and exhaled deeply, sliding a little bit further down in your seat and adjusting your seatbelt so it wasn't pressing against your throat.
Sighing heavily, you tuned back in to the radio for a moment as you heard Gator's voice.
“Anyone know what time the pizza place near the station opens?”
You snickered, and then laughed quietly to yourself as dispatch responded.
“Deputy Tillman, the radio is to be used for official department business.”
“Fuckin' hell,” Gator said back. “Just tryna find out when I can get a slice.”
“It opens at 11,” Lemley answered, and you just smirked as Gator thanked him and a different dispatcher admonished them both.
You let your head tip back against the driver's seat, your hand trailing over your thigh, clad in your thick uniform trousers. Even through the canvas, you still felt yourself get twitchy, your inner thigh jumping a little at your touch.
God, you did still feel him, even though it had been a couple hours since you'd hooked up.
You glanced at the radio—silent. Surely there wouldn't be anything going on so early this morning that you'd be needed to get involved with. You hesitated, then lifted your hand from your thigh to lower the volume. It was fine.
With your right hand, you unbuckled your seatbelt and with your left, you dug into your pocket for your phone, swiping to open it and navigating to your text thread with Gator, which was pretty much exclusively nudes and lewds that you two sent to each other as spank bank material—you didn't have much to talk about otherwise, truthfully.
Scrolling through the photos with one hand, you unbuttoned your pants with the other and tugged down the zipper, lifting your hips and shoving them down just enough that you could slip your hand down between your thighs.
This was some Gator type shit to do, for sure—you smirked, because just as the thought crossed your mind, you passed a photo he'd sent you of his cock, propped up on the steering wheel of his cruiser, his thumb curled over the head, smearing his precome away from the slit. You felt your pussy clench a little at the sight of him, and pressed your fingertips against your slit through your panties, but kept flicking through pictures.
You paused for a moment on one you'd sent, a shot of you from the waist up, one hand gathered in your hair, head cocked slightly to the side, the other playing with one of your nipples, lips swollen from how you'd been biting them. You studied yourself, then nodded approvingly. You were fucking hot. You rubbed at your slit, then stopped. You might be a little conceited but probably not enough to jack off to yourself.
Back to Gator.
You loosed a little groan as you slid your hand up your front and then back down into your panties, letting your middle finger slip between your folds as you kept looking through pictures—and then stopped, finding one he'd sent pretty early in your situationship, when you were both still walking on eggshells around each other and thus going all out in your dick and titty pictures.
His cock was flushed, red at the tip, drooling precome in a streak down the head; he was flexing it toward the camera, so you could see how big he was, how close to coming he'd been when he snapped the picture, his hand not wrapped around it but just propping it up on his palm.
“Shit,” you muttered to yourself, pressing your finger further between your labia to rub over your clit, sighing a little. You were still wet, even though you'd tried to clean yourself up; your fingertip was slicking so goddamn easily over your clit that you felt your nipples perk up in your bra at how easy it was to touch yourself. You were still fucking drenched, and you curled your wrist a little, the pad of your fingertip sliding down from your clit to your leaking cunt, rubbing at your entrance but not moving inside—this was going to be quick and dirty to try to get it out of your system, not you taking your time the way you wanted to.
You tapped the picture of Gator's cock, fullscreening it, and moved your finger back up to your clit, tongue flitting over your lips as you rubbed yourself, looking at the picture but mostly thinking about Gator, especially that morning.
“Ain't no one else ever gonna fuck you like I do," he'd said, and you groaned quietly, because god, he was probably right. It took a special kind of person to walk the line between generous and debaucherous, and Gator balanced on it perfectly.
The sound of your hand working between your legs filled the car, and you closed your eyes, but held your thumb on your phone screen in case you wanted a visual to go with your memory, and you thought of the way you'd felt his lips just brush over yours, the slight graze of his eyelashes on your temple, and your whole body gave a kick, your clit throbbing, your pussy desperate for something inside of it again.
“Y'know yer mine, right?” he'd asked you.
“Yours,” you mumbled, so fucking lost, a little embarrassed of the hold he had on you, but fuck if he wasn't right. You did like it, liked how possessive he was of you, how much he wanted you, desired you. If you belonged to him, you knew that the reverse was also true—he could claim your pussy was his as much as he wanted, but all that meant was he was yours just the same. Wrapped around your little finger.
You opened your eyes and looked down at the picture again, then frantically swiped back through them to find the one of him in the cruiser, because suddenly that one seemed like the right one to see at the moment.
“Fuck,” you said, loudly, because you were about to crest your peak, your finger slipping erratically over your clit, and you still hadn't found the picture you were looking for—and then all of a sudden, a knock came at your window.
You shrieked a little, your hand stilling between your legs, dropping your phone; it bounced off your thigh and slid down between the door and the seat.
“Hell you doin'?” Gator asked, bemused, a smirk on his lips.
“Gator?” you asked, mouth dry, cheeks burning hot. “What are you—?” You got half the question out before you saw his eyes dip down to your lap, and then back up to your face. His lack of a reaction told you he'd seen what you were doing before he'd tapped on your window.
“Open the window,” he said. “Don't move otherwise.”
“Gator,” you said, stern, and started to pull your hand out of your pants as you reached to depress the button to roll the window down.
“Don't you fuckin' dare,” he said, leaning half into the car. You thought for one hysterical moment he was going to kiss you. Your heart sped up a little in your chest, even though it was already fluttering.
But no—he didn't even look at you as he leaned over you, past you, his arm reaching for your radio. He turned the volume knob up until you could hear.
“—pond?” A pause. “Deputy, please respond?” the dispatcher was requesting.
Gator grabbed the radio with one hand.
“Go on,” he said, voice low. “Respond.” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, hanging half into the window of your cruiser, and held the radio up to your mouth while pressing the button on the side.
With his other hand, he reached down to cup his hand over yours, pressing your hand against yourself. Your breath hitched.
“D-Deputy sheriff, badge number 4101,” you managed to say, trying to keep your voice steady. Gator tucked his hand further between your legs. “All clear, all—all set. Musta accidentally hit the radio knob 'nd turned the volume down.” You looked up at Gator, who just about nudged your cheek with the radio, then slid his hand up just the same as you'd done, and then right back down, fingers lacing with yours as he moved them together, making the pad of your finger slide over your clit again. “Deputy Tillman is on scene,” you said. “No problems, thanks.”
“Thank you Deputy,” the dispatcher said. “Be more careful with that radio.”
“Will do,” you said, shaking a little, waiting for Gator to release the button that would transmit any audio from your cruiser, and once you saw his finger move away, you moaned, moving your free hand to his wrist, clinging to him.
“Jesus fuckin' Christ,” he said, tossing the radio into the passenger seat, the coiled wire bouncing around as he did. “Didn't give it to ya good enough this mornin', ya needed even more?” He crowded into you, even though he was leaning in through the window. “When I said ya were a good little bitch I didn't think you'd start actin' like y'were in heat. God damn.”
“Gator,” you whined, and he smirked down at you, pulling his hand out of your pants and then, as you watched, lifted his wet fingers to his lips and sucked them off.
“Get out,” he said, as he lowered his hand. When you hesitated, he jerked his head toward the backseat. “C'mon. Get movin'.”
You opened the door to your cruiser as he backed up a few steps, taking his hand as he helped you out and then walked you right past the rear door, opening it and waiting for you to sit on the back seat. You sank down and he glanced around, so you did too. You'd been so enthralled in what you were doing that you literally hadn't even noticed the way he'd pulled up in his own cruiser, mostly blocking yours from view from the road, and when he sunk down to his knees and curled his hands into the waistband of your pants, you just lifted your ass up to let him pull down your uniform pants and your underwear, which were so wet they stuck to you just a little.
“Fuck,” Gator said, eyeing the way your panties were almost soaked through in the crotch. He pushed your legs up a little, looking at you between them where he bent you at the waist. “Get yer boots off, gonna be hard enough t'take care'a ya in the backseat, ferget keepin' anything on.” He pushed your thighs up against your stomach as you reached up to unlace your boots, knowing full well that your wet cunt was on full display for him. You let each shoe fall to the floor of the cruiser, and then together you pulled off your pants and underwear—though Gator plucked those from your fingers. You watched, eyes wide, as he crumpled them up in his hand and then lifted them to his face, breathing in your scent deeply, his own eyes slipping closed.
“Mm,” he hummed absently, and then you watched, speechless, as he parted his lips and let the soaked cotton drag against his tongue. “Fuck, that's real nice.”
You could feel your heartbeat in your fingertips, hear it in your ears; beyond aroused, you watched as he lowered his hand to stuff your dirty underwear into his pants pocket, and then pushed your legs back up so you were open and exposed to him.
“Just a taste ain't enough,” he said, holding your gaze as he lowered his face down to your cunt, already pulsing around nothing, already way too needy.
His tongue dragged over your folds, and the warmth of it against your heated core made you shudder, your hands sliding down to grope at your thighs, holding onto them as he sucked at your slit, your cunt squeezing down as he did, wanting to suck something inside of it, hold it there, get fucked hard and harsh, but he wasn't giving anything to you yet.
No—he just moved up, his lips moving over your clit as he sucked at it, tongue circling it, probing at it beneath the hood, between your lips, teasing it as you moaned, loud and unabashed, feeling it throbbing the more he sucked.
“Gator,” you whined, and he didn't pull away to speak; he just groaned against you, sucking you still, letting his tongue cradle it with gentle pressure until you were reaching for him, his hair, his face—he cut you off with his own hand, letting your fingers move between his as he held your hand. You squeezed it, hard, as you felt yourself let go against his face, your hips rolling up against him as he moved with you, not pulling his mouth off of you even as you pushed at his hand, because it was too much.
He flicked his tongue against you a few more times, then pulled away, licking your arousal off of his lips before he gave your ass a playful little slap and leaned up, hands on the backs of your knees, holding himself over you.
“Whatcha think, princess?” he asked. “Make ya feel any better?”
You shook your head.
“No?” he asked, smirking. “You tryna say she aint satisfied?”
“That's exactly what I'm saying,” you replied.
He laughed, releasing one of your legs—you curled your own hand around your knee, holding it up for him—and dipped two fingers into your cunt, still willing and ready for him. When he did, your eyes slipped half closed and a low, heavy moan fell from your lips.
“Got it,” Gator said. “Feelin' all empty without me in ya, huh?”
“Yeah,” you sighed, and he dug his fingers just a little deeper inside of you, feeling your walls pressing around him as you squeezed down onto them.
“Look at her,” Gator said, twisting his wrist so his palm was facing up, curling his fingers to try to find your g-spot. “She knows, don't she?” He scissored his fingers apart just a little, stretching you, pulling another moan from you. You released your legs—they fell against him just a little, but you needed hands on your tits right fucking now; your nipples were peaked inside your shirt, begging for attention from you, from him, you didn't fucking care.
Gator's fingers slowed to a stop inside of you as he watched you practically tear open the buttons of your uniform shirt, pulling it open and then just yanking your bra up, tits spilling out from beneath the cups as they ended up atop your chest, pebbled nipples hard. You cupped them almost immediately, pinching and rolling the perked buds as Gator watched, almost as dumbstruck as you'd felt when he'd interrupted you.
“Lemme in there,” he said, but you didn't relent, just kept your fingers working over your tits, as he pulled his fingers out of you and moved them to his waist, undoing his own belt, button, and fly and shoving his camo pants down along with his boxer briefs, cock springing out of the waistband. He was pink at the tip, not reddened yet, not like the picture you'd been touching yourself to, but he was getting there and the thought alone made you groan eagerly.
With one hand, he slipped two fingers into a pocket of his tac vest; with the other, he braced himself on the backseat of the cruiser and leaned over you, pushing your left hand away from your tit with his face as he covered your nipple with his mouth, sucking at it and making your back arch up off of the seat.
“Feels so good,” you whined, flexing your hips, like that could get him to move any faster; he couldn't even see you doing it.
“Gonna feel—even better,” Gator said, still groping around in a different pocket, “in a fuckin'—minute. There we fuckin' go.”
He pulled away from you and you saw, now, what he'd been looking for—a condom. He tore the corner of the wrapper with his teeth and then, pushing himself so he was kneeling over you, his slicked-back hair brushing the roof of the cruiser, he pulled it out, rolled it on, and with no warning, no preamble, sank right into you, your position and spread legs giving him the easiest access to your cunt he'd ever had.
“Oh my god,” you half-yelled, at the same moment he grunted out, “Shit, fuck yeah.”
He started a brutal pace instantly, not giving you time to acclimate, not waiting to bottom out before he'd pulled back, instead just going at you right away, fucking you hard and fast and making you squeal beneath him as his hips pistoned against yours.
“Gator—!” Your voice was high and broken as you said his name, the cruiser rocking back and forth as he fucked into you, desperate, your previous orgasm doing nothing to sate you—you just wanted everything he could give you and then some.
“Uh huh,” he uttered, bracing his hands on the seats for a moment as he tucked his knees up a little, giving himself more leverage to drill down into you, his cock reaching so fucking deep inside your pussy as you wrapped your legs around him, squeezing his sides with your thighs as you fought to keep him pounding into you, wanting the residual ache from him inside of you for as long as you could keep it.
“Keep—fuckin'—just like that,” you mewled, then moved your left hand down to your clit, your right hand still tugging at your nipple, switching to rubbing over it at the same pace and rhythm as you moved your hand over your swollen clit.
“Shit,” Gator said through gritted teeth. “So fuckin' tight, can't—can't—”
“Come for me,” you said, and he glanced up at you, meeting your eyes—you'd never asked him that before, never took even a little charge with him. His hips faltered for a second, weakened because of how it felt for you to speak that way to him. “Go on,” you coaxed him, squeezing your cunt down on his length. “Come for me, Gator. Give it all to me—”
You gasped as his hips snapped against you, you echoing what he'd said to you that morning bringing him to the edge.
“Fuckin'—gonna,” he moaned, leaning down further over you, his face right above yours, his nose brushing against your nose as he looked down into your eyes. This, probably, was the most intimate you'd ever been, looking right at each other in the throes of passion; or well—lust, at least.
“Please,” you begged, and then your fingers slipped over your clit just right, his cock driving home into you, and your lower half tensed and then snapped, your hips curling upward and fucking your cunt onto his cock as you came, hard, so hard you had to close your eyes and let your jaw drop in a silent scream, breathy gasps falling from your lips as you rode it out on his cock, his front still slapping against yours, his rhythm becoming sloppy as he got even closer.
“Whose am I?” you asked, voice weak.
“Yer fuckin' mine,” he growled at you, his hips canting into yours as he came. “Yer mine.”
Your heels dug into his back, pulling him against you, your pussy quivering, overstimulated, as you held him inside of you, his arms failing, his front falling flat against yours. “Yeah,” you decided, “but vice fuckin' versa.”
He met your eyes from where his cheek rested on your shoulder, the two of you smirking a little. Then, like he wasn't entirely sure about what he was doing, he rose up just enough off of your body to kiss you for the first time.
steve hated being jealous because when he was jealous, he got scared—scared of losing you. it was perhaps a hangover from the way his relationship with nancy had ended so steve did not like feeling it in his relationship with you. it made him incredibly self critical and it made him worry. and so, when he was jealous he needed reassurance from you. the physical kind. he’d kiss you like he had something to prove and then he’d have his head between your legs barely two minutes later, moaning into your soaked cunt as two of his thick fingers pumped in and out of you. “that’s it,” he’d murmur against your skin, tongue darting out to play with your swollen clit while you mewled above him, “this is all for me, right baby?”. and after he had made you come no less than three times, he would lay his head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat just to remind himself that he was yours and you were his.
when gator is jealous? oh boy—he makes it known. if he's with you, he'll tell whatever guy is trying to flirt with you to fuck off and he'll slap a hand on your ass for good measure. he'll make it abundantly clear in any way he can that you're his and his alone. you didn’t mind it, honestly. and if he isn't there and you come home and tell him about some guy who had tried to get your number on a girls' night? he'll bend you right over the kitchen countertop and make you forget all about mr. no name at the bar as his thick cock pounds into you from behind. you’ll be moaning out obscenely, the sound of skin slapping and the schlick-schlick-schlick sounds from gator pounding into your soaked pussy filling the kitchen.
teacake is very comfortable in your relationship and doesn’t tend to get jealous. he trusts you implicitly and so, he doesn’t see any reason to be jealous when he knew you were his completely. instead if a guy ever tried to flirt with you in front of him, he’ll just throw an arm around you and have the biggest grin on his face as he says to the guy: "sorry man, she's taken." the closest teacake gets to feeling jealous is when you’re saying how hot a certain celebrity is and he’ll pout and ask, “but i’m hotter, right babe?”
keys doesn't quite know what to do when he feels jealous. he knows you love him and that you only have eyes for him, but sometimes it gets to him. on those nights, he needs to reassurance. he’s usually the big spoon but he’ll ask you to hold him which you do of course while gently running your fingers through his hair. he’ll always be honest with you in those moments—he’ll ask you if he’s working too much, if you’re happy. and you’ll press a kiss to his forehead and tell him you’d never been happier. keys would then smile a little before lifting his head to kiss you properly. you wouldn’t leave the bed for hours after that.
kurt does not handle jealousy well at all. honestly, that man is terrified at the thought of you leaving, of you finding someone better than him. and maybe there was a part of him that believes he really doesn’t deserve someone like you. and so, when kurt get jealous, he gets upset. he’ll hold onto you real tight and beg you not to leave him. sometimes he’ll cry. he’ll tell you how much he loves you, how he doesn’t know what he’d do without you. and you’d always smile at him sweetly and kiss him just to shut him up. he usually takes the hint then.
dividers by @anitalenia
mdni banner and green dividers by me 🌸 please credit me if you wish to reuse
can u plspslspslsoslspls do a part 2 of nap trap😔it was soooo good
firstly, thank you guys SO much for all the love on nap trap 😭 i genuinely did not expect a sleepy little domestic fic about steve playing with reader’s hair to blow up like that, so seeing how many people connected with it has been so lovely <3
also tysm to the anon who requested this part 2!! and @megs0118 i LOVED your idea about reader eventually asking for it because ohhhh steve would absolutely lose his mind over that. so this one is for both of you <3
nap trap pt.2
Steve Harrington x reader
Summary: Hearing you ask for Steve's hands in your hair affects him significantly more than expected.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, touch-starved reader, touch-starved steve harrington, praise, reader being obsessed with steve’s hands, comfort fic, mildly suggestive at points (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 1.2k
Read part 1 of nap trap here: [nap trap]
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
Usually Steve can track exactly how tired you are based on the pace of your conversation.
Fast and animated means fully awake.
Long pauses between thoughts means fading fast.
Complete silence means one of two things: you’re upset, or you’re unconscious.
Considering you’re currently curled against his side beneath three blankets watching terrible late-night television while rain rattles softly against the windows, Steve’s betting heavily on option two.
Still, he glances down just to check.
You’re blinking slowly up at the ceiling while his fingers drift lazily through your hair, very clearly fighting sleep with the determination of somebody losing badly.
Steve bites back a smile immediately.
“Hey sleepyhead,” he murmurs.
Your eyes narrow weakly. “Don’t start.”
“Start what?”
“The smug thing.”
Steve looks deeply unconvincing. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You absolutely do.”
His grin only widens as his nails scrape lightly against your scalp again.
Your entire body softens against him on instinct.
That immediate reaction that’s become so familiar over the past few months, Steve barely notices himself doing it anymore. The tiny exhale you make every single time his hands slide properly into your hair. The way your shoulders loosen beneath his arm. The gradual heaviness of your body settling more fully against his side.
It’s honestly ridiculous how effective it is.
Robin still calls him “human melatonin.”
Dustin’s started referring to him exclusively as “the Sandman.”
And unfortunately for everyone involved, both accusations are pretty accurate.
Especially now.
Because Steve’s barely touched your hair for thirty seconds before your eyes start drifting shut again.
“You’re doing it on purpose,” you mumble.
“I’m literally just touching your hair.”
“No,” you say sleepily. “You’re weaponising affection.”
Steve laughs quietly under his breath.
The thing is, he genuinely can’t deny it anymore.
Not when he knows exactly what this does to you now.
Not when some embarrassingly soft part of him likes it far too much.
Likes the trust of it.
The way you’ll fall asleep practically anywhere if he’s touching you gently enough. How instinctively you seek him out when you’re tired. The fact your body relaxes around him before you even consciously realise it’s happening.
That part affects him more than he’d ever admit out loud.
Which is why, when you suddenly tilt your head slightly against his shoulder and mumble, “Can you do the thing again?” Steve nearly loses coherent thought completely.
He looks down at you.
“…the thing?”
Your eyes stay shut.
“The hair thing.”
Something painfully fond twists low in Steve’s chest.
Because usually this happens accidentally. One of you ends up sprawled against the other during a film, or tangled together in bed, or sitting on the floor listening to music while Steve’s hands wander absentmindedly into your hair without either of you thinking much about it.
This is different.
This is you asking for it.
Actively seeking him out for comfort.
Steve clears his throat once. “Uh. Yeah. Obviously.”
You make a sleepy little humming noise immediately, shifting closer until your leg hooks loosely over his beneath the blanket.
Clingy.
Half asleep.
Trusting him completely.
Steve’s heart genuinely doesn’t stand a chance.
His fingers slide properly into your hair this time, scratching softly against your scalp while rain taps steadily against the windows outside.
The reaction is immediate.
Your breathing deepens slightly. Your whole body melts more heavily into his side. One of your hands curls absentmindedly into the fabric of his hoodie like you need something to hold onto while you drift off.
Steve stares down at you for a second.
“…Jesus Christ,” he mutters quietly.
You crack one eye open. “What?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Says the man who accidentally Pavlov’d his girlfriend.”
Steve grins despite himself. “You almost started purring last week.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Your face disappears briefly into his chest in protest while Steve laughs softly, fingers never stopping their slow rhythm through your hair.
The room settles comfortably quiet after that.
Thunder rumbles somewhere in the distance while some awful commercial flickers silently across the television neither of you are really watching anymore.
Steve notices every stage of your exhaustion now.
The slower blinking.
The increasingly delayed responses.
The way your body gradually gets heavier against his side like gravity affects you more whenever he touches your hair for long enough.
“You’re falling asleep already,” he murmurs eventually.
“No I’m not.”
“You just stopped talking halfway through a sentence.”
“I was thinking.”
“Mhm.”
“I was.”
Steve smiles to himself as your words start blurring together slightly from tiredness.
“You’re so pleased with yourself about this,” you mumble.
“Can you blame me?”
“Yes.”
“Unfortunately for you,” Steve says quietly, “this might actually be my greatest achievement.”
That gets a soft laugh out of you.
It fades quickly into a yawn instead.
Steve feels something warm settle painfully beneath his ribs at the sound.
Because this is the thing nobody really sees about him. Not the babysitter jokes or the stupidity or the pretending not to care.
Just this.
How badly Steve likes being safe for somebody.
How naturally he settles into taking care of the people he loves. How much he quietly craves these tiny domestic moments nobody else would even notice.
You shift sleepily against him again until your face ends up tucked properly into the crook of his neck.
“Feels nice,” you murmur eventually.
Steve glances down. “What does?”
“Your hands.”
The words come out so drowsy and sincere they nearly ruin him on the spot.
You don’t even realise what you’re doing to him.
Or maybe you do.
Because your eyes blink open slightly afterwards, finding his face in the dim orange light.
“You okay?”
Steve huffs a quiet laugh through his nose.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Just think you might actually be trying to kill me.”
Your lips twitch sleepily. “Why?”
“Because you say stuff like that while lookin’ like this.”
“Like what?”
Steve gestures vaguely toward you.
Curled against his chest beneath a mountain of blankets. Sleep-heavy eyes. Hair completely messed up from his hands.
“…cute,” he finishes weakly.
You smile lazily at that.
Then immediately move even closer.
Which honestly feels a little unfair.
Steve’s fingers slow briefly in your hair as he watches your eyes drift shut again.
“You know,” you mumble eventually, voice already heavy with sleep, “I think this might genuinely be my favourite thing too.”
Something warm twists painfully through Steve’s chest.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You nuzzle slightly against his throat. “Makes me feel safe.”
Oh, that one nearly takes him out completely.
Steve goes very still for a second before leaning down to press a slow kiss against your forehead.
His hand never leaves your hair.
“C’mere,” he murmurs quietly, pulling the blankets higher around your shoulders.
You make another sleepy little noise immediately, practically melting against him now.
Steve could probably stay exactly like this forever.
Especially when, less than five minutes later, your breathing finally evens out completely against his chest.
Dead asleep.
Again.
Steve looks down at you for a long moment before shaking his head quietly to himself, still combing gentle fingers through your hair.
summary: you've heard about him — the man who on the outside, seems unbreakable but turns into a mess under the covers. you never thought you'd spot him at a hotel bar. what begins as a fun way to tease a tillman turns into a strange alliance that could only be carved in lehigh. in exchange for payment for your services, you use your insider knowledge of the darkside of lehigh to help gator on a case. simple...right?
warnings/tags: 18+mdni, client to lovers?, smut, switch!gator, gator learning to not live up to his dad's expectations, angst, morally grey characters, sex work and related issues (discussions of sa, control and dub con), drugs and drug dealers, toxic love, stalking, misogyny and slut shaming, murder and cover up, violence
status: ongoing
taglist (comment on series masterlist to be added): @thesecretoftheswan, @aecd27 , @bells-bookshelf, @st4rg1rl88, @wolfiee10, @haydensheartt, @kristywidget97, @louisbelongstome28, @beth-mirrorball, @s3xytosomeone, @scaramou, @purplequeen64-stuff, @bluezzzzzz, @lacyiris, @deeplightblue, @steviaorsugar, @literal-tv-menace, @mysticbellie, @artismytherapy05, @bluegardenn, @pinkiepieshepardspie, @maaaachiii
⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖ chapters
chapter one: big, tough deputy
chapter two: playthings
chapter three: walk of shame
chapter four: blurred lines
chapter five: knights and damsels
chapter six: the hunt, the kill
summary: secrets come out and you face feelings and situations you probably shouldn't.
wc: 5.6k
warnings/tags: 18+mdni, parental abuse, drinking, assault, murder and blood, smut, handcuffs, thigh riding, piv sex, proper proofreading will happen later lol
a/n: lolll i was feeling very unsexy today so sorry if the smut sucks but i rlly wanted to get this out and i hope we like this chapter. just know, STRAP the fuck in. I WAS SO TIRED WHEN I UPLOADED THIS BUT I WANTEDTO ADD I FINALLY GOT TO USE THIS BRILLIANT IDEA FROM @aecd27 . Had to find the perfect use for smth so peak.
⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖
The breaking point hits three days later.
Before you got sick, you’d told Gator about a drop happening in the dead of night. So, excited as ever, he’d run back to report it to the unit. Even Roy had approved, joining in hopes that this was a promising lead. They staked the place all night, only leaving when the sunlight gave away their positions. Nobody showed up.
Seven exhausted bodies return to the precinct, the disappointment permeating the room. They all make way for the coffee machine in one large heap. “Hey boss!” A deputy standing there chirps. “How was the stakeout?” Roy only grimaces in response, spinning sharply on his heel back to his office. The slam of the door echoes, and Gator gets a shiver up his spine. He is so fucked.
He tries to keep his head down as he reaches to the pot. “Hell of a lead you had there, Tillman.” Cooper—one of the feds — smirks as he yanks the mug from Gator’s hand, sending scalding hot liquid running on his skin.
“Fuck!” Gator screams, and the whole precinct whips around to look.
“What?” Cooper tuts his tongue sarcastically. “You don’t deserve coffee after keeping us up all night.”
He doesn’t think, just leaps to ball his fists into the collar of Cooper’s shirt. Before he can though, the other agents are jumping between to push the men apart.
“Ok.” Henry laughs, standing his palm pressed against each of their chests. “Calm down, boys. Remember, we’re in this together.” He then turns to Cooper, voice a little lower. “You know chief would kill us if we got into some shit here.” The Lehigh deputies are meant to be the bad guys. Instigating a fight with one of them isn’t exactly a good look for the FBI. But Gator is more than happy to oblige in ruining their reputation if it means he got to beat Cooper’s ass into the ground. Before he can though, the door to Roy’s office opens again. It’s too late. Roy spots his son, rearing for a fight, and his entire face drops.
“My office.”
Gator drags his feet behind his father, head held low as the office watches. “Daddy’s gonna put him in timeout.” He hears Cooper cackle. Suddenly, the rest of his skin feels as on fire as his burnt hand.
The door hasn’t even clicked all the way shut when Roy starts yelling. “What are you thinkin’ getting in fights with them?” Every bone in Gator’s body locks up. This isn’t just mild irritation. This is anger. Pure anger. “You screwed up this case, they’re damn sure allowed to be upset about it!”
“I-”
“This crazy CI is making shit up and milking you for all your worth dontcha see that! I knew you were an idiot but you are not this gullible. You’re making our team look bad, bungling this arrest and letting those guys stick their noses in county business for even longer!”
Gator shakes his head. “I trust her.”
Roy stops and stares at Gator for a long moment. “Her?” He laughs deep. “Oh, son, are you into this woman?”
“No.” Gator responds all too quickly. His father’s stare makes his cheeks flush red. The thoughts of you make his head spin. The question “Why do you do this to yourself,” floods through him. And all the signals in his brain get all mixed as he sputters, “If you’re so invested in this case, then what have you done to help?”
He recognizes the fire in his father’s eyes instantly.
⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖
You’re bundled up and cozy on your couch when you hear it.
Even though you’re certainly not sick anymore, you’re glad to have most of the day off. It’s a Friday, and early morning so you’re not going to be in demand for a while. At least, that’s what you thought, until the knock at your door comes. At first, you wonder if it’s your parents again. Maybe they left something from their last visit and didn’t text you, seeing how much they hated their phones. But as you shuffle off the couch, the sound comes again. Harder. Sharper. It’s not a tap, it’s a full forced fist against the door. Your heart catches in your throat as you approach carefully. Delivery driver? But you can’t remember ordering anything. And it’s far too early in the morning. You’ve been feeling weird all week. Like these invisible eyes have been watching you. But you get the sense that you can’t ignore this knock. Cautiously, you reach for the knob.
Your blood runs cold as you see who’s on the other side of the door.
“Gator?” You choke, seeing the sweaty figure in his police uniform. The one that has pepper spray and a gun, and a baton. “How do you know where I live?”
“I- I may have been…I got paranoid about you gettin’ hurt, and followed you home so you wouldn’t.”
You feel like throwing up, one part of you ready to run the other sick, sick part of you wanting to know more. To understand, even now. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Gator. When? How long, because we haven’t seen each other in…a week. Fuck, Gator.” You stumble back a step, but before you can close the door on him, he’s stepping in.
“No, no, no.” He waves his hands as he approaches closer to you. “This isn’t- I ain’t trynna stalk you I swear.”
Your first instinct is to check for your phone as you nod. Keep them calm, or shit escalates quickly. “You can’t be here.” You say simply.
“I know. I know.” He looks manic, his hair loose, breaths heavy as he talks. “I didn’t wanna- I was going to be patient, I swear, but I can’t-” Each step he takes towards you, you take one back, acutely aware that your wall is barely a foot from you now. “Jesus, fuck, I just had a shit morning, and I thought about you and your stupid bullshit about letting go, and I remembered your family the other day-”
“My what?!” You almost scream, just as your foot hits the wall.
“Wait, wait.” You brace for a moment, expecting him to corner you at the wall. You should’ve known this would happen. But instead of pouncing, Gator drops to his knees, one hand grasping yours. “I fuckin’- I can’t do it anymore. Jesus Christ, I can’t.” And when you hear the slight waver in his voice, and watch the desperation swimming in his eyes, you stilled, letting him spill out the much needed confession. “I’m so fucking tired of trying to be his perfect little golden boy just to get spat on. I can’t win.” You notice his face properly then, a slightly blue bruise on his cheek that seems a few days old. But that split lip is brand new. What’s worse is, you know exactly who gave them to him. “I will pay you double, triple, whatever the fuck- I just…I need you. Please.” What are you meant to say to those glassy eyes?
You take a step forward, your hand sliding out of his so you can take hold of his chin. “Gator,” You whisper, tilting his gaze up to you. “What do you need?”
He’s the most confident he’s ever been when he answers. “Use me. For once in my goddamn life, I just wanna be useful.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖
The moment you get the money and get him on your unmade bed that devastation turns into desperation. Stars burst in his lust filled eyes as he watches you crawl over him on the bed and his hands immediately find purchase at the hem of your sweater. It’s strange. All of this. You’ve never had a man in this bed, and none of your clients have seen you in such casual clothes. It feels too casual. Too real. But you can tell he needs it. And maybe, some part of you does too.
You kiss him sloppily, bodies grinding against each other as he whimpers into you. You’ve known for a long time that Gator is a broken man but it’s all to obvious to you right now at the way he shudders into your gentle touch. He lets out a shaky breath as your hands run over his skin, light as a feather — up his arms, to his neck, down the front of his bulky vest. When you finally reach his belt, your finger slide along the leather, before settling at the handcuffs attached to the side of his hip. You feel a full body rush as the idea comes to you.
“Gator?” You breathe into his ear as your hand wraps around the cold metal. “Have you got the keys for these?”
The color in his hazel eyes fade into a thin line as his pupils blow wide, processing your words.
⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖
“You sure this is ok?” You ask as the click of the handcuffs closing echoes through the room. You have him lying flat on the bed, completely naked, the condom already on, one hand cuffed to your headboard. He doesn’t answer with words, tugging you by the sweater back over him and pressing his lips to yours with so much force that you lose your breath. As he tries to press his tongue inside, you pull back. “Oh not so fast.” You chuckle, pulling back off the bed.
As you turn your body away from him, he whines. “What’re you doing?”
You tilt your head over your shoulder, aware the smile on your face is all too big. “My house, my rules.”
You turn away again, your hands slipping under the plush fabric of your sweater. You pull it up torturously slow, each inch exposing your skin to the cool air that floods through your room. When you pull it off fully, Gator exhales, noticing you aren’t wearing a bra underneath. And still, you don’t face him. Next, you glide your bottoms off in one go, leaving all of you bare. The heat radiating from Gator’s body alone as he watches you is enough to keep your warm. And you stay like that for a beat, already hearing the sound crawling up his throat. It escapes all breathy and frantic. “Get over here. Please, get over here right now.”
Just like you couldn’t deny those eyes, you can’t deny the voice either. You move to the bed, crawling over him just as slow as you took off your clothes. You move like a lion hunting it’s pretty — each movement careful and precise. A hand grazing his thigh as you move, your knee brushing by his already prominent hard on. When you finally get up to where you meet his mouth, you can practically see the drool as he eagerly awaits to kiss you. Instead, you press the lightest peck there and start placing the slope ones — the greedy ones down his neck as he moans filthily. You trail them down, down, down, until you reach his dick. And you just breathe there, and you can tell it sets his nerves alight. “You gonna help me out here?”
So you do, not with your mouth though. You give him a few lazy pumps as you straighten up so you’re straddling him. You lock your eyes with his again, and watch the way he licks his lips. Not hungry for you. Aching, in a way. You push your lips to his, finally opening your mouth so he can taste you like he’s been aching to do. He doesn’t waste a second, cupping your cheek with his free hand and you hear the rattle of the handcuffs as he tries to reach for you with his other one too. You pull away at the sound, easing his other hand off of you.
“You said I could use you right?” You murmur through playful bites of his ear lobe. He whimpers in response, so you pull back. “Words, deputy.”
He manages to choke out a “yes,” and as you nod in approval, his mouth opens again. At first, all that comes out is a small breath. You still completely, your hands folding over to your thighs as you wait for him to find the words. You’ve been the other person in this scenario before. And you know those little signs like the back of your hand. “But can you…” He manages. “Never call me deputy again. I fuckin’ hate it.”
You smile, your finger running over the slight split in his lip, bleeding slightly from the force of his kissing earlier. “Can do, Gator.” You press the softest kiss to his cheek and then place your hands to his shoulders, tilting yourself just slightly, so you’re angled over his thigh instead of his crotch.
“What are you doing?”
“Teaching you a little thing called patience.” You smirk, rocking your hips slow against his skin. You drag them again, the friction you didn’t realize you’d been needing until you had it. “Think…you can handle that?” You speak through slightly tilted breaths.
“Y-yeah. Whatever you want.” He swallows.
You look him dead in the eye as you move, each drag causing airy moans to fall from your lips and straight onto his. Never kissing, just breathing each other’s air. “You look amazing like this. Letting me take what I want from you.” His eyes set ablaze when you say that to him. When he tenses the muscle purposefully, you gasp, the feeling electric. “Mmm Gator, yes.” It’s shocking how quickly that coil in your belly tightens. “Feels good.” You move faster, your hands grabbing his shoulders as you bury your head into his neck, your moans dissolving there. “Yes, fuck yes, gonna-” You slam your lips into Gator’s before you finish, chasing your high desperately. And when it comes, you moan his name straight into his mouth. You take a moment to stabilize yourself, breathing heavy into his neck. With him here, under you, finally fully surrendering a piece of him, you’re hungry for more.
Barely a few moments later, you shuffle again, finally giving him the attention he’s so clearly been needing. As you finally slide him in, the feeling is intoxicating. You’re still not used to it, you really aren’t. But now that you’ce got him handcuffed, and he told you you can do whatever you want, you let yourself pause for a moment, adjusting to the feeling.
“You okay?” Gator asks.
You nod. “Just need a second.”
“How come you never told me?” He actually sounds offended as he asks.
You scoff, moving off of him and then sinking back down slowly even as you speak. “That’s not-Jesus-exactly something you tell people…when they wanna…get their rocks off…as fast as possible.”
“I dunno-Fuck me-think it'd boost...egos.”
“You’d think, but-” You moan again, loud and filthy as you feel him dragging against your walls. You see the corner of his lips pull into a smirk, laughing at some joke you’re not aware of. You pause. “What?”
“Nothin’ just… You got me handcuffed to a bed, fuckin’ bouncing on my dick, and we’re havin’ a full blown conversation.” He chuckles, happy. Actually happy, like you’ve never seen him before.
You can’t help but smile too. You lean back into his lips. “Maybe I should shut you up then.” You jam your tongue down his throat before he can say much more, suddenly even more turned on than you were before as he points it out. As your hand comes into his hair, scratching slightly at the scalp he groans into you. “You feel amazing Gator. So good for me.” You can tell he’s impatient by the way his hips jerk up to meet yours. You lightly push at his waist in warning.
“Gonna fucking- P-please.”
“Not yet.” You breathe, your lips back on his instantly. Each snap of your hips, and swipe of your fingers, sends you closer and closer to the edge. That’s what you insist, but deep down you can’t tell if it’s because of the feeling or something else entirely. You’re sensitive and he’s hanging by a thread, the kiss turning more into a sloppy clash of teeth and sounds of both your pleasure melting into one another. And finally, finally, you snap. Your body jolts, every nerve lighting as you ride out the pleasure, squeezing the feeling from Gator too.
When you pull away, you pause in front of his face. You don’t kiss him again. Don’t say a word. But there’s long moment where you take in his glazed eyes, washed with something like actual…recognition. Not admiration, not disgust. Something in between. It’s funny. You’ve always viewed this job as a hunt. No matter what your clients ask you to do, you’ve secretly had the upper hand. The power. But when you see Gator now, it feels like something other than a hunt. No predator or prey even like this. He wants this just as much as you do. It almost feels like he wants you.
⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖
Once you’ve got him out of the cuffs, and both of you back in your clothes, you find yourself curled on his chest. On your bed. His arm is wrapped around you, drawing small shapes into your skin, that you’re not even sure he realizes he’s doing. That little action makes something in you die. Outside of the bed, you’ve always seen him have rough hands. Just another part of that armor. And it’s never been dropped for as long as today. Even before you slept with him, those tears pooling in his eyes as he showed up at your doorstep and finally admitted it. How tiring the act was.
“Can I tell you something?” You murmur, your eyes suddenly focused on his the patch of hair at his chest. Underneath it, you spot a small scar, faded with age. Your finger instinctually runs over it. “You know how you were laughing about us having a conversation while having sex?” He laughs again in affirmation. “Well, that shit turns me on much more than dirty talk.” Your voice drops even quieter. “The knowing.”
“I think me too.” He whispers, and the words slice through you. “I dunno I spent most of my life thinkin’ it was all about the action, right? I gotta be taking somethin’ for myself.” You breathe through your nose, thinking of all the guys who have fucked you the exact same way. “I just had the best sex of my life, and I was handcuffed to a bed. Think you're the first person to ever ask if I was ok with somethin'. But it wasn't even that, it was just…watching you that made it good.”
And suddenly you’re acutely aware of what’s happening. You’ve let a client into the four walls of your sanctuary, now cozying up with him like he was your boyfriend. And how did he find this place? By stalking you. You recoil out of his arms instantly. “Gator…” You sigh, sitting up on the bed. “This can’t happen ever again.”
He follows you where you stand. “What? But-”
“Look I like you as a client, but that’s what we are ok?” You gather his clothes, handing them back to him. “You can’t follow me home.” You step out to the hallway, trying to hurry him up.
“It wasn’t like that I just-“ Your body knows it should be scared, but you see him still putting on his clothes and feel a spark of hope that this can be salvaged. “Well, you told me that shit about you dyin’ and I freaked out. Look at what Marcus did to you, what if some creep does worse? I was trying to fuckin’ protect you.”
You stop dead in your tracks. “Protect me? You realize you’re the one violating my boundaries right now. You’re the creep.” You point to the door, praying that he will get the fucking hint.
“Don’t say that.” He reaches for your hand and you pull away.
Your blood is boiling. He’s acting like you’re irrational. Like his suggestion underneath it all is not totally insane. “The deal was information for you paying, not you being the white knight I don’t need.”
“Except that information’s done fuck all!” He shouts. “You’re the reason I got my ass beat this morning, I should drop you for being a useless CI.”
You get up close to his face, not terrified as you smirk. “I have a poker game to get to tonight, that pays me way better than you. Do it.”
“I fuckin’ will.” He turns on his heel, storming to the door.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
The door slams, and your head hurts from much much more than the sound.
⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖
“Sweetheart! Get me a drink!”
The sharp light of Marcus’ living room sears your eyelids as you drift through the space. The day has been long, from finding out Gator was following you to the sex, and him storming out of the house. After being frozen on the couch all day, you still feel like you haven’t recovered, and the chatter of obnoxious men that grate your ears are no help. Your hips sway as you strut to Marcus’ table, leaning over intentionally slow as you place the whiskey in front of me. His hand doesn’t waste a second find your ass and squeezing while he leans in your ear. “Who you showing off for? You know you’re comin’ with me tonight.”
You loose out a light chuckle, and straighten in your spot. You catch eyes with Peter as you do. His stare is almost analytical, something behind those eyes hinting at a secret. You assume he’s silently asking you to tell him Marcus’ hand. You just shake your head, rubbing your fingers together like you're asking for cash. He mimics a frown, pointing down to the poker chips like that’s all the money he has. You only tut your tongue and turn back on your heel to join the girls at the bar.
Well, one girl. It’s just Honey tonight, which is extremely strange because it’s not that late yet. Come to think of it, the game itself is significantly smaller than usual. It started out like the regular affair, but each person has trickled off and now there’s only three.
“You know where everyone else is?” You ask, sipping on your third cocktail of the night. You’ve tried to forget the events that unfolded today but nothing is getting them out of your mind. Honey just shrugs, not a word coming from her mouth. Weird. She’s usually chatty. You shake it off, thinking it’s just leftover nerves from the morning and go to mix your fourth drink before you’ve even finished this one.
You couldn’t care less about being sober for Marcus tonight. In fact, you hope you just pass out mid-way through. You blink again, wondering why you’re spiralling so hard over a man you barely know. A client, no less. When you turn to face the poker game again, Honey is gone from your side and so is a member of the poker game. The two men remaining turn their heads to you just as you hear the front door click shut.
“Come sit.” Marcus, commands, patting his lap. You oblige, a drink in each hand as you walk over to the table. He simply laughs as you sit horizontally across his legs, sipping on one drink then the other. “Well look at your greed, little missy.” You smile, but don’t look him in the eye. And suddenly his hand is swiping yours, sending one of the glasses straight to the floor. You jump as it hits the ground with a violent crash. The liquid spreads quickly, pooling under your heels. “Nobody ever teach you manners? Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
You push back the overwhelming urge to punch him in his dick and smile instead. Carefully, you haul one leg over him, leaning in so you’re straddling him. Your hand runs up to his neck, kneading at that spot you know he loves, all pouty lips and big eyes. “Sorry, Marcus.”
He looks at you for a moment and laughs again. This one deeper. Degrading. “Oh, you’re cute. Isn’t she cute, Peter?”
You turn to Peter, who’s giving you that analytical look still. It seems less playful this time. “She is.” He smirks. You almost feel guilty that he has to watch this. Though he seems to be enjoying every minute of it. Maybe he’s into that sort of watching thing. You’ll have to figure it out at your next appointment.
Marcus suddenly swipes at your other hand, the glass in that one smashing to the ground too. You try your best to pretend it doesn’t effect you. Pretend the soft way he proceeds to brush your cheek with his thumb is real. “Go sober up f’ me. Want you awake tonight.”
You thank your lucky stars for the break from him, and the more-than-normal amount of weirdness in the room, slipping off his lap.
Crunching sounds echo through the room under your footsteps as you walk through the mess and into a bedroom which you know has an ensuite. That’s where you had tried to inspect your fucked up hair in the mirror a week ago. You splash your face with water, careful not to scrub too much of your makeup off. After years of perfecting your routine, you’d found the most sweat-proof look you could. Nobody had seen you in a truly bare face for years. Except this morning. Except Gator.
Hushed whispers from the living room bring you back to this reality. Gator’s gone, and you’re probably better off for it. Maybe. But the emptiness of the house. The tone of the voices. You have a strange feeling in your gut. You creep forward to the door, careful not to alert the men of your presence. They’re too far away to really understand.
“You sure…can help,” is all you hear from Peter.
“I got this…light…carry…before sunrise…”
They make no sense in bits and pieces, but you just know Marcus’ words don’t sound good. You hear the front door open. Close again. Watch carefully through the window as the silver pickup pulls out of the driveway. There’s a deep breath from the living room, and somehow, you can hear in it resolve. Something that spells danger. The first footstep rings like a gunshot. Then another. And another.
You can see his shadow through the door as you frantically whip your phone out and dial the number. Each footstep makes your heart catch in my throat. Pick up, pick up, pick up. Something, you don’t know what, answers your prayers.
“Why you callin' your stalker?”
“Something’s wrong.” The door handle turns. You set your phone on a random dresser, hiding your screen.
The door opens and Marcus stands there, just looking at you for a long moment. “Hey handsome.” You bat your lashes, praying he can’t hear the speed of your heartbeat.
“Feeling better?” He scans you up and down with hungry eyes, slinking a little closer. Maybe he really does just want you today. His hands settle on your hips, the grip almost bruising as he pulls you closer. A low chuckle releases as one can cups your cheek and his thumb brushes over your lips, forcing them apart.
“Look at this pretty face.” His slides his thumb onto your tongue and you obediently suck, part of you still slightly on edge. He smiles at the motion. “You look so damn pretty when you shut your mouth.” Something twists in your stomach as he guides you back to the bed and you spot your phone again. You pray Gator’s not listening. And it’s not just because your instincts were wrong. You step back only for a moment, so you can slide your heels off all sultry, placing them on the nightstand. And the moment you do, Marcus shoves you into the mattress. “You should learn to keep it shut.” You can’t question what that means when his lips slam into yours you gasp at the fervor. Your brain starts to do what it always does, as dreamland sets in. The lips that move against you are gentle. Hands caress up your sides carefully. They never reach your neck like Marcus’. And they don’t squeeze. Your eyes fly open. His weight is crushing you into the mattress, one hand gripping your neck far too tight as he still licks the side of your face. You remind yourself to keep calm. Panic only makes it worse.
“Marcus.” You try but he just simply raises his head, now hovering over you. “Marcus, please. You’re…hurting me.” You reach up to his hand, trying to pry it off but he is too strong. And you see it. The complete shift in his eyes as something dark takes over.
“Good.” He spits, and brings his other hand to your neck. “Then we’re even.” His grip on you isn’t tight enough to take away your air, but you can’t move an inch. And you have no idea what he’s talking about. Every single night you’ve walked around like his slave. So what you got a little drunk how could he- “Saw that little cop going up to your house. The one investigating me.”
Your heart stops. How did he see that? “He’s just… a client.” You manage.
His grip tightens on your throat and you seize up as he actually cuts off your breathing.“That’s not what I fuckin’ heard.” You pointlessly claw at his hands again. “You usually call out other clients’ names when you’re in bed?” Your eyes go wide. “Peter knows who Gator is, you stupid slut.” Marcus smiles as he leans down. He looks happier than you’ve ever seen him. “You wanna know a secret? Peter knows exactly what information you've been feeding him. All those failed missions. All for some fuckin’ money I could’ve given you.” How could…
Of course.
He arrived to town the same time the FBI did. This town already had dirty cops. How didn’t you realize the feds were too? You feel everything in you twisting as the air in your lungs slowly decreases, tears stinging at the corner of your eyes. “Oh,” He chuckles. “You startin’ to regret your greed?” You try your best to nod, desperately hoping he’ll let go.
You’ve been good to him, right? If you can’t convince him you didn’t betray him, then maybe he’ll believe you can change. He doesn’t. He presses down somehow even harder. Starts rambling about never trusting bitches like you.
How Peter’s going to make sure no one finds the corpse.
Your body begins to thrash. And for the first time since you’ve been here, the house is completely empty.
There’s no one to hear you scream.
This is how you survive. This is the only power you have in a world of disaster. And now, second by second, that power is vanishing with the breath in your lungs. You search left to right, scanning over any item in your reach. There has to be a way out.
This can’t be how it ends.
⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖
Gator can’t hear anything but the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears as he speeds down the streets. One left turn, then another. He turns the wheel as quick as he can, no care for the mailboxes he runs over in his path, until finally he makes it to the the street. Mere moments from you. He should’ve trusted that feeling in his gut. This is why he didn’t want you doing this shit. He stopped hearing things after “something’s wrong,” but the waver in your voice was enough for him. His shoulder meets the door instantly instead of even trying to knock. It flies open without any fight, having already been unlocked.
It’s completely silent.
His hand flies to his thigh holster, whipping the gun out so it’s clutched tightly in his palms as he stalks through the house. He starts in the living room, a loose card pack and glasses shattered on the floor, spilling bright liquid onto the wood. No sign of you. He wants to call out, but he thinks the better of it, no idea what or who is in this house.
Just like that, he hears something. Something dropping. He whips his gun up in the direction of the noise, knuckles going white from the grip he has on it. None of his usual shit-talking works. Whoever’s on the other side could have a gun, and more power than Gator wants to admit. He cautiously steps forward, though his boots thud far too loud to be stealthy. Through the small gap in one of the bedroom doors, he can vaguely spot some movement. He sticks his gun through first, nudging the door open. Then, slowly, he moves.
When he steps inside, the gun drops straight to floor, clatter echoing throughout the silent house.
The body lies face down on the sheets, completely still. Blood spills around it, each droplet from the bedsheets to the floor striking as loudly as a gong. And to it’s side is you — the red splattered across you like some abstract painting as you breathe heavily, frozen in place.
Gator’s eyes drop to your hand, crushing a stiletto that’s coated deep red all the way up the heel.
All he can do is throw his mouth open, but no words come out. Nothing comes in either. It’s like his brain has stopped.
You finally speak. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖
taglist (comment on series masterlist to be added): @thesecretoftheswan, @aecd27 , @bells-bookshelf, @st4rg1rl88, @wolfiee10, @haydensheartt, @kristywidget97, @louisbelongstome28, @beth-mirrorball, @s3xytosomeone, @scaramou, @purplequeen64-stuff, @bluezzzzzz, @lacyiris, @deeplightblue, @steviaorsugar, @literal-tv-menace, @mysticbellie, @artismytherapy05, @bluegardenn, @pinkiepieshepardspie, @maaaachiii
mean! steve | steve harrington x reader | angst| smut | enemies to lovers
warnings: reader kinda slut shames steve a bit, lies about him, both of them don't like each other. do i have to tag reader has a break-up... ugh. wtv. erm... okay guys maybe a tiny bit of dubcon IDKKKKK so maybe? forced orgasm, denial i suppose. literally only stimulating the clit so overstimulation. male masturbation, spit kink is brief... apologies, cock mouthwarming, cum on body parts :D, semi-public...? improper use of a break room thats for sure...
summary: you complain to steve— the last person on earth you'd want to— about your ex-boyfriend. and steve has many opinions to offer.
words: 5.1k
maya... this is our msjoay child
You have zero patience the moment you walk into Family Video.
You knew Keith was going to write you up. You were twelve minutes late and he has the energy of a man who has been saving this moment his entire managerial career, and sure enough the second you push through the door he's already got the clipboard out. Two things: tardiness, and the skirt. The blue layered frill skirt that has hung in your closet for two years and made it through countless shifts without incident apparently falls one inch outside dress code, a fact Keith communicates over the course of seven full minutes while consulting the employee handbook from memory.
Steve Harrington stands behind the counter the entire time with his arms crossed and his shoulders shaking, fighting a smile so poorly it barely counts as fighting.
Keith clocks out at eleven-oh-three even though the store opened an hour ago, but apparently he has “business” to take care of.
The door swings shut bahind him.
Steve leans back against the counter, arms crossed, the smile no longer fighting anything, and you are already rolling your eyes before he pulls breath to speak.
This is the thing about Steve Harrington: he is not a dick, exactly. He's not cruel. He doesn't do anything that you could point to in a court of law and say there, that's it, that's the thing. What he does is flirt with every girl who walks through the door and get their numbers and then hide in the backroom when they come back looking for him.
Then there was once he told Robin— in the backroom, where he apparently believes sound does not travel— that you lack attention to detail, which is reach so extraordinary you nearly respect it. He alphabetizes by first name half the time. You have never once brought it up. Okay maybe you brought it up occasionally. Often. Maybe every chance you have.
And then there was the incident with the girl last month, when you told her Steve wasn't in because he'd mentioned feeling itchy downstairs, which, fine, maybe you embellished slightly, but Robin had found it funny and that's really all the justification you need. But since then he’s been a lot more moodier when he’s around you. Barely even speaks to you.
Also, you don't even think he's that good looking.
He's fine. He has good hair, probably, if you're being completely objective, which you are, and you've noticed in a purely observational capacity that his arms fill out his sleeves in a way that suggests he goes to the gym with some regularity, and his jeans fit him well, and you'd have to be actually blind not to notice that. That's just having eyes. That doesn't mean anything.
He has never once flirted with you, for the record. Which is fine. Great, actually, given that you have a boyfriend. Had a boyfriend. The distinction is new as of last night, when you threw Scott's things out your apartment window and told him not to come back, but the point stands.
Steve opens his mouth.
You cross the distance between you two in four steps and put your pointer finger directly on his lips.
"Don't even, Harrington." You look him dead in the eye. "Not in the mood."
You make the mistake of leaving it there.
His bewildered hazel eyes narrow, slow, something conspiratorial moving through them, and then the corner of his mouth twitches against your finger and his lips part and his tongue drags forward, and your finger drops onto it, and he closes his teeth around it with the gentlest possible pressure and just… holds it there.
The sound you make is not a gasp. It is a sharp inhale of surprise, which is completely different.
His eyes are mischievous and fixed on yours, and up close— closer than you typically allow yourself to be— you can see that his irises aren't simply brown. There's green in there, threaded through, soft and swirling, and his teeth are straight and white and his tongue is cool and wet and— you are going to actually strangle him with your bare hands.
The bell over the door chimes.
An older woman shuffles in, making a beeline for the romance section, and you turn toward her on instinct and Steve uses the moment to take your wrist. His hand large and warm, fingers spanning easily around it, and draws your finger out of his mouth slowly, his eyes tracking the shine of it after.
You snatch your hand back and wipe it on his shirt.
You feel his chest under your palm when you do it and you remove your hand immediately.
He licks his lips. Brings his thumb up to brush his bottom one, slow, like the contact has left something there he's deciding what to do with. Something in his expression shifts— not the smirk, something underneath it— and he looks at you for a moment that goes a beat longer than it should before he says, "Was gonna ask if you spilled coffee on yourself this morning."
His eyes drop to your chest. Back up.
You look down. The vest does nothing to hide the stain on the swell of your breast, dark against the fabric, thoroughly obvious.
You say nothing. He's already walking to the customer, his customer service voice emerging from somewhere inside him like a different person entirely, warm and easy and charming, and the older woman is already smiling at something he's said, and you stand where you are and roll your eyes and then linger for approximately three seconds on the way his jeans sit on his hips before you go find something to do.
.-.-.-.
You are reorganizing the candy display for the second time when the phone rings.
You know it's him before he finishes saying your name.
Scott. Three months, on and off, mostly off in practice if not in name, and last night you'd finally had enough. His stuff went out the window, you told him not to come back, you meant it. You had stood in your apartment afterward feeling entirely certain and somewhat exhilarated and had gone to bed and slept fine.
And now his voice is coming through the Family Video phone line at twelve forty-three in the afternoon, thick with rehearsed remorse, telling you how badly he messed up, how much he misses you, how he knows he can do better—
"Fuck off, Scott."
You put the phone down hard enough that the candy display rattles.
The fluorescent lights are suddenly very bright. The slushee machine is suddenly very loud. The store smells like chemicals and artificial sugar and you need to be somewhere that isn't the front of it immediately, so you go, pushing through the backroom door hard enough that it swings back and hits the wall.
Steve looks up from his magazine.
His feet are on the table. There's a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the wrapper beside him and a Coke going warm in his hand, and he takes in your expression with raised eyebrows and then loudly turns a page.
You walk over and pick up the sandwich and take a large bite.
He doesn't react.
"Why are men—" You chew. Swallow. "What is it. What is it that you're born with that makes you—" You groan at the ceiling. "What is wrong with all of you."
Steve blinks. He appears to be running an internal calculation about whether he needs to be offended. He turns another page. "Let me guess," he says, not looking up, the smirk audible. "You and meathead broke up again."
You take another bite of his sandwich.
He holds out the Coke without being asked. You take it and drink half of it in one go and set it back down. "I cannot believe I let him get me this worked up. Who does he think he is, calling here—"
Steve laughs. Loud, genuine, the kind that makes his head tip back.
"What?" you snap, reaching up to wipe a smear of peanut butter from the corner of your mouth.
He shakes his head. "Nothing."
"Tell me."
He puts the magazine down. His feet come off the table and he shifts in the chair to look at you properly, elbows on his knees. "He knows you'll take him back."
"I won't. I mean it this time."
"You said that last time."
"This time is different."
"You'll feel lonely in two days and call him." He picks up his trash, standing, moving toward the bin. "You always do." He says it low, almost to himself, something in his voice that doesn't quite match the smirk.
You uncross your arms. "That is… that's not—" You hate that your mouth can't finish the sentence with any real conviction. "It's not true."
"It is." He tosses the wrapper. Turns around. "Honestly I don't get why you're even with him. You complain about him constantly." He shifts into an impression of you that is offensive in its accuracy, his voice going up slightly: "Robin, he never buys me flowers. Robin, I don't think he knows my favorite color. Robin, I don't even think he knows where the clit is."
The backroom is not large. There is not much space between you. He takes a step closer.
"Sounds like you need to find someone else." His eyes blink half-lidded, his lips pursing with a sassy deliberateness that makes your hand itch. "Or stop complaining."
"Oh, great advice." You hold his gaze. "When you find a single guy in Hawkins who isn't you, let me know."
He tilts his head. Steps closer. Something shifts in his face— the smirk softening at the edges, his jaw ticking once— and his eyes have gone a little sad at the corners, which is infuriating because it looks genuine. "Wait." His voice drops. "What's wrong with me?"
"Plenty of things." You keep your voice soft, wanting the words to land clean. "Surprised you haven't gotten a girl pregnant by now."
"Oh, I thought it was because I have an STD?"
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Something moves behind his eyes. His tongue presses into his cheek. He steps into your space.
You are against the wall and he is close enough that you can smell him. It’s woodsy cologne, laundry detergent, the faint ghost of peanut butter. He's looking down at you with his brow furrowed, his hazel eyes darker than they were a minute ago. Both palms find the wall on either side of your head and he leans in, his mouth at your ear.
"At least I'd know where you needed to be touched."
The ache that moves through you is immediate and mortifying and you are absolutely not acknowledging it. You shift your weight— not away from him, just shifting, just adjusting, for no reason— and you look directly at his face and laugh.
Loud. Right at him.
"Yeah, right, Steve." You bring your hand up to make him look at you, fingers at his jaw. "Bet you've never made a girl cum in your life."
The corner of his lips flickers.
His thumb comes up to your chin— slow, his eyes on yours the whole time— and you take him in all at once the way you don't let yourself do usually: the moles on his jaw, the chest hair where his polo buttons are undone, the way his jeans sit easy on his hips, the slight soft curve of his stomach, his thighs, his arms, the Family Video vest that he makes look less stupid than anyone has a right to. His eyes, hazel and green and completely focused on your face.
Fuck.
His hand trails down your side. Finds your hip and squeezes, warm and sure, and neither of you looks away as his fingers find the hem of your skirt and slip underneath. His pointer finger traces a slow circle on your upper thigh and your breath goes shallow and you keep your expression completely neutral through what you can only describe as heroic effort.
His hand moves higher.
His palm cups you through the fabric of your underwear and your back arches off the wall by a degree before you catch it, breathing through your nose, furious at your own body, furious at the warmth of his hand, furious at the specific and undeniable ache of wanting more pressure.
Steve Harrington is the last person. The absolute last person. You don't even like him. You don't even think he's—
His fingers slip beneath the waistband.
Oh, you think, oh no.
His finger slides between your folds and the sound you make is quiet and involuntary and you hate it and him and yourself in equal measure.
He exhales a soft laugh against your cheek. Licks his bottom lip. "You're so wet, sweetheart." His voice is low and wondering, almost private. "For me?"
"You fucking wish, Steve—"
His middle finger finds your clit.
One slow, precise circle, and the word you were going to say next dissolves completely into a gasp that echoes off the backroom walls.
He leans into you, his nose pressing into your temple, his breath warm at your ear.
"Gotcha."
"Big deal." Your voice comes out unsteady and you hate it. "You want a prize or something?"
His finger moves in tighter circles, faster, and the pressure of it unspools something low in your stomach, heat building in thick, stacking waves. His other hand is still flat on the wall beside your head and his forearm is bracketing you in and his mouth is at the corner of your jaw and you are gripping the wall behind you with both hands because the alternative is grabbing onto him and you are not doing that.
"I think," he says, low against your skin, "making you cum like this will be enough."
He works faster.
Your head tips back against the wall. Your knees make a compelling argument for giving up. The circles are tight and relentless and perfectly placed and you think, with the last functioning part of your brain, of course. Of course he's good at this. Of course.
"Steve—"
"Yeah." He coos, like he knows exactly what you need. His finger works faster still, and his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, pressing warm open kisses down the side of your neck while his hand does not let up, not for a second, his wrist moving with a patience that suggests he has no intention of stopping until he gets what he wants.
Your fingers find his shoulder.
You grip it.
He makes a quiet satisfied sound against your throat.
You feel that tension building and you shake your head, your vision going blurry, clutching him harder. "Steve, please it's too much… fucking go inside or something— shit!"
Steve's hand swipes at your entrance, and you think he might listen, his middle finger barely swirling inside, and then you hear a chuckle when you moan, clutching the green vest, fingers digging into his shoulder blades. Steve himself seems a bit imbalanced. His upper body presses into your chest, and you catch the way his eyes peek down at your blouse— something tells you he isn't paying attention to the coffee stain, but maybe the way your shirt pulls down a little, and the blue linen bra that peeks out. The flesh of your tits at the neckline.
You can feel his cock, hard and twitching, against your thigh and you really don't care. At all. You press your thigh into him— the one day you forget to wear stockings— feeling the heat of him through the denim on your skin. You mewl, obviously unintentional, because of the way Steve is still rubbing hurried circles against your oversensitive clit.
Steve's breathing hard in your hair, and you can still hear him chuckling occasionally when he pulls another cry from your lips. He tries to rut against your leg, but with what feeling you have left in it you push his hips away. "Steve… please… it's…."
You grind against his hand regardless.
"I bet it is, honey." His voice is low in your ear. "Bet you've been aching for months… and this is all you've needed. Is this why you have such an attitude when you come into work? Poor thing… probably needed Steve to show you how it's done."
"Whatever…." you gasp, burrowing your face in his neck, fisting the fabric of his vest. You try to make your thoughts go somewhere else. The last thing you are going to do is give Steve Harrington the satisfaction of cumming on his hand.
He slides two fingers inside you and makes no effort to move them, his thumb taking over in fast circles. "Stop fighting it. I can feel you. You want to cum. Do it." And it's true. You're clenching around his fingers.
You shake your head. You mutter no. However, you’re pulling him closer, making him grunt, your back pressing harder into the wall from the heat of his body. You're biting into his shoulder, listening to the slick wet sounds of him working your clit. His face is buried in your neck and he's not kissing you but you feel his mouth moving there, hot whispers against your skin.
"Come on," he says your name. "Come on, I've got you."
His hand goes fast and sloppy and you're over the edge before you realize it— you don't even feel when the band snaps, you only hear yourself cry out as he draws the orgasm out of you. His hand doesn't slow down, keeps going, and your legs are weak and shaking, his large free hand gripping your hip, rutting against your thigh— and you want to laugh at him because he's so fucking pathetic and needy.
But then he taps you gently on your sweet ache, and you feel his smile against your jaw.
"There we go," he whispers.
He's off you immediately, mouth partly open, his eyes drunk— on you— eyeing you up and down as he works his belt with both hands.
You blow hair out of your face, brows furrowed, and laugh. "What the hell are you doing?"
Steve stops and looks down, unzipping his jeans. "What does it look like? Gotta take care of something."
"Don't be stupid, Harrington. I'm not sucking your dick." Your eyes flick to his bulge before you drag them back up, hating how curious you are. "And I'm not fucking you either."
He tilts his head, something that is both amusement and wanting moving through his expression at the same time. "Might shut you up."
He smiles.
"Might even be nice about it."
He hasn't pushed his jeans down, but the belt is unbuckled and the zipper's all the way down and he's holding the waistband even though the button is undone. You'd think he was in charge, but really he's waiting for you. You swallow, bite your bottom lip, look down then back up.
"Why should I?"
He rolls his eyes. "Kneel."
"Excuse me?"
"You came in here interrupting my break, complaining about something I didn't even care about." He glances at his watch. "I've still got eight minutes. I'm not going back out to work with my dick tucked into my waistband, so either leave and let me take care of it, or get on your knees."
You blink at him, and if it wasn't bad enough that Steve was bossing you around— heat pooled between your legs again— and you felt your knees slowly bending. One of Steve's hands shot out and grabbed yours, electricity shooting through the point of contact. You chalk it up to static, and he helps you to the floor carefully, his eyes gentle, making sure you're comfortable. His hand grazes your shoulder, his thumb brushing your cheek. For a split second it feels almost intoxicatingly tender. Something Scott never once managed during intimacy.
Then he opens his mouth.
"Take this off." He tugs at your vest. "The shirt too."
You look at him. "How is this relevant––"
"No time to argue. Off."
You grumble and shed the vest. You look at him once before pulling your shirt off over your head. You smile at the way his throat works taking you in. You can't help it. You want to see his reaction, and it's only fair, you're about to see whatever his cock looks like, you're doing him a favor here— so you take your bra off too and let it drop beside you.
Steve's eyes widen and you hear him mutter "shit" under his breath.
He wastes no more time. He untucks his polo and brings the hem up to his mouth, biting onto it, and the sight of it— him towering over you, brow furrowed, his stomach exposed, the soft ridges and the pudge, the thatch of hair on his chest, the angel kisses scattered across his skin and one right beside his happy trail— abandons you of all good sense and you're leaning forward, pressing your mouth to it. You hear his breath hitch. You kiss more of them, nip his skin. You take your hands to the fly of his jeans and spread it open, using your fingers to drag the waistband of his briefs down, kissing just above the base of his cock. You make open-mouthed wet kisses around it, licking his happy trail and around it, and you let a dribble of spit drop from your mouth. You know you're about to ruin him from the way he whimpers and bucks his hips, gripping your shoulder. But when your mouth gets close to his cock, his hand flies to your head, pushing you back.
He shakes his head.
He pushes his jeans down himself and you help, stopping mid-thigh because there's not enough time to take them all the way off. His briefs go with them and his cock, with a bead of precum at the tip, hits his stomach. Your eyes go wide.
God fucking dammit. He's hung. And you've never thought this about anyone before, but it's pretty. The pink of the tip, the girth of it, even and full, the veins tracking the length, and it twitches under your attention like it's aware of you, and you have never once in your life thought this about anyone but you want it in your mouth. You want to feel the weight of it on your tongue. You want to wrap your hand around it and watch his face. You might, at some future point, let him put the tip inside you. For fun. Briefly. Hypothetically.
You lean forward to kiss it. You almost make it. His hand is on your head again.
He takes himself in his fist and lets his shirt fall from his teeth. Looks down at you.
"Spit on it."
You do.
He moans.
"Again."
You spit again.
"More."
You have spit running in rivulets down his length, collecting warm in the crease of his fist, dripping from the tip to the floor, and you reach forward—
His hand presses your head back.
"No. Hands at your sides. And don't touch yourself."
You only half-obey. Your hands fall to your thighs, but you push your skirt up as you settle them there, your soaked cotton underwear on full display, and you watch his jaw tighten when he sees it.
He strokes himself. One pump. Two. Watching your face.
"I wanna taste you, Steve," you say.
"Oh, now you do. Pretty sure you told me I was stupid for asking."
"Please, Steve."
He looks like he is losing the hardest mental war of his life. His hand stills.
"Open."
You open your mouth. He taps your tongue with his tip— once— and the weight of it alone makes your breath go thin. He pushes forward slowly until you choke slightly and your eyes water, and you look up at him through your lashes and he is completely, irreparably gone. You hum around him and try to move.
His hand holds you still.
His cock sits heavy and throbbing in your mouth, gathering the heat of your breath, drool pooling at the corners of your lips. He looks down at you.
"You look kinda pretty like this."
You should feel humiliated. You kind of do, actually. Except for the first time you're also starting to see it. Starting to think Steve Harrington is genuinely, actually hot. Too bad you didn’t like the guy, because maybe you’d give him a shot. Or maybe just flirt with him.
He checks his watch and sighs, drawing himself out of your mouth slowly, your lips dragging along his length, wrapping around the tip as it clears with a soft pop. A string of spit connects your lips to his cock, stretching in the low light before it breaks.
He takes himself back in hand, his other hand staying in your hair, tilting you to watch, and he strokes himself above you. Fast and purposeful now, and the sounds fill the small backroom entirely: the slick wet rhythm of his fist, schlick schlick schlick, quick and relentless, punctuated by the sounds catching in his throat that he's completely stopped trying to manage.
"Only kinda pretty?" you mumble, fighting the pout.
Not surprising, you think. This is probably the last thing Steve wanted to—
"Always pretty," he corrects. His voice is rough and strained. "Right now you're so pretty it's gonna make me cum."
Your eyes widen a little. Your stomach flips. It's different this time, quieter than heat and want, something that makes you close your mouth and say nothing.
"Aw." He works faster, his breath coming in short pulls. "Guess all I had to do was tell you how pretty you are to get you to stop being mean to me." He whimpers, schlick schlick schlick, and a wet drop splatters right below your lip. You lick it, closing your eyes.
"You think we can be friends after this?"
Your eyes snap open.
He looks so hot— already holding back his release, his hands and forearms veiny from working, his neck strained, his chest heaving, his eyes boring into yours. The Family Video vest hugging his shoulders as he frantically strokes himself.
"As if," you scoff.
He tilts his head. "Aw, but I was so nice to you earlier. Can't we put our differences aside. Hm?"
You roll your eyes. "Yeah, sure."
"Say it."
"Say what?"
"Say we can be friends."
"I said sure—" You try to look away and his hand turns your head back towards him. His eyes are dangerously dark and clouded.
He doesn't ask again.
"Okay, whatever. We can be friends—"
Steve lets out a choked moan, your name tangled somewhere inside it. You feel warmth hit your cheek and he strokes through it fast, pearly ropes landing across your tits, and you gasp as some rolls down your sternum. Steve pants, head bowed.
After what seems like hours of silence and heavy breathing, he finally moves. His watch beeps and he silences it without looking. He leans over to the table— his neck stretching, arms flexing, the curve of his waist as he reaches— and grabs a stack of napkins. Wipes his hands. His cock. Pulls his briefs and jeans back up.
He drops the napkins on the floor and holds out his hand.
You take it and he pulls you to your feet. He grabs more napkins and holds them out toward you. He doesn't hand them over, his hand coming forward instead, pressing them gently to your chest and wiping the mess himself, careful and unhurried.
You look up at his face.
He looks up and meets your eyes and they go wide. "Oh… uh. Sorry. I didn't mean to— probably should've wet them first—"
"It's fine, Steve."
And you smile at him.
It lands on him like something he wasn't braced for. He goes still, checks for the punchline, finds nothing, and his lips turn up slowly. It’s cautious at first, then warmer, something in his face opening. He goes back to what he was doing. You look down and the mess has been gone for thirty seconds at minimum and he is very clearly using the napkins as an excuse, his hands warm through the thin paper.
"Guess after this you should get tested, right?" His eyes flick up then back down. The walls are down. His eyes are a little sad.
Guilt moves through you quiet and uninvited. You don't apologize. But you say: "I trust you." A breath. A grimace. "I mean. We are friends, after all."
He smiles bigger. And if you had known— all this time— that Steve Harrington could smile at you like that, open and unguarded, like you've handed him something he didn't know he wanted… maybe you'd have hated him a little less.
He leans toward you slowly and your hands come up between you, ready to push him away. He reaches past them entirely and swipes something from your cheek with a napkin. Holds it up. His cheeks are pink.
"Got some on your—" A breath of a laugh. "Sorry."
You open your mouth.
The bell above the front door chimes.
Both your eyes go wide and then it's chaos. It’s Steve buckling his belt and tucking his shirt in while you grab your clothes from where he's already gathered them off the floor, handing them back to you. You pull everything back on in ten seconds flat. He drops to his knees to collect the napkins from the floor and you grab him by the vest.
"Steve. It's fine, go. I'm taking my break anyway."
He looks at you. Brown eyes, long lashes, the flush still high on his cheeks. He clears his throat. Straightens his vest. "Yeah. Okay." A beat. "See you in thirty."
He turns.
You look at the back of him and grab the vest again. He turns back already rolling his eyes, already wearing the face he's had on every time he’s asked what now for the past few months.
"You know." You bite your bottom lip. "I wouldn't be totally angry if you came and interrupted the last fifteen minutes of my break."
Something flashes through his eyes, low and warm. His arms cross. His voice drops. "You think I need the whole fifteen minutes?"
You step forward and hook your fingers into his waistband and watch his throat move.
"Gotcha," you say.
His face falls. You zip his fly and push him out the door and listen to him laughing on the other side. You sit down in the empty backroom and smile at nothing for a long moment before you take your break.
you already know the typa shit i’m on. running rampant in your messages about age gap!steve has lead me here.
a prompt for steve-morial day weekend; reader’s a bartender, perhaps a meet cute with ~coach steve~ at the bar she works at. i’ll let you handle the dirty shit cos it’s what you do best. thanks in advance for making all of my dreams come true
love ya buddy :* <3 !!!!!!
- djob00bies, on main 🫶
your wish, my command 🩵
MDNI//SMUT/tags/tw- age gap (steve is 30, reader is 23), coach steve, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex
&&
It’s half past 7 on a Friday when he walks in. The bar’s busy, busy enough that you don’t have the time to really pay attention to the patrons you’re serving, but you do clock that you recognize him. Your nephew is on his baseball team—you’re pretty sure. That’s Coach Steve.
He orders a bottle of Bud and when you uncap it for him, sliding it over the burnished wood, he picks it up and tips it toward you before taking a sip.
But you’re already on to the next customer, pulling liquor bottles and salting rims and dropping garnishes into glasses without even a second to register that Coach Steve? He looks both expectant and lonely where he’s sat at the end of the bar. He hasn’t even taken his jacket off.
It’s just about 8 by the time you stride back over, checking on him, ignoring the other customers clamoring for your attention for a second. In the dim orange-yellow light of the bar, Steve’s eyes look like black circles, the 5’o’clock shadow more like an 8’o’clock nightfall by now, and he rubs at his jaw as you approach.
“‘Nother Bud?” you ask, already reaching for a bottle.
“No, I’m… good for now,” he says, drumming his fingers along the mostly-empty bottle.
“All right,” you chirp, “give a holler if you change your mind!” And then you return to the fray, back to pouring shots and muddling fruit and wiping down spills. You close tabs, open tabs, and pocket tips, all while Steve is still at the end of the bar, alone, nursing his beer and glancing at the door every time someone walks in, and every time when you see his shoulders slump, you start to feel a little bad.
It’s not the first time you’ve seen someone get stood up, but from what you know of Steve—which isn’t much, other than how your brother’s kid Nicky is constantly talking about how cool his baseball coach is—it seems kinda shitty that it happened to him.
Nicolette—the bar manager—pops out around 8:30 to give you your mandated 15 minute break, and instead of heading into the back, you head over to Steve.
“Hey, Coach,” you say, leaning on the bar near him, and he glances up at you, clearly thrown by what you’ve called him.
“I—do I know you?” he asks, trying to place you.
You reach below the bar to grab another Bud for him, plunking it down and uncapping it. He takes it without question as you answer, giving him your name. “I’m Nicky’s aunt. He’s on your baseball team.”
“Oh! Nicky, yeah,” Steve says, smiling. “He’s a good kid.”
“He loves you,” you say, and Steve gives you a smile.
“He might be the only one,” he jokes, and swigs the beer.
You bite your lip, because that just about confirms what you already know, but you can’t help yourself.
“Stood up?”
He huffs a laugh. “Looks like it.”
“What time was the date?”
“8,” he replies, holding out his arm to let his sleeve pull up over his wrist, then crooking his elbow to read the face of his watch. “She’s a little late.”
“Maybe she forgot about daylight saving time,” you say, and to your credit, he does crack a smile.
“So you think maybe she’ll walk in at 9?”
You shrug, taking him in. He’s handsome, for sure; you can’t imagine why anyone would not show up for a date with him. He seems nice, normal—and he was even early for the date. Pretty good first impression, as far as you were concerned.
“Well, if she doesn’t show, that second beer’s on me, ok?” you say, and Steve shakes his head.
“No, I couldn’t—”
“I gave it to you without asking,” you insist. “Don’t worry about it, those frat guys tipped me enough that I won’t even miss the couple bucks. Promise.” You hold out your pinky on a whim, and Steve looks from your face down to your hand.
“You want to pinky promise?”
“Why not?” you ask, grinning, but you are starting to feel a little stupid. “Come on, don’t stand me up too.”
And maybe it’s too soon to joke with him like that, maybe you overstepped, but he links his pinky with yours and gives your hand a shake.
“Thanks,” he says. “For the beer.”
“Any time,” you say, drawing your hand back, and then slipping away, behind Nicolette to head into the back room, taking the last 10 minutes of your break to actually sit down.
&&
When you emerge from the staffroom, Steve is gone from the bar. His second beer bottle is still there, mostly full, and when you tap back in with Nicolette, the first thing you do is go to clean up his spot. There’s a lull at the bar—the frat guys are by the pool table, the group of business men getting way too drunk with no consequences since tomorrow is the weekend are at their table with full pints, and the women over by the jukebox who are dressed way younger than they actually are (and killing it, you think), are mostly all leaving you alone. Nicolette really took care of business while you were resting your feet, though she’s still covering the bar, since your shift is over in less than an hour.
You pick up Steve’s half-empty beer and toss it, picking up the cardboard beer mat wiping his spot down, cleaning it for the next patron who wants to occupy the corner seat at the bar. And just as you toss the rag over your shoulder, you see Steve stepping out of the men’s room. You freeze—you technically just threw a patron’s drink away, but also, he didn’t pay for it, so it was sort of your drink. Kinda.
You catch him as he starts to walk back over to the bar.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey,” he says. “Yes, I’m still very much stood up.” He laughs.
You laugh too, but shake your head a little. “I thought you left. Sorry. I tossed your beer.”
“What?” Steve says, putting on a little too much distress for it to be entirely genuine. “Not my free drink that I didn’t really even want. How could you?”
“Ok, shut up,” you say, glancing back at the bar, but Nicolette is shaking a martini, about to pour it, and there’s only one of the frat guys waiting, so you figure you can just let her handle it while you chat with Steve for a minute. It’s not that you pity him—it’s just that you had to see such a fine specimen go home alone on such a nice evening.
“I was about to head out anyway, actually,” Steve says, though when you shift a little to the side to block him, he hesitates. He doesn’t speak, he just waits for you to say something.
“Well, I get off around 9:30,” you say, glancing up at him. His eyebrows lift just a little, almost disappearing beneath his fringe. “If you wanted to maybe… actually get to have a drink with someone.”
“With you?” he asks, very clearly shocked, and you let yourself smirk, just a little.
“No, with the other blind date I have for you in the back. Yes, with me,” you say, laughing a little, and he looks around the room like maybe someone is pranking him, like he can’t believe a cute, obviously younger woman is hitting on him. Which maybe, in this moment, is a little unbelievable to him, since he did just get blown off by someone.
“Are you—is this like a pity thing? Because I’ve been in this position before,” he says, and then cringes like maybe he shouldn’t have divulged that. “I just mean, I’ll get over it.”
“But you look so put together right now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at Nicolette, who’s got a line of shot glasses set out, ready for the frat guys, which means she isn’t paying attention to you and can’t get on you for flirting with a customer. You reach out for the sides of his jacket, tugging them down and flattening them over his chest. “Would just hate to see all your effort go to waste.”
Steve gives you a faint smile and opens his mouth, but you cut him off.
“It’s not a pity thing,” you say, stepping a little closer, so you can talk a little quieter but he can still hear you, and when you speak your voice is a little husky, laced with obvious interest in him. “It’s me reaping the benefits of someone else’s fuck up.”
Steve barks a quiet laugh, like he can’t believe his luck, and then covers your hands with his and gently prises them off his jacket. “Well, I guess when you put it like that…”
“Stick around,” you say, pointing to a table off in the corner, by the jukebox and the payphone. “I’ll come find you once I clock out.”
“Done deal,” Steve says, and you grin at him, give him a wink, and then take your place back behind the bar with Nicolette, who definitely side eyes you but says nothing. And when 9:35 rolls around and you finish wiping the bar, stacking used glasses, and carrying the tub of empties down to the basement, you re-emerge no longer on the clock and free to engage with Coach Steve as you see fit.
You slip behind the bar again, grab a bottle of Bud for Steve (in case he wants this one), mix up a lemon drop for yourself, pouring it into a martini glass while Nicolette rolls her eyes at you, and then thread through the throngs of people to find Steve flipping through the records in the jukebox, the table you’d specified for him abandoned.
“Hey, Coach,” you call to him, and he turns toward you, clearly amused that you keep calling him by his job title.
“What if I called you bar girl?” he replies, as he slides into the seat opposite you, picking up the beer that you place in front of him.
“Better than beer wench,” you quip, and he laughs, lowering the bottle from his lips because if he’d drunk any sooner, he’d have absolutely done a spit take on you.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Beer wench has such a nice ring to it.”
“Coach Steve and beer wench,” you say, sipping your cocktail, then sighing at the bright pop of citrus, the cool drink and the zing from the lemon cutting through the thick air of the bar, the tension of working a weekend shift melting away. “Sounds like the world’s shittiest superhero duo.”
“Yeah,” he says, “they sort of contradict, don’t they?”
“Well, they say opposites attract,” you reply, meeting his eyes over the rim of your glass, and he holds your gaze.
“They do say that,” Steve says.
The conversation ends for a few moments, both of you sipping your drinks in silence while Steve picks up one of the cardboard coasters and reads the names of the beer brands off of it in silence. Then, he looks up at you, and the conversation actually picks up again.
He asks you about working here, if you went to school. If you’re older or younger than Nicky’s mom—oh, his dad, you’re his dad’s sister. You ask how he got the job coaching baseball, since you remember seeing his name on swim trophies in Hawkins High and saw him in the basketball team photo in your brother’s yearbook. You laugh when he tells you horror stories of teaching sex ed, and then almost spill your drink when he repeats some of the questions he gets from the kids.
“I mean, my brother told me stories about King Steve,” you say, not noticing that his demeanor dampens slightly when you say that, because you’re still laughing a little too much, “but I didn’t know that qualified you to teach sex education.”
Steve huffs an unamused laugh, like he was having a good time and now, maybe, less so. “It’s—kind of just part of the gig. And really—there’s a whole book to follow, you know, for the curriculum. I’m just kind of there to answer questions. Help them make informed decisions.” He clears his throat. “Explain the menstrual cycle.”
“Oh,” you say, leaning over the table toward him, pulling out that same sultry voice you’d hit him with before but very obviously joking with him. “Please, talk to me about ovulation.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s amused, you can tell. “Well, that’s when an egg—” he starts to say, but you shriek with laughter and cut him off, and he laughs too, mostly at your reaction.
“To be honest,” you admit, elbows on the table, your fingers toying with the stem of your martini glass, “that’s kind of hot.”
Steve blinks. “Ov…ulation?”
“No!” you half-shout, laughing again, amused. “No. I mean—you knowing about that stuff. Like, generally. Most guys hear the word ‘period’ and have to leave the room.”
Steve shrugs. “I, you know. Kids have questions. If they like Coach Steve enough to ask questions, I need to know what to tell them.”
“So Coach Steve has dethroned King Steve,” you say, reaching across the table to play with his jacket again, and that’s the moment Steve decides: Fuck it.
“King Steve’s still around sometimes,” he says.
“Oh, is he?” you ask, leaving your hand on his chest, lifting your eyes up to his again. You’re not quite out of your seat to get nearer to him, but you’re close to it. “Like when?”
“Like now,” he says, a cocky smile curving his mouth up at one corner. “But I think—” He leans back from you, dislodging your hand from his front. “Don’t you think I’m a little too old for you?”
Your eyes narrow. “No,” you say, indignantly. “I’m just as much an adult as you are.”
“I know,” Steve says, “but—”
“I work in a bar. I went to college—I don’t appreciate being condescended to.”
“I’m not—”
“Aren’t you?”
Steve pauses, actually considering it. “I didn’t think so, no.”
You study him; he looks apologetic, sheepish. “Bring back Coach Steve,” you say. “I liked him better.”
He laughs, almost like he’s relieved you didn’t throw the remaining lemon drop cocktail into his face and stomp away. “Ok. Done.”
“Do you want another beer?” you ask, draining the rest of your drink and putting the glass to the side.
“No,” Steve says. “I have to drive home.”
“Right,” you say. “Now?”
Another smile twitches at his lips, but he suppresses it. “No. I’d rather keep talking.”
“We can talk in your car,” you say, and maybe it’s a little forward, but Steve doesn’t even flinch.
“Talking in my car,” he says, nodding like he’s thinking about it. “Novel concept. Can’t say I’ve ever done much of that when I have a woman with me.”
“King Steve not a conversationalist?”
“Not so much,” he says, then bites the inside of his cheek. You watch him, wondering what he wants to say, because it has to be something good if he’s waffling about saying it. “He’s—no, nevermind.” He laughs to himself.
“No, what?” you press him. “You have to say it now, come on.”
“No, no,” he says, waving it away and lifting the beer bottle to his mouth to take a short sip. “It’s a bad joke.”
“I love bad jokes.”
Steve levels you with a look, but you stare straight back. You hold his eyes, not blinking, and finally, you win out. “Jesus Chr—fine. I was going to say—” He heaves a small sigh. “I’m not really a conversationalist, but I’m something of a cunning linguist.”
You laugh again, loud, drawing even Nicolette’s attention, and she’s long since learned to drown out raucous laughter from bar patrons. “That’s filthy,” you comment, but you’re laughing. “I almost want to make you prove it.”
“No you don’t,” Steve says, looking down, away from you.
“I do,” you say, leaning over the table again, and this time, you are out of your seat. “I want Coach Steve to treat me the way King Steve would.” Your face is awfully close to his now, the lemon lingering on your tongue mixing with the cloying scent of the beer left in his bottle.
“I don’t know if either of us are ready for that,” Steve says. “Mostly me.”
You don’t pull back. “I think you can handle it.” A smirk plays at your lips.
He tips back a little in his chair, looking up at you, and finally—his smirk matches yours.
&&
He wants to go back to your apartment—so you’ll feel more comfortable, he says, in your own space—and the only reason you allow it is that your roommate is away for the weekend, her cousin’s wedding in Indianapolis with her parents. The second the door closes behind you both, you’re on him, your hands on his arms, holding him close, and he just laughs a little at how eager you are, at how a potentially shitty evening turned into one that’s not half bad.
You don’t lean up to kiss him, not until he wraps his arms around you, hands settling on your lower back, and then you’re rising up onto your tiptoes to close the distance between your mouths, and his lips are soft while the stubble around them is just a little scratchy, in the best possible way. You let him lick into your mouth, his hands remaining respectfully on your lower back, until you tug at his jacket, pushing it down and off of him, letting it fall to the floor as you tug him forward by his button-down shirt, back against you, back into you.
“Where do you want me?” you ask, and Steve has half a mind to tell you to slow down, take a breath, go easy—but then he startles a little as your hand moves to cup him through his jeans and he remembers the way his hook ups used to go, back when he was your age, when everyone was uninhibited and unrestrained and wanton and needy. And so he rolls his hips into your hand, presses his lips against yours and lets himself go.
“Bed too old fashioned for you, bar girl?” he asks, breaking the kiss to do so.
Giggling against his lips, you kiss him back before replying. “Not really.”
He takes a step forward, not moving you but so he can brace himself as he lifts you up with strong arms, letting you wrap your legs around his waist as he moves toward the hall where he hopes—god, imagine if he walked the wrong way through your apartment?—your bedroom is.
You reach out about halfway down the hall, gesturing to one of the doors, and Steve enters your room, crossing to the bed and laying you down gently on it. He’s about to push you back, cover your body with his, when you just sit up and start stripping, tugging off your sleeveless blouse and unbuttoning your jeans, undressing to your underwear before he can even suggest he wanted to be the one to take your clothes off. But—his eyes are roving over you, your impatience a little bit of a compliment, a boost to his ego, that you want him so badly you can’t wait any longer.
Steve unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it off and then reaches out to you, taking hold of your elbow as you stretch your arms back behind you to unclasp your bra.
“Let me,” he says, and you stop, leaning back on your hands instead, watching him as he undresses to his underwear too—and then just goes all the way, pushing down his briefs and baring himself to you. He’s not as slender as he was in high school on his athletic teams—he’s got little love handles now, thick thighs, a little pudge at the navel, and, god, ok—he’s long even soft. You stare, unable to help yourself, and as you do, you watch as his cock twitches once, then twice, under your scrutinization.
“Yeah?” he asks, and the way it comes back to him is like muscle memory, the showboating for a girl, the cocky attitude, the way he’d act all proud and smug because he knew exactly what he was offering—and he knew that he could back it up, too. One of his hands lowers to his cock, stroking it a little, watching you watch as he does, thumb curling over the head.
“Yeah,” you echo, absently, and then Steve’s closing the distance between the two of you, reaching for your hands, taking them and pulling you to stand, front flush with his, cock poking the front of your thigh as he kisses you again, hungry, desperate, sated, hands skimming over your back as he undoes your bra and slides it down over your arms. He drops it to the carpet and cups your tits in his hands, rubbing over your nipples with his thumbs, feeling them perk up beneath his touch as he kisses you. Your arms come to rest around his neck, tongues sliding together as you deepen the kiss and press yourself tight against him.
Steve lets his hands move down to your waist, feeling your body as he lowers them over your sides, tracing your hips, the waistband of your panties where it rests, and then he pushes those down too, sliding them over your hips and thighs, letting them drop to the floor too.
He breaks the kiss—pulls back—and you feel yourself clench up as he looks first at your face, then lets his gaze roam down, over your body, your tits and your bellybutton and your hips, settling on the sweet spot between your legs, before rising right back to your face.
“You’re really,” Steve says. “You’re so—beautiful.” It’s not a line, it’s not just flattery—he means it. You can tell.
“Not so bad yourself, Coach,” you say, and he chuckles quietly, stepping close to you again, taking your waist with one hand and your face in the other, licking at the seam of your lips before he moves you backward, easing the backs of your legs against the side of your mattress, and then without any further words, he guides you back down to sit on the bed, and lowers himself to his knees in between your legs.
You spread your thighs for him, as wide as you can, letting him fit his broad shoulders between them as he hooks his hands beneath your legs, tugging you closer to the edge of the mattress, letting you hang off, just a little, just enough that he can rest your thighs on his shoulders and nose in between them.
Pushing yourself up so you can watch, you card your fingers through his hair as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, just so you know to expect him.
And then, his mouth is on your folds and your head falls back, because—yeah. He’s good.
His tongue moves against you, impish almost, teasing, finding your clit with ease and just as quickly abandoning it, leaving you whining for more even though he’s just barely started and you can’t possibly be that worked up yet. Except you are, and you tell him so; not with words, but with your body, flexing your thighs on his shoulders to push cunt up into his face. And Steve doesn’t pull back, doesn’t shy away—he just doubles down, pressing his face more firmly into you, letting his tongue delve into your wet slit as he laps at you from the inside, sucking at your folds as he pulls away and licks your arousal from his face.
“More?” he asks, and you whimper, because this feels so fucking incredibly good, but you saw him—all of him—and part of you wants that more than you want to come twice. You want to feel him filling you, want to feel him fucking into you deep and stretching you around him.
“No,” you say, then, “yes, just—”
He pulls away, looking up at you, waiting for you to instruct him.
“Fuck me,” you finally decide, and he leans in for one more taste—he sucks your clit into his mouth, rubbing it with the tip of his tongue—before extricating himself from your legs and pushing himself up, hands on either side of your hips, leaning over you. His cock is half-hard, bobbing a little as he moves, and you look down your body at him.
Your breath catches and, without thinking, you reach down a shaky hand, sliding it between your legs, and spread your folds apart for him. “Fuck me,” you say again, and Steve does look down at you for a moment, the way you’re wet and waiting for him, the way your fingers are framing your slit, an open invitation.
“Not without a condom, bar girl,” he says, and you whine but use your free hand to gesture at your nightstand, rubbing your palm flat over your pussy as Steve leaves you to go look where you indicated.
He finds one—rolls it on—and is back between your legs before you can even start wanting friction back on your clit. You pull your legs up as you shimmy back a little on the bed, giving him room to situate one knee on the edge, propping your thigh up over his hip, as he holds his cock steady, palm landing onto the mattress beside you. You still your hand, using your index and ring fingers to pull your lips apart again, letting your middle finger tease your slit before he angles the head of his cock against it, and you sigh at the feeling of it, the weight of him against your cunt before he’s even moved inside.
And when he does—you inhale sharply. The stretch is good—you feel it so acutely—and then he’s pushing in further, past the head, his fingers against yours as he feeds it into you, slow and steady, feeling your walls flutter all around him as he takes you, one long, gradual movement.
You loose the breath you were holding as he enters you fully, and then he meets your eyes, waiting for the go-ahead before he starts to move. Before he starts to fuck you.
“Fuck me,” you implore him for the third time, and so he does, obeying you as he pulls back and then fucks back in—you moan, loudly, uncontrollably loudly as he starts to move in earnest, feeling you wrapped tight and hot around him, his cock pistoning in and out of you, your pussy sucking him back in, the sound of him entering you again and again making you shiver. Your hand is still down between your legs, so you move it up to rub at your clit, already swollen and throbbing, pressing hard up against your fingers as Steve moves into you below it.
“Feel good?” Steve asks, and you get the impression that it’s for you as much as for him, that he needs to know if you think so, that he needs the validation, and you wonder if that’s how he always was or if it’s a new development. If it’s because he cares, or because he got stood up, or some combination of all of those options.
“Feels so good,’ you mewl, and that makes him pick up the pace, his hips slapping into yours, hard and harsh and you need him to know you weren’t just saying that. It feels—he feels—fucking incredible.
“Steve,” you groan out, and that only seems to spur him on faster.
“That’s—right,” he stammers, lowering his mouth to your neck, kissing you there, licking over your pulse point and down to your collarbone. “Say—my name, come on—”
“Steve,” you moan, your free hand moving to his shoulder, his neck, rubbing over his chest and the thick patch of hair there. “Oh, god, Steve…”
Steve moves his mouth to yours, slowing his thrusts for a moment to pull his other leg up onto the bed, both knees on either side of your hips, your legs wrapping around him tight, thighs squeezing his waist, as he covers your body fully with his, practically folding you in half and you feel him even deeper when he starts fucking you again, his cock reaching every single inch of you; you’re so keenly aware of him inside of you, above you, around you, that you feel yourself already about to finish. You open your mouth against his, ready to speak right into the kiss, but he already knows, reading your body, picking up all of the tells you have.
“Close, baby?” he asks, and the pet name thrills you even more than you’re already feeling.
“Y-Yeah,” you manage.
“Good,” he half growls, his voice low. He’s so hard inside you—so fucking stiff, his pace brutal, satisfying, overwhelming. “Come for me, baby, that’s a good girl, go on.”
“Steve,” you cry, his name a choked-out sob; your fingers are moving over your clit, no semblance of a rhythm to be found, the back of your hand tickling his abdomen; you feel him clench up against it, feel him move into you and stop, feel his cock kicking inside you as he’s coming, filling the condom, and that—that is what pushes you over, too.
His name mixed with guttural whines and moans fall from your lips, the hand on his chest moving to the nape of his neck, pulling him down against you as you arch your chest up against him, breasts rubbing against his chest, feeling his chest hair on you, the soft press of his stomach on yours, and you come on Steve’s cock, hard, your walls tightening up around him, your cunt fucking spasming on his dick as your clit throbs against your fingertips, and Steve’s lips move over yours, not a kiss, not even really meaning for them to—and it takes you a moment to realize he’s speaking.
“—off you?”
“What?” you ask, tuning back in and meeting his eyes.
“I asked if you wanted me to get off you,” he says, just this side of amused.
“Oh,” you respond, though his question hasn’t really sunk in yet. After a moment, it does. “Yeah.”
Steve chuckles, giving the corner of your lips a kiss before he straightens up and pulls out of you, slowly, easing his cock free. You squirm a little as you feel his absence grow, and once you’re empty of him, you feel yourself gaping just a little before you close your legs. Even now, spent and tired, you want to feel him again. He rubs your thighs, helps you sit up.
“Need a hand?” he asks. “To the bathroom?”
You pause, then nod, and let him lead you across the hall with your hand in his. He leaves you in the middle of the room, stepping toward the door and closing it as he returns to the hall.
“Wait,” you say, and he pokes his head back in. “I usually shower after work.”
He smiles a little, nods. “Ok. Do you want me to wait…or head out?”
You shake your head.
Steve shakes his in return. “Then…”
“My legs are still all shaky,” you say. “You should probably…come make sure I don’t slip and fall.”
Steve opens his mouth to reply. Then, thinking better of it, he shuts it, steps into the bathroom, and closes the door behind both of you.
can i request a steve x gf! reader fic where the reader and him met through working and shes constantly saving up money because her family doesnt come from much and left during the earthquake but she doesn’t want to tell steve abiut her money problems so she skips meals and her own needs to offer to buy things for the kids and even a big gift for steve’s bday or anniversary? maybe steve one day sees her money box or handwritten expense sheet or even she skipped too many meals and doesnt feel well and they have a heart to heart ☺️ steve jjst wants to provide for his girl
my heart is full of doubt
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: request above!
word count: 3.3k
content warnings: financial insecurity, reader is self-sacrificing, not proofread, idk what else
author's note: hi!! thank you so much for this request my angel! and thank you for being so patient with me!
· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·
Family Video wasn’t exactly where you’d imagined spending your summer. You knew you’d be working for most of it, but you’d be hoping it would at least be somewhere more…stimulating.
You didn’t hate the place. It was great for the employee discount, and you almost always got first pick out of the new tapes when they came in but you would be lying if it bring some kind of heaviness in your chest when you spent every afternoon stocking the shelves whilst the rest of your friends had free time to do whatever they wanted.
It’s fine, you’ve made your peace with it for the most part. Some people are just dealt different hands in life and while yes, you could spend the rest of your summer outwardly pissed off at the world, how would that help you?
Instead, you channel your energy, into expense sheets and budgeting folders that live under your bed next to your little silver lunchbox you use to keep all the money you make.
It’s nothing grand, but it brings you safety. A crutch, something to fall back on. Most people wouldn’t understand your need to know where every cent is going, because who really cares what happens to the 50c you let fall onto the floor?
You did. You knew just how far to stretch every single dollar left in that little lunchbox like your life depended on it. That was what kept you going, that if you knew it all went to shit one day, you’d still have that.
Steve Harrington was a curveball. A boy raised with a silver spoon in his mouth who only carried 10 dollar bills in his wallet, not a single coin to be seen.
You knew boys like Steve Harrington from the countless service jobs you’d worked over the years. Boys who would have to call Daddy just to know how much gas cost, boys whose biggest concerns were winning their next match, or when their next haircut would be.
So, seeing ‘King Steve’ take up a job at Family Video? Call yourself intrigued, who knew graduation would end with such a fall from grace for the former high school star athlete.
You’d imagined him somewhere far from here, working some corporate job for his father in the big city. That had been the plan after all, everyone knew kids like Harrington basically had their whole lives planned out for them.
But there he was, same mousy brown hair and brown eyes yet this time in an awful vest embroidered in the Family Video logo and his surname, you’d laugh if you weren’t so shocked.
“Harrington?” you say shocked, your jaw slackening as you catch sight of him behind the counter.
His own expression morphs into perplexion as he watches you walk into the store, uniform freshly buttoned over your baby tee. His mouth forms your name in a hesitantly baffled manner.
“Oh shit,” you laugh, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear as you walk closer, “It really is you!”
His smile is strained as he replies, “It’s me.”
You want to ask him why he’s here, why he’s decided to start slumming it downtown when he’s got a nice cushy mansion practically all for himself. However, he looks like he’s begging you not to ask any of that, and you’re a lot of things but an asshole isn’t one.
So, you let it go, you smile and nod your head like you’re not bursting with a million questions and instead offer, “Where do you want me, boss?”
Steve lets a breath out, his shoulders slumping in relief.
Odd.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
It’s almost embarrassing how easily the two of you become friends. Who would’ve known that Steve Harrington was a total loser?
God, it’s almost like all that confidence in high school got washed away the second he graduated.
He’s dumb. In the funniest way. He knows jack shit about movies except for the dumb action movies that somehow every boy in Hawkins has ever seen and he’s horrendously bad at flirting.
Which is even worse for you considering that it works on you. The dumb smiles and the lines that fall flat—they endear you. So, despite your best efforts—you fall for Steve Harrington.
He’s unusually sweet, kinder than he was in high school and weirdly self-actualised which throws you off.
And as much ad you promised yourself you wouldn’t, you can’t help but compare your Steve to ‘King Steve’. Even though you know he’s not that anymore—that he’s left all that behind him when he left high school.
Dating Steve is nothing like you’d thought it would be, he takes you out to dinner and pays for your meal without even asking, he brings you flowers—different bouquets at first until you mention you like one more than the others, and those become ‘your flowers’, and he never pushes.
You know more about his sex life than you would like but surprisingly enough—Steve is a romantic. He is slow and tender and kind-hearted that you can’t even imagine that the same boy you once knew in high school is the same man you love.
The first time he picks you up, you clean obsessively. Your place has never been dirty but you’re hoping the obsessive cleanliness will distract him from the glaring wealth gap between the two of you.
You’re not embarrassed perse, it’s just that—you really like him. He’s become one of the best things in your life and it would really suck if the one thing you couldn’t control became the thing that drove him away.
Three subsequent knocks echo through your home and with a heavy chest and a smile about as fragile as your mental state, you open the door.
Steve is smiling, that charming boyish smile that you’ve grown immeasurably fond of.
“Hi.” He beams, he thrusts his hand out to you, practically shoving the bouquet under your nose as you flinch back slightly.
“Oh!” you say surprised, “These are for me?” you ask shyly, your hands lifting to grasp the stems of the colourful bouquet with a frail hold.
Steve rubs the back of his neck with a nod, “Yeah, I uh—I thought you’d like them. I dunno, is it too much? I can take them back—” he offers hastily.
You frown, pulling them towards you with a swift shake of your head, “No! no—no they’re nice. They’re lovely Steve.” You assure him, watching delightedly as a red hue blooms from his neck over to his face.
You glace down at the flowers with a fond gaze, biting your lip.
“I’ve never gotten flowers before.” You admit in a hushed whisper, slowly tracing the petals of the fragrant rainbow in front of you.
You glance up at Steve with a soft look, “I’m going to put these in some water, would you like to come in?” you offer.
He nods fast enough that you worry he might just pull a muscle, “Yeah—yeah let’s do that.”
He follows you into your home as you try not to turn around and stare at him. You want to know what he’s thinking—if he finds your place too small, too cold or unlived in, if he likes that you have pillows scattered over your couch despite them being mismatched—if the colour scheme reminds him of something.
You don’t realise it then, but he’s staring at you as you make your way to the kitchen, flowers in your delicate hold as you take precision to care for the flowers.
His gaze is soft and adoring, eyes alight with wonder and ill-hidden emotion. Steve had always worn his heart on his chest and was never really that good at hiding his feelings—he just hopes he makes it through this date without blurting it out that he loves you
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
Dating Steve is nothing short of the best time of your life, you do nauseatingly cute couple things like going to the movies just to make out, drive down to lover’s lake to have picnics and spend hours on the phone with one another.
You open yourself up to him, telling him things you thought you’d never have the confidence to utter aloud.
“My family isn’t around anymore,” you mention casually one night. You’re lying on Steve’s bed with his arms around you as you trace formless shapes onto his chest.
You feel Steve freeze beneath you, and you worry that you’ve overstepped, that maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all.
His arms tighten around you slowly, unsure at first before he pulls you closer to him, smacking a loving kiss onto the top of your head.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, acknowledging that he’d heard you but not pushy enough for you to grow uncomfortable.
You nibble on your lip with a contemplative expression, “Yeah,” you admit. “They uh—they left after the earthquake.”
“And you stayed behind?”
“And I stayed behind.” You agree.
There’s a bout of silence between the two of you before Steve’s voice whispers softly, “Why?”
“Why’d I stay?” you rhetorically ask, feeling his hum as he does it.
You shrug, “Dunno, I guess I just couldn’t imagine myself leaving y’know? I was old enough to move out and Hawkins is home.” You mumble.
You don’t see the smile that graces Steve’s lips, but you feel him tug you closer and snuggle into you, a silent agreement between the both of you that he shares your sentiment.
“’S that why you started working at Family Video?” he asks and you tense in his arms, trying to avoid where the conversation is heading.
“Yeah,” you mumble reluctantly. “Gotta make a living somehow.”
Steve frowns, “Does Keith even pay you enough? I don’t really know how much you need but if it’s not enough I could aways—”
“Stop,” you cut him off. “He pays me fine Steve, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
Steve sniffs, tugging your face to look up at him. “Always gonna worry about you honey,” he says softly, a soft smile spreading across his face.
You squint at him, “Well don’t. I’m fine.” You promise.
He glances over your face, offering no other rebuttal so you drop your head back to his chest without another word.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
And soon enough, Steve’s kids become your kids. It’s like overnight that you end up adopting 6 kids that are somehow simultaneously the most amusing and annoying things in your life.
They’re fuels for chaos, but they bring so much love into yours and Steve’s life that you can’t help but adore them. Steve and you become honorary parents to the most accident and danger prone group of children.
It’s only right as a group-appointed mother that you spoil your kids, well as much as you can afford to anyways. You find yourself rearranging your own budget to fit in the rest of the party.
Candy for the kids DND nights, birthday gifts for everyone, anniversary gifts for Steve and small things that you think any of them will enjoy. It leaves you wrought out sometimes but it’s worth it most of the time to see the grateful smiles and endless affection that you receive in return.
You like making them happy, and if that means skipping a couple of meals here and there or having to sacrifice some of the luxuries you treat yourself to? You’re more than willing to sacrifice.
You want them to like you.
So, when Steve offers to pick the kids up from the arcade after your date, you don’t hesitate to offer to pay for them to get milkshakes on the way home.
Steve levels you with a look that more amusement than begrudging.
“I wanted one anyway,” you say softly as he scrutinizes you doubtfully but relents to their whining and heads towards the drive thru.
“Alright,” you call out, turning backwards in the passengers’ seat to confirm their orders.
“It’s 3 chocolate, two vanilla’s and one strawberry right?”
“Yes,” they chorus back to you and with a snort you turn to look at Steve who raises a brow at you.
“You want anything?” you offer and he scrunches his face, shaking his head.
“Still full from lunch.” He says and you nod.
“That’ll be $15.” The crackly speaker answers you when you’ve read out the kids’ order, having you pause as you contemplate whether to add your own.
“Will that be all?”
You only have $20 in your wallet; you can’t afford to have a milkshake and get groceries this month.
“Yes,” you say softly, ignoring that Steve whips his head to your own with a confused look.
While you’re making your way through the drive thru line the kids are involved in their own discussions, Steve interrupts your train of thought with a hushed whisper, “Baby, I thought you wanted a milkshake too?”
You force a smile, shaking your head, “I wouldn’t be able to finish it anyways.”
He frowns, “You sure? I can always drive back around and get you one, the lines not that long.” He offers
You disagree with him immediately, “It’s alright—we’ve gotta get Will home soon or Joyce will kill us.” You remind him.
He doesn’t look happy about your stance, but he can’t actually refute it, so he nods even though there’s a tightness in his chest that won’t go away and drives to drop the kids off as they slurp their milkshakes in the back.
˖⋆࿐໋₊ ☆
It all comes back to bite you when Steve arrives early to your place for your date, forcing you to let him wander around while you shower and get ready. You promise you’ll only be 10 minutes, but Steve knows better than to hold you to that.
He doesn’t mind waiting, he makes himself comfortable on your bed, throwing a random ball around as he whistles to himself.
With an ill-timed throw it misses his outstretched hand and falls to the ground, rolling under your bed. He leans over your bed, pushing himself down to peak under to try and grab it before his attention shifts to a different item.
A silver lunchbox, completely unassuming laid against the wall just begging for Steve to open it.
He hems and haws for a couple of seconds, still hearing the sound of water rushing through the thin walls of your room before he reaches a handout and tugs the lunchbox with him to sit back onto your bed.
He questions his own ethics for a few seconds, arguing that this might be a complete betrayal of your trust even though you yourself knew fairly well that he would be snooping around your room.
Nevertheless, the box is opened and Steve’s face morphs into confusion.
“What?” he mutters to himself, taking in the sight of carefully folded pieces of paper and stacks of bills hidden inside. Granted its probably only around a hundred dollars, but it’s odd enough to have Steve wondering.
Is this some kind of emergency fund? Something you just haven’t told him about?
With barely constrained inquisitiveness, he opens the folded papers one by one. His heart clenches in his chest when he reads your handwriting.
May—expense sheet
Total income: $175
Groceries: $50 $30
Rent: $75
Fun stuff: $15 milkshakes w the kids $15
Steve’s present: $50
Leftover: $5 (savings)
5 dollars leftover for your savings? What the hell?? How didn’t Steve notice this?
His heart grows heavy the more he goes over your previous expense sheets, every single sheet has money adjusted—times when Steve rarely let you pay for dinner when he left his wallet at home had made you late on rent, when you had bought Steve the cologne he’s been speaking about for ages for his birthday, you’d had to stretch 20 dollars over two weeks for your groceries.
He was the worst boyfriend, what kind of boyfriend didn’t know that his girlfriend was struggling to make ends meet? What kind of boyfriend doesn’t notice that she’s been skipping meals, that she’s been taking care of everyone else but not herself—
“Hey, so I was thinking after the movie we could go back to yours? I was thinking—” you babble as you walk out of the bathroom, steam billowing behind you as you towel dry your hair without looking at him.
He stares at you with something akin to horror and despair in his expression and when you don’t hear him respond, you turn to look at him.
“Steve?” you say confused, frowning at his expression before you catch sight of the familiar items on your bed, spread out before him like photos of a crime scene.
No, a horrified thought invades your mind. Nononono
He was never supposed to find those.
“Steve I can explain—” you say panicked.
He frowns, shaking his head, “What?”
“Baby, why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, devastation coating his tongue in an acidic pain.
Your heart feels as heavy as lead in your chest, “I didn’t want you to worry, I was handling it—”
“Handling it?! You were skipping meals!” He disproves.
You shrink into yourself from his tone, feeling like a child being scolded by their parent. He softens at the sight of you, getting off the bed and tentatively walking over with his arms outstretched presumably to show he’s not a threat.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as he grows near. “I didn’t mean to lash out.”
You shrug, wringing your hands out in front of you in nervousness before he tugs them into his own. He pulls you into his chest, his arms bracketing your form as he rests his head on your own.
“I just wish you would’ve trusted me,” he says softly, his voice tinged with sadness.
You shake your head, “I do trust you!” you insist, pulling away to look up at him.
His smile is crooked and a little fragile, “But you don’t trust me enough with this.”
“That’s okay! Hey—it’s okay, I’m not mad. I’m not mad I promise.” He insists when it looks like you’re about to argue with him.
“I’m sorry,” you say uncertainly, blinking back the tears that prick the corners of your eyes.
“No need,” he dismisses you immediately.
“I just didn’t want to burden you with the bills and the budgeting—I’ve had it under control since my family left, and I thought if I did it well enough then you wouldn’t realise because I can handle it you know? I—I can be self-sufficient and I wouldn’t have to rely on anyone, and I could still be a good friend and girlfriend and buy you these things you want because you deserve them—”
Steve cups your face in his hands, cutting off your train of thought as he forces your gaze to meet his.
“It’s okay” he reassures you, stopping you in your tracks. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
You bite your lip unsurely, “Are you—do you think less of me?”
Steve’s face grows dark, “Never,” he vows. “I would never think less of you.”
Some of the weight eases off your chest and you let a fragile smile break through your nervous expression.
“However,” he adds despite your protests. “You are going to let me help.” He asserts.
You frown, already shaking your head, “I’m not a charity case, I don’t need—”
“Ah ah,” he tuts with an amused smile. “I never said that I know you don’t need my help, but it would make me very happy if you’d let me help every once in a while. Most of my trust fund is sitting untouched and trust me—I’d be a whole lot happier spending it on spoiling and taking care of you than on anything else.” He practically pleads.
You try to smother the wobble in your lips as you lean up to press a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips.
“You can’t go crazy,” you threaten him with a shaky voice.
He agrees immediately, because of course he does.
“You have to let me help, okay?” he fires back.
With a small amount of hesitation, you nod slowly.
summary: watching other girls think they have a chance with steve hits a nerve inside of you that you thought you buried. looks like you’ll just have to remind him who he belongs to.
warnings: smut, p in v sex, public sex, getting caught during sex, finger sucking, fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex, tiniest bit of sub!steve - actually maybe just switch!steve, jealousy, cursing, probably more!
word count: 4k
from jen: longer than i hoped but i really love this one and i hope you guys do too. as always, with love <3
The bar was lit up by multi colored flashes. It almost felt like the walls were banging from the loud bass coming from the live band. The floor was full of people dancing, drinking and laughing. There was a smell in the air – cheap vodka, twelve different kinds of perfume and shitty bar food. It was overstimulation thrown into one building.
But it was so much fucking fun.
You, Robin and Nancy were dancing – well, attempting to – in the middle of the dance floor. Eddie and his buddies were to thank for the volume of the music as they played their cover of Enter Sandman.
The three of you were three drinks and two shots into the night and it was obvious Robin was already drunk, Nancy was teetering the line, and you were in a state of blissful tipsy.
It was a three day weekend and for the first time in months, the whole groups schedule managed to align perfectly. While you and the girls danced, Steve and Jonathan were ordering more drinks at the bar.
Steve Steve Steve Steve Steve
As soon as your brain reminded itself of your boyfriend, your eyes began to scan the crowd. You were a clingy girl on a regular day, but adding alcohol into the mix? You were about five seconds from sewing your skin to his.
Nancy and Robin continued to dance together as you stood on the tips of your toes to look for him. He was basically a damn tree, it shouldn’t be hard to find him!
Finally, your eyes graze over the far right side of the bar and you see his beautiful floppy hair. His back is to you on the dance floor, and he stands shoulder to shoulder with Jonathan as they wait for the drinks.
A dopey smile breaks onto your face at the sight of him, your feet are tingling to run to him. Quickly, you turn to the girls and grab their arms.
“C’mon! Steve’s at the bar!“ You urge them and make it a point to ignore the way they playfully roll their eyes. You don’t wait before you’re making your way to him, practically skipping the whole way.
You kept your eyes on him as you approached him. He still hasn’t turned around but with the view of his back, you were not complaining. Steve and Eddie had grown even closer this last year and he wanted to support Eddie so much that he’d bought a brand new outfit for tonight.
He still didn’t quite capture Eddie’s metal style but he tried. He went with an all black outfit: a nicer pair of new black jeans, a plain black shirt – a fitted one. One that clung to his skin so nicely you could see every ridge of muscle he had in his abdomen – and a new leather jacket thrown over it.
Truth be told, you were about five seconds away from devouring him. But tonight was about being with friends and you wanted to spend time with them, even if your boyfriend looked like that.
You were only a few feet away from reaching him when a girl slid into the chair next where he stood. The movement was so slick, effortless – like she fit right next to him. She rested both her elbows atop of the bar, swirling the barstool so her legs were only a few inches from his waist.
She had a look in her eye and you recognized it immediately, because it was the exact one you had. Hunger, desire, want. All aimed at your boyfriend.
Easily, she raised her hand and slid it up his bicep. Steve looked at her then, expecting it to be you but when he saw it wasn’t, his eyes flickered down to her palm on his arm.
Immediately, he dropped his arm from where it leaned on the bar and turned away. He was still looking at her but he pushed himself backwards, almost until his back was fully leaning into Jonathan’s chest. It might have been funny if it wasn’t for the girl touching him.
Still, it didn’t seem to deter her. She smiled up at him, the gloss on her lips glistening under the flashing red lights. You couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying from where you stood and a few seconds later, Robin and Nancy barreled into your back.
Their confusion quickly dissipated when they realized why you had stopped. The girl had leaned even closer into Steve’s spaced, her chin resting in one of her palms. She was still smiling up at him – not a friendly smile, a sultry one. She was a beautiful girl, there was no denying it and you wondered if Steve also noticed.
Jealousy bubbled in your chest. You weren’t worried about him or his loyalty, but there was no reasoning with a drunk version of yourself seeing another girl flirt with him.
Without much thinking, you resumed your walk towards him – Nancy and Robin hot on your tail. Now, you were able to hear the conversation.
“Uh yeah, I’m not sure,” Steve’s voice rang in your ears first. “My girlfriend picked the spot,”
Good. He mentioned me. She’ll get the hint, you think.
“Girlfriend?” The girl echoed, her fingers tapping against the counter top. “Is she here?”
“Yep,” Steve replied. You could tell he was uncomfortable and he was being as dry as he could be without coming off as an asshole. From behind him, you noticed the way Jonathan also seemed to look uncomfortable.
“Hmm,” She hummed. Her eyes raked down his body before looking back up at him. The same hand he shrugged off only a few minutes earlier came back up and landed on him again, her fingers curling around his elbow. Finally, you were right next to Steve, but neither of them noticed yet. “I don’t see her anywhere,”
Before Steve could respond, your own hand raised and you easily grabbed hers and pushed it off him again. You barely glanced at her as you wrapped your own arms around his neck, pushing your chest into his own.
When Steve looked down at you in his arms, you felt his entire body relax. He didn’t spare another glance at the girl before his arms wrapped around your waist and tugged you closer to him.
“Hi baby,” You smiled, leaning on the tips of your toes to kiss him. He smiled into it and you could feel the girls eyes burning into the back of your head. Steve murmured a greeting back against your mouth, but before he could deepen in, you maneuvered your body to lean your back to his chest.
The girl looked at you now, almost glaring at you, but you smirked back at her.
“Thanks for keeping my seat warm. You can go now,” Your voice was syrupy sweet but it was more than clear how little kindness it carried.
Her eyes narrowed just a bit. “I was actually pretty comfortable,”
You sent her a fake sympathetic pout. “I’m sure you were – not anymore though,”
Even if there was a part of you that could have felt even remotely threatened by her, the warmth of Steve’s body behind you and one of his hands holding onto your hips and the other arm wrapped around the front of your shoulders, silenced those feelings immediately.
Her eyes glanced down and she seemed to also notice the way he was holding onto you. She scoffed before reaching over the bar, quickly plucking a pen and a napkin before scribbling over it. When she finished, she hopped off the stool and stood directly in front of you, the napkin in hand.
She looked back at Steve behind you and slid the napkin towards him. You could feel it now – the way you were glaring at her and from beside you, you saw the way Nancy and Robin also were. “Here’s my number,” She glanced back down at you. “For when you get bored tonight,”
The words landed exactly where she intended them to and if it weren’t for Steve’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, you would’ve pounced on her. He felt the way your body tensed and held you closer to his chest.
Before you could react, Steve raised the napkin. Still looking at her, he crumpled the flimsy paper into a ball and threw it over the other side of the bar. You watched the way her expression pinched, and a look you clearly recognized as embarrassment covered her features. “I’m good.” He said simply, both hands sliding down your sides to land on your hips. Easily, he spun your body around so you were facing him again.
Oh, he was so fucking hot.
Neither of you paid any attention to where the girl wandered off to. Steve was smiling down at you and that was enough for you to feel like you were going insane.
The smile on his face, his rejection of that girl, his hair, his fucking outfit. Nope, you were done restraining yourself.
You grabbed Steve’s hand and glanced over at Nancy, Robin and Jonathan. The three of them were looking at you expectantly but you didn’t give them a chance for questions.
“Be right back,” You rushed, tugging Steve along with you. You heard a small surprised sound come from him as you pulled him along.
“Wait! Where are you guys going?” Nancy asked, and Robin snicked beside her. You didn’t respond as you pulled Steve further into the crowd and towards the other side of the bar. But you were able to catch Robin’s last comment.
“Twenty bucks says they’re gonna bone in the bathroom,”
Hopefully no one takes that bet – because she’s right.
Still holding onto Steve’s hand, you approach the women’s bathroom and swing the door open. When you let go of his hand, he stands directly in front of the doorway, still not entering, and you quickly wander through the stalls to make sure it’s empty.
Once you’re sure it is, you turn back to Steve and you twist the front of his shirt in your hand and drag him into the bathroom.
“Woah baby, wh-what are you doing?” He laughs nervously, quickly catching his balance against the porcelain sink. You lock the door behind him and within seconds, your hands are tugging at his leather jacket and shoving it off his shoulders.
Breathlessly, Steve murmurs your name. First and last.
“Hey, this is the women’s bathroom, all of our friends are outside and anybody could walk in right now,”
He’s so damn cute when he tries to be so serious.
Without his help, you’ve managed to strip his jacket off his shoulders and your fingers are working at unbuckling his belt. As you pull the metal away from the buckle, you look back up at him.
“The doors locked. You’re right, our friends are outside and if anybody walks in,” You pause for a moment and pull his belt from the loops of his jeans, dropping it to the ground. “Then they can watch.”
Something in Steve’s eyes switch and within seconds, his mouth is on yours. It’s messy and desperate, and you’re moaning into his mouth immediately. His hands raise, both palms holding your cheeks as he deepens the kiss.
The sound of your lips sloppily meeting his fills the room and the sound of the band playing begins to fade away as he kisses you. Between your bodies, your hands slip beneath his black shirt and trace the skin of his stomach. You can feel the way his muscles twitch under your touch and he begins to walk forward, until your back his pressed against the wall of the stall.
Steve pulls his mouth away from yours and his lips begin a trail from your lips to your jaw and down your throat. He lands on that patch of skin where your neck and shoulder meet and bites.
You whine into the air, palms sliding up his sides and curling around his biceps. His teeth graze against your skin again, but this time his tongue swipes over it right away to soothe it and then he’s sucking that piece of skin into his mouth.
You can feel the mark already beginning to form and your stomach flips. You bring your hand back up to his face and you pull him away from your neck to kiss him again.
One hand continues to cradle his jaw and the other tangles itself in his hair. All the while, Steve brings his hands between your bodies and shoves your skirt up, all the way until it’s bunched around your waist.
Without breaking the kiss, his large hand splays across your thigh, gripping the skin and hikes your leg up until it’s resting over his hip. His other hand curls around your throat, not to squeeze but to keep you grounded to him.
Steve pushes you further back into the wall and grinds his hips forward. You moan is muffled against his mouth when you can feel the clothes outline of his cock grinding into your core. The denim of his jeans slides perfectly against the cotton of your panties, feeding you a delicious feeling of friction.
Your eyes squeeze shut at the way his hips rut into yours and you’re both whining against each others mouths. His hand slips from its place on your thigh and trails up, up, up until the tips of his fingers graze against the wet spot of your panties.
At this point, you’re not even kissing anymore. The rock of his hips and the touch of his fingers knocks all common sense out of you and you’re left breathing against his mouth. His fingers continue to tease you. He runs them up and down your clothed pussy, still not giving you any skin to skin contact.
“Steve-Steve please,” You’re mindlessly begging for more and you can feel the way he smirks against your lips.
“What is it, baby? Tell me what you need,” He murmurs, carefully tracing the hem of your panties. When his thumb pressed against your clit, you break.
“I just – I just want you Steve, please,” You cry out, hands tugging at the ends of his hair.
To your surprise, he doesn’t tease anymore. Two fingers curl around the side of your panties, sliding them over and finally, they sink into the warm heat of your pussy.
Steve’s reflexes are quick – his hand flies to cradle the back of your head when you throw it back with a moan, making sure you don’t slam it against the wall.
Your head thuds against his palm and you’re whining into the air as his fingers thrust in and out of you. While you keep your eyes squeezed shut, Steve keeps his eyes on the way his fingers disappear in and out of you.
The air is filled with the sounds of his uneven breathing, your moaning and the sounds of your slick drenching his fingers. Your wetness leaks down his fingers, all the way down to his wrist.
“Fuck baby, you’re soaking me,” He groans, resting his forehead against yours. You whine incoherently and he feels the way you clench around his fingers at his praise.
It’s almost embarrassing how quick he can get you off but your mind finally came back to you. Steve was always the dominant one and he could so easily turn you into putty in his hands, but you came in here with one purpose – and that was reminding him who he belonged to.
With every bit of strength you had left, you opened your eyes back up and look up at him. He was still so lost in the way you were sucking his fingers in that he didn’t notice the mischievous look in you eyes.
Almost reluctantly, you wrapped one of your hands around his wrist and halted his movements. His gaze flicked up to yours, confusion and concern swirling in his expression.
“Why’d you stop me?”
Wordlessly, you drop your thigh from where it rested over his hip and the clack of your heel slamming back onto the floor echoed in the room. Keeping your eyes locked onto his, your fingers worked fast to pop the button of his jeans and the sound of you pulling his zipper down bounces off the walls.
“What was that girls name?” You asked softly, hand slipping into his jeans. Your palm gently grazed his length, but still not touching - teasing him the same way he did you.
“What?” Steve asked breathlessly. He kept his eyes trained on you and the movement of your hands.
“From the bar. What’s her name?”
“I don’t know baby,” He shook his head, groaning when you tightened your grip on him.
“No? Do you think she’s pretty?” Without waiting for a response, your hand slid beneath his boxers and finally, the skin of your palm met his.
He let out a shuddered breath but quickly shook his head again.
“No! No, f’course not. Barely – barely even looked at her,” He promised, mouth dropping open as your squeezed his length in your hand.
You hummed, leaning up to leave open mouthed kisses across his neck. He smelled so fucking good – a mix of sandalwood, your own perfume and something inherently him. It was intoxicating.
“I believe you baby,” You promised and you felt him physically relax. You smiled against his throat. It was nice to be reminded that even though he could turn you into a mindless mess, you did the same to him. Still, you tsked softly and pulled your face from his shoulder. “But she looked so damn comfortable around you. Touching you,”
You pulled your hand from his jeans and rested them against your own thighs, pulling away all contact from him. He whined softly, pushing his hips into yours but you push your palm back into his chest.
“I don’t care,” He said. “Didn’t matter to me. Only you do, baby. Please let me touch you,”
Maybe if you weren’t in public, you would have prolonged the agony but you knew there was a ticking clock before someone came knocking.
And you just really wanted him to fuck you.
Your hands found his jeans again, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. He groaned as the air hit his skin and his forehead settled against yours.
“Prove it to me baby,” You demanded, voice still soft.
Steve didn’t need to be told twice before his own hands were reaching back under your skirt, yanking your panties all the way down until they were wrapped around one ankle. Within seconds, his palms slid to the back of your thighs and lifted you effortlessly.
His cock slid between your soaked pussy and you both moaned at the first feeling of real contact of the night. Steve seemed to share the same sense of working on borrowed time and without words, he wrapped one arm around your waist to hold you up while the other gripped his cock in his hand and lined himself up.
You felt that delicious burn you craved all night the moment he began to push in. No matter how many times he fucked you, it almost always felt like the first time. His hand gripped your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks as he pressed his lips to yours.
Steve groaned against your mouth as he bottomed out, and you whined against his when he started his brutal pace. He felt the way you squeezed around his cock and his free hand squeezed your hip hard enough to bruise.
“Were you jealous?” Steve asks suddenly. His mouth was turned up into a smirk now, his hips still thrusting harshly.
“Yeah, I was fucking jealous,” You didn’t hesitate in your response and your forwardness seemed to take him by surprise. Steve reared his head backwards just a bit, careful enough to not lose his pace and let you continue. “Because that girl thought she could have what’s mine,”
Somehow, you find the strength to drop your hips down, meeting each of Steve’s brutal thrusts. He whines aloud at the way you match his speed, his cock twitching inside you.
“Can they?”
The words fall on deaf ears as Steve keeps his gaze locked on the way your pussy stretches to suck him in. His brows are pinched, cheeks flushed and strands of his hair hang over his forehead messily. As sexy as he looks, you’re dissatisfied with his lack of response. Almost meanly, your hand grips onto his jaw, nails digging into his cheeks to regain his attention.
“Can they?” You repeat when his gaze meets yours again.
“N-No!” He says quickly.
You grin and lean down, you hover your mouth over his – not quite a kiss yet. “Good. You’re mine, Steve. Nobody else gets to have you like this.”
It’s not a question, it’s a statement and you both know it.
He nods feverishly and you can feel the way his thrusts begin to get sloppy. He’s close, and you’re right behind him. His fingers dig into the bare skin of your thighs as he pushes his cock deeper into you.
“Nobody else. Just you baby, just - just you,” He blubbers and you’re quickly whining into his mouth again. He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, one hand sliding between you two to rub circles into your clit.
Your orgasm is fast approaching – you’re almost across the finish line when you suddenly hear the sound of a key sliding into the lock and the door swings open.
But instead of feeling embarrassed or worried, you feel so fucking smug.
Because standing in the doorway is the girl from the bar, a customer key to the restroom in her hand, and her eyes locked on the way Steve fucks you into the wall.
Heat rushes to her face and a blush to intense, her entire face is red. She looks something like embarrassed, mortified and humbled all in one.
Thankfully, Steve hasn’t noticed – or doesn’t care – her interruption and continues fucking you until you’re both teetering the edge of release.
Your arms wrap tightly around Steve’s back and you pull him close to your chest. As you look into her eyes, you give her one final smirk – one that reads: Good. Look at what you’ll never have.
Just as quickly as she entered, she stumbles backwards and slams the door shut.
You let yourself get lost in the feeling of Steve again.
“Fuck I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna – fuck,” Steve curses, teeth sinking into the skin of your throat and spills inside you. He keeps his pace as even as possible with the movement of his thumb over your clit and only seconds later, he pulls you over the edge with him.
“SteveSteveSteveSteve,” You whine. His thumb continues moving over your swollen bud, helping you ride out your orgasm entirely.
Once you reach the point of overstimulation, you gently push his hand away from between your thighs. Steve watches the way your head lolls to the side and despite the fact that you had damn near all the power barely five minutes ago, you’ve effectively turned into jell-o.
With a smirk on his face, he raises his two wet fingers and brings them to your mouth. Instinctively, you part your lips when he taps them and he easily slides them into your mouth. You moan around his fingers, the taste of yourself filling your senses.
He groans quietly, gently thrusting them in and out of your mouth. “That prove it to you, baby?”
With your mouth full from his fingers, you give him a nod.
summary: when you accidentally get locked out of your apartment in the middle of the night, knocking on your annoying neighbors door becomes your very last option.
warnings: smut +18 mdni, cursing, dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, oral female and male, cum, creampie, fingering, edging, jealousy, asshole keys as usual.
wc: 5,1k
author's note: this one goes for juana as usual, and blaizey, rip that couch. also my apologies i got a bit carried away with this one oops.
“no… no, no, no…” you muttered to yourself as you frantically searched through your purse for the keys to your apartment.
“i know they’ve gotta be here,” you sighed in frustration, pausing the search to run a hand through your hair and retrace your steps.
you remembered doing your makeup in a hurry while your friend kept rushing you, yelling about the car waiting downstairs. then throwing everything in your purse in a hurry, walking out, and slamming the door behind the both of you.
and now, you had a perfectly clear mental image of the exact location of your keys: the kitchen counter.
you forgot your fucking keys inside.
it was currently 2 a.m. okay, it’s fine, it wasn't that bad, you tried to reason. maybe the building manager was still around and could let you in with a spare key. no big deal.
except it was the weekend, and he always left early on fridays.
“fuck me…” you slid down the wall and sat on the floor because your heels were absolutely killing you. fine, plan B: you'll just text your friend to come back; that was the whole reason you had given her a spare key in the first place, for emergencies just like this.
you tried calling her a few times, but she didn't answer. the texts you sent didn't even go through. she was probably spending the night with someone, her phone discarded elsewhere.
you were running out of options. technically, you could call a locksmith; but, at this ungodly hour, it was going to be expensive as fuck, and your bank account couldn't handle that hit right now.
contemplating what you could possibly do, you let your head rest against the closed door and looked up at the celling. there wasn't any other option but to wait until morning for someone to come help you out, but you were tired, already in a poor mood, and on top of that it was starting to get chilly, the only coat you had on a flimsy jacket that was far more fashionable than actually warm.
you were scrolling through the contacts on your phone, desperately rethinking if there was anyone you could bother at this hour, when a sliver of light caught your attention from the corner of your eye.
there was a dim glow bleeding through the gap beneath keys’ front door. you rolled your eyes and scoffed, of course he would be awake in the middle of the night, probably staring at a monitor playing something stupid.
you stared at that line of light on the floor, the silence of the hallway suddenly feeling far too heavy. your skin goosebumped from the chill air, and your eyes drifted from the floor back up to his doorknob. maybe you could…
no, absolutely not, you cut your own thought off, shaking your head aggressively. there was no way in hell. asking him for a favor was the ultimate defeat.
but then another gush of cold air swept through the corridor, making you shiver. you looked at your own locked door, then back to his. the alternative was spending the next five hours on a dirty hallway floor.
biting the inside of your cheek in deep thought, you forced yourself to stand up, and quietly took a few steps, closing the distance between his door and you.
you stood there completely frozen for a full minute. this was insanely stupid. you were going to regret this.
after taking a deep breath to gather whatever courage you had left, you tightened your jacket around your chest and softly knocked on his door. just once.
you held your breath. your heart hammered intensely against your ribs. maybe he wasn't even up. maybe he’d just forgotten to turn off a lamp, or maybe he was wearing those stupid headphones of his and wouldn't hear a thing. honestly, part of you hoped he would just ignore it.
your train of thought stopped dead on its tracks when the door handle clicked, and the door cracked open to reveal a very much shirtless keys.
your voice caught in your throat. your gaze immediately dropped to his chest, taking in the faint, dark hair on his skin, and the way it trailed down into a tight, tempting line that disappeared straight into the low waistband of his grey sweatpants.
keys cleared his throat, the subtle sound snapping your eyes back up to his face.
“can i help you?” he asked somewhat confused, fixing his glasses.
“i- yeah, this is actually pretty dumb…” you chuckled nervously, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.
he raised an eyebrow in response, leaning his weight against the doorframe, waiting.
"i got locked out of my apartment,” you blurted out
“and that’s any of my business because…?” he asked, a mocking smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“ugh, whatever, nevermind,” you spat, instantly regretting everything. you turned on your heel, ready to go back to your spot on the cold ground of the hallway.
but you didn't even get to take a step before keys rolled his eyes, his hand darting out to catch your wrist.
“just get in here,” he grumbled, pulling you gently into the warmth of his apartment, locking the door behind you.
you stood there awkwardly in the entryway. you hadn't actually thought this far ahead; you had no plan for what to do if he actually let you in. to avoid looking at him, and specifically to avoid looking at the broad expanse of his distracting bare chest, you forced your eyes to scan the room.
it was so blatantly obvious what a nerd he was just from the decor. there were some movie posters on the far wall near a neat couch, and nearly every shelf was packed with collectibles and trinkets of all sizes and shapes, most of them from franchises you didn't even recognize. everything was meticulously organized.
the sound of keys’ voice abruptly pulled you back to reality.
“how exactly did you manage to lock yourself out?”
he was leaning against the wall now, arms crossed over his chest, the movement made his biceps flex.
“i forgot the keys inside,” you muttered.
“how do you even forget them? were you just not paying attention?”
you rolled your eyes, “i left in a hurry, okay?”
“i have left my apartment in a hurry hundreds of times,” he countered smoothly, “yet not once have i forgotten my keys.”
“oh, i’m sorry. do you want an award for that, or…?”
“did you try calling the building manager?” he asked, ignoring your sarcasm completely.
“yes,” you said curtly, your patience wearing thin, “but you know he leaves early on weekends.”
he let out a judgmental tsk. “it’s incredibly irresponsible to only have one copy of your keys.”
“i do not have just one copy!” you snapped, stepping closer without thinking, “the friend who has the spare isn't answering her texts either.”
“well, have you tried-”
“oh my god!” you cut him off, throwing your hands up. “yes! every single option your little analytical brain is running through right now, i have already tried. do you honestly think i would be standing in your living room at two in the morning if i had any other choice?”
keys immediately lifted his hands in a mocking gesture of surrender, “jesus. no need to get defensive.”
“look, i knocked because i didn’t have any other option,” you said, your voice shaking slightly from frustration. “but i don't have to deal with your attitude right now, if you don’t want me here, i’m more than happy to go back into the hallway where i don’t have to listen to your stupid comments anymore.”
you made a move toward the door, but keys didn't budge.
“no need for the theatrics,” he said quietly, “you can stay the night. at least until someone can come give you a hand in the morning.”
a heavy silence settled between you.
“thank you,” you muttered, the words were barely audible. you looked away instantly, your cheeks burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the apartment's thermostat.
keys bit back a small, satisfied smile at your stubbornness. shaking his head, he walked away, his bare feet making no sound on the floorboards as he disappeared through a door on the other side of the room. he didn't give you a chance to ask what he was doing, but he returned a minute later.
in his hands, he held a neatly folded stack of clothes: a large, dark t-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants that matched the one he was wearing right now. he held them out to you, “here.”
you raised your eyebrow in question.
“for you to change into,” he clarified, his eyes tracing the tight fit of your clothes “or are you planning to spend the night sleeping in that?”
your heart did a nervous flip. before he could notice your hesitation, you snatched the fabric from his hands. and without another word, he turned and guided you toward the bathroom, leaving you to deal with the sudden realization of what you had just agreed to.
taking longer than necessary, you changed into the soft fabric of his clothes. they were ridiculously oversized on you; and they smelled intoxicatingly like him. you stared into the bathroom mirror, smoothing down your hair and trying to ignore the way your heart was thumping. finally taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, you unlocked the door and walked out.
when you got back into the living room, keys was still very much still shirtless, lounging on the couch, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose as he lazily scrolled on his phone. when he heard your footsteps approach, his thumb froze on the screen, and he lifted his gaze to meet yours; his eyes slowly tracked the way his massive clothes drowned you.
“i guess you can just take my bedroom,” he said, casually.
“what? no,” you countered quickly, “i can just crash on the couch.”
“i’m going to stay up working anyway. probably won't even sleep,” he replied gesturing vaguely with his phone toward the hallway. “you can use the bedroom.”
“it’s really okay, i can use the couch,” you insisted, “i won’t even be here long anyways”
keys stared at you for a second, clearly irritated by your persistence; then he sighed.
“whatever,” he shrugged, standing up from the couch. “just do whatever you want. i’ll be in my office. the bedroom is that way if you change your mind.”
you let out a sigh of relief the second his office door clicked shut.
you had been tossing and turning for a little over twenty minutes, fiercely trying to force yourself to sleep, when the soft click of a door handle broke through the quiet.
your eyes snapped open to see keys walking back into the living room.
he had a glass of water in one hand and a notebook in the other. he didn't look at you at first, walking straight toward the kitchen island, but his dark eyes carefully tracked your restless movement in his periphery.
he set the glass down, turned around, and leaned against the counter. his bare chest caught the dim glow of the kitchen light.
"you're still awake," it wasn't a question.
“i’m fine. just trying to get comfortable,” you said pulling the blanket higher up your chin.
keys let out a mocking breath through his nose, walking over until he was standing right at the edge of the couch, hovering over you. "you're cold. and you look ridiculous trying to fit into a couch that clearly isn't meant for sleeping."
"i said i'm fine, keys," you snapped, sitting up abruptly, the blanket falling off your shoulders. "go back to your office and leave me alone."
"i told you to take the bed," his tone dropping into that stubborn, authoritative register that always made your blood boil. he stepped even closer, his thigh practically brushing against the edge of the cushions. "but your stubborn pride just wouldn't let you, would it?"
"my pride is doing just fine, thank you," you retorted, your eyes defiantly locking onto his behind his glasses. "why do you even care?"
"because it's distracting," he bent down, pinning you to the back of the couch by placing one warm palm on the cushion right next to your hip, his bare chest now mere inches from your face. "hearing you toss and turn out here is annoying. i can't focus on a single line of code."
he was so close you could smell the clean scent of his skin, and you could see the heavy rise and fall of his chest.
"then close your office door tighter," you breathed.
"i did," keys murmured, his eyes darkening as he leaned in closer, his breath fanning over your face. his eyes scanned your flushed cheeks, a sudden, dangerous possessiveness taking over his expression as he remembered every single sound that had crossed that wall last friday night. he wanted to wipe that memory clean. he wanted to be the one making you breathless. "it didn't work."
"maybe you're just overly sensitive to noise," you challenged, your voice trembling slightly, "now you can't even handle the sound of blankets moving? you really need to check your focus."
"friday night," he spat out, the words raw and laced with a bitter jealousy he could no longer hide. his eyes dipped down to your lips before snapping back to yours. "do you have any idea how thin the drywall in this building is? i was trying to sleep, and instead, i had to listen to absolutely everything happening in your bedroom."
your blood turned to ice, your eyes widening in sheer mortification as the realization hit you like a physical blow. he heard.
"keys, i-"
"you were loud," he cut you off, his grip on the couch cushion tightened and his knuckles turned white right next to your hip. his gaze scanned your flushed, panicked face. "every single gasp, every pathetic little whimper... i heard it all."
the words hung heavily in the air, you could feel your face burning with a mix of embarrassment and sudden heat.
"you..." you swallowed hard, trying to find your voice, to summon back your usual sarcasm, but it failed you completely. "you shouldn't have been listening."
"i didn't have a choice," keys hissed, leaning in so close that his bare chest was inches from your own. "i had to sit there in the dark, listening to some other guy call your name, hearing exactly how you sound when someone else is touching you."
his eyes flicked down to the oversized collar of his own shirt slipping off your shoulder, exposing the smooth skin beneath.
"and the worst part?" he murmured, his thumb suddenly coming up to firmly lift you chin up, forcing you to keep looking straight into his eyes. "i couldn't get it out of my head. i’ve been thinking about it all weekend. and now you’re here, sitting on my couch, wearing my clothes, looking at me like you aren’t driving me fucking crazy."
instead of shrinking back like he expected, something shifted inside you.
you let out a soft, breathy chuckle, your eyes narrowing as you looked at him through his glasses. "oh, yeah? you spent all weekend obsessing over me, keys?"
he blinked, his grip on your chin tightening slightly in surprise at your sudden change in tone.
"aww, you did," you cut him off, your voice dropping into a low teasing. you brought your hands up to his shoulders, your fingers slowly trailing down the center of his chest, tracing the line of his stomach all the way down to the waistband of his sweatpants.
keys' breath hitched instantly
"thats so cute,” you murmured, leaning in just enough to feel the heat radiating off him. “you sat in the dark, desperate, listening to me."
his jaw clenched hard, his eyes drifting down to your lips.
before he could process anything, you grabbed him by the fabric of his sweatpants and pulled him forward while shifting your weight, reversing your positions. caught off guard, keys fell backward onto the cushions of the couch with a low grunt. in a second, you were on your knees on the floor between his thighs, looking up at him.
keys was flushed, his chest heaving as he stared down at you with wide, dark eyes behind his glasses.
"what are you doing?" he managed to ask, his voice rougher.
"shut up for once," you said.
from your position on the floor, right between his thighs, your view of him was dangerously intimate. you didn't hesitate. leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his lower stomach, and licked along the rough path of his happy trail.
keys let out a sharp gasp, his stomach flexing violently under the wet contact. before he could process the sensation, you nipped at his skin, burying your teeth gently into the soft flesh of his lower tummy.
"f-fuck..." he rasped, his hands twitching against the couch.
you pulled back just enough to look at him, a thrill of pure satisfaction rushing through your veins as your hands slid down to the waistband of his sweatpants. you didn't waste time being gentle; you hooked your fingers into the cotton and yanked them down together with his boxers, freeing his length into the cool air of the living room.
he was already rock hard. his thick, heavy shaft twitched. seeing him like this, completely at your mercy, sent a thrill of pure satisfaction through your veins.
keys let out a low, ragged groan, his head snapping back against the couch cushions. his hands shot out, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the armrest.
"god, you're so pathetic," you whispered, leaning in closer.
before he could snap back, you wrapped your fingers firmly around his base, feeling the heavy pulse of his veins against your palm. you leaned down and ran your tongue slowly up the underside of his shaft, collecting the slick pre-cum at the crown.
you looked up at him through your lashes, making direct eye contact behind his lenses as you parted your lips and took the head of his dick into your mouth.
a choked sound left his lips, and his hands flew to the back of your head. his thick fingers tangling into your hair to anchor you against him as you started to slide your mouth slowly up and down his length. he was incredibly thick, filling your mouth entirely.
"fuck, slow down," he muttered, his glasses sliding further down his nose, his cheeks flushed a deep crimson. he tried to pace you, his hand in your hair tightening to guide your movements, his hips were already grinding upward into your mouth in a desperate search for more friction.
you ignored his attempts to take back control, deliberately sucking harder on the tip before sliding all the way down, letting his length coat your throat until your nose brushed against the dark hairs of his groin.
keys completely broke. his eyes blew wide behind his glasses, his chest heaving as a ragged groan tore from his throat, completely stripped of any pride he had left. the hand in your hair turned urgent, guiding your head in a faster, more desperate pace.
he was agonizingly close, his hips twitching against your mouth, but right as his body shuddered on the verge of spilling, his mind snapped back. he wasn't going to let it end like this.
with a loud groan, he pulled your head back by your hair, forcing you to break the contact. grabbing your wrist he dragged you back up, effortlessly shifting your weight until you were sitting straddling his lap.
“now it’s my turn to have fun,” he said, guiding his mouth to the open collar of your neck. he dragged his teeth all the way from the underside of your ear down to your shoulder, biting down gently enough to make you whimper before tracing the bruised spot with his wet tongue.
his large palm made his way up the soft fabric of your shirt and stopped right under your breast. he pulled back for a fraction of a second to look at your flushed face, and then hooking his arm behind your knees, he manhandled you until you were lying flat on your back on the couch, completely pinned beneath him.
lifting your shirt until it was bunched up around your collarbone, he cupped one of your breasts with his hand, squeezing the soft flesh firmly as he guided his mouth to the other, capturing your nipple and sucking hard.
you let out a sharp cry, your fingers tangling into his dark hair. meanwhile his free hand was already slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, his thick fingers cupping your heat. he groaned into your skin when he felt how slick you were, his fingertips softly brushing over your already soaked folds.
“were you this wet while fucking that other guy?” he whispered against your chest, his thumb circling your clit once, hard enough to make any possible retort catch violently in your throat.
before you could process his words, his mouth started to slide down, tracing wet, sloppy kisses all the way down your stomach. reaching your waistband, he paused only to hook his thumbs into the fabric, helping you slide the sweatpants and underwear completely off your legs and tossing them onto the floor.
suddenly self conscious under the low lighting of the room, you instinctively squeezed your thighs together; but keys caught the movement and, resting his big heavy palms against the inside of your knees, he forced them back open.
“don't hide from me now,” he murmured, his dark eyes locking onto yours behind his glasses as he crawled down between your open thighs.
he leaned down and licked a slow, heavy stripe directly over your wet pussy, making your back arch off the couch cushions as you let out a gasp.
"yeah, make those sounds for me now," keys muttered against your wet skin, his breath hot against you.
without warning he slipped two thick fingers straight inside your tight walls.
you let out a loud, breathless moan, your head snapping back as his fingers stretched you open, filling that agonizing emptiness you had been chasing in the days prior. keys groaned at how perfectly you gripped him, immediately starting a relentless rhythm, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his tongue kept working onto your clit, applying pressure.
"you're so tight," he hissed, his face burying back between your thighs as his fingers moved deeper, hitting your spot over and over again with precision. "so fucking wet for me. tell me you want it. tell me you want my dick inside you instead of his."
"keys... please," you sobbed out, your fingers tangling desperately into his dark hair, your hips rising from the cushions to chase the brutal pace of his hand.
you were so close. your chest was heaving, a tight knot of pure pleasure forming low in your stomach, your inner walls beginning to twitch around his fingers. you were a single stroke away from completely shattering.
but right as you let out a high pitched whimper and your hips hitched to chase the orgasm, keys suddenly stopped dead. he ripped his fingers completely out of your soaking pussy and pulled his mouth away from your clit.
“you don't get to come yet,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips as he adjusted his position between your thighs. he maneuvered his way out of his sweatpants completely, kicking them to the side, and freed his length. "not until you admit it."
he pressed the tip right against your entrance, teasing you, but didn't push inside.
"admit what?" you breathed, trying to move but keys held his ground, his heavy grip on your thighs keeping you perfectly in place.
"tell me whose dick you want inside you," he commanded, his eyes locking onto yours. he nudged his head slightly deeper against your folds, just enough to make you gasp, "say my name. tell me you want me more than anyone else."
"i want you," you sobbed, all your stubborn pride completely disintegrating, as your fingers made they way to his back and gripped hard. "i want your dick, keys... please, fuck me."
keys let out a low groan, his eyes darkening as he finally got exactly what he had been craving since friday night.
"good girl," he gripped your hips tightly and drove his length forward, burying his thick cock entirely inside you in one deep thrust.
a scream tore from your throat and your eyes went wide, watering from the sudden friction. your fingers clawed into the muscles of his bare back as you tried to adjust to the burning heat stretching you open.
keys froze above you, his chest heaving violently over your breasts as he let out a ragged exhale against your neck. his large hands digging bruisingly deep into your hips to anchor himself inside you.
“fuck,” he choked out, his jaw clenching hard, “you take me so fucking well.”
“keys…” you whimpered, “please… move.”
he started thrusting into you. his movements slow and deep at first as he let out a low groan with every slide, the faint hair of chest brushed against your tits and the weight of him pressed you down to the cushions of the couch.
“i’m moving,” he rasped against your ear, his voice trembled, “fuck, you’re so tight... it’s squeezing me so hard.”
as your body finally adjusted to the fullness stretching you open, your hips began to lift instinctively, meeting his heavy thrusts halfway. keys noticed the subtle shift in your movement immediately, and the grip on your hips tightened until his knuckles turned white, completely abandoning his slow pace.
he picked up a heavy speed that had your body sliding up the couch with every stroke. the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoed loudly in the quiet living room, mixing with the wet, messy friction of his cock driving deep inside your soaking walls.
a series of high pitched, broken whimpers tore from your throat. your fingers clawed into the muscles of his bare back, leaving long, red marks as you clung to him for dear life.
“scream for me,” keys commanded, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth gently nipping at your sensitive skin. he was hitting your spot over and over again with terrifying precision. “let me hear exactly how much better my dick is.”
you couldn't even answer him, your voice completely cracking as a loud sob left your lips. the friction against your clit from his pelvis with every thrust was pushing you right back over the edge you had been desperate for all night. your inner walls began to clamp down around him in tight, frantic spasms.
keys let out a loud, ragged choke, his eyes blowing wide behind his glasses as he felt you starting to tremble and twitch around his shaft. he knew you were close.
“that’s it, come for me, i wanna feel you coming all over my cock,” he growled, tightening his grip and driving into you even harder.
a loud, broken cry echoed through the room as your orgasm tore through your body. your back arched off the couch, your toes curling as your inner walls clamped around his thick length in rhythmic spasms. your vision blurring with tears of pure pleasure.
keys let out a deep moan against your skin, your tight, pulsing climax completely destroying what little restraint he had left.
his body went rigid, his thigh muscles tightening as he shoved himself into you one last time as deep as he could. he buried himself and stayed there, his fingers digging into your waist as he came. thick waves of his release shot deep inside you, filling you up to the brim while his shuddered with the force of his own orgasm.
his head dropped heavily onto your shoulder as his glasses finally slid off completely, discarded somewhere on the cushions.
for a long time, the only sound in the dark living room was the heavy, synchronized panting of both your chests heaving against one another. keys remained buried deep inside you. then slowly, he shifted his weight to his elbows, lifting his head just enough to look down at your ruined state. a tired smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. he leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your sweat damp forehead before brushing a lock of hair away from your face.
"yeah," he whispered, his voice rough, dripping with a smug satisfaction as he stared into your eyes, "you definitely weren't making those kinds of sounds on friday."
you let out a sigh, rolling your eyes, "shut up, keys. don't ruin it."
he let out a soft, genuine chuckle, a low sound that vibrated right against your chest. he slowly, carefully pulled out of you, making you whimper slightly at the sudden loss of heat, and pulled his sweatpants back on.
without saying a word, he hooked his large arms under your back and knees, effortlessly lifting you up from the couch. you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face into his bare shoulder as he carried you down the short hallway.
he walked straight into his bedroom, tossing the blankets back and settling you gently onto the center of his large, neat bed. the sheets smelled exactly like his clothes, and you immediately sank into the plush mattress, completely exhausted.
keys stood by the edge of the bed for a moment, looking down at you in the dark. in the dim light, you could see the faint outline of his messy hair and his bare torso, still looking entirely too tempting.
"the manager doesn't get here until 8 a.m.," keys murmured, his tone shifting back into that casual, slightly bossy register. he turned around to head back to the living room to grab his glasses. "go to sleep. i'll be in the office."
"keys?" you called out softly, your voice thick with sleep.
he paused at the doorway, turning his head back to look at you over his shoulder. "what?"
you considered it for a moment, suddenly feeling a bit exposed by how much you actually wanted him to stay, you shook your head.
“nevermind,” you murmured, burying your face deeper into his pillow. “go back to your office.”
“you’re terrible at lying,” he said softly, then walked out. the soft click of the door closing behind him felt incredibly loud in the sudden quiet of the bedroom.
summary: after a long patrol, gator finds his girlfriend in bed asleep. it's only his nature to disturb her.
tags/warnings: gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, suggestive content, soft!gator, domestic fluff, grumpy x sunshine, possessive!gator, elements of casual sub/dom, gator thinks he wants a tradwife but really he wants your attitude
a/n: help me save me from the chokehold this character has me in (I'm exactly where I want to be)
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A set of arms wrap around you, pulling you from luxurious sleep.
You make a noise of protest, drawing in a long breath. Your down comforter feels heavenly right now, and snuggled in your favorite pair of cozy socks, you’re warmer and happier than you’ve been all day. It’s just typical of your boyfriend to interrupt.
“Right where I left you,” Gator hums, arms tightening around you, nose prodding into your cheek. From the feeling of his chest pressed up against you, you can tell he’s still in his work clothes, though he’s ditched the tactical vest. He’s been patrolling later than usual lately, much to both of your dismay. Were it not for how sweet he almost always is when he gets back and the fact it usually means you can sneak in an evening nap like this one when he’s gone, you might have had to pick a fight with his boss.
You groan again, turning your head over your shoulder so he can see the frown on your face, your eyes still stubbornly shut. “‘M sleeping,” you mumble, voice thick.
Gator’s letting the cold under the covers, and he probably knows it. He relishes annoying you like this, and you can feel the smirk on his lips as he presses them into the warmth of your neck.
“So fuckin’ lazy,” he chuckles.
“Rude,” you grumble, rolling over. He laughs as you slip your arms around him, clutching him closer. In contrast to the idyllic heat of your bed, his arms are chilled from so long spent out in the Dakota snow.
“You’re wearing outside clothes,” you complain, finally opening your eyes. You blink at him, clearing them of sleep.
He’s got that smug, lazy grin painted on his face as he watches you, and his hair is loosened slightly from its gel. “So?”
“You can’t bring outside clothes into bed,” you chide him gruffly, snuggling further into his chest. Damn it, but you’ve always slept better in his arms than alone, and as much-needed as your nap today was, you’ve missed him. You breathe him in, savoring the faint scent of perspiration and that sharp cologne you’ve told him you don’t like.
“I don’t see you complainin’,” he teases, his fingertips pressing into you.
“Mmm,” you intone, already feeling sleep attempt to drag you under again. “How was work?”
“Same shit as usual,” he grumbles, tucking your head under his chin.“Rather be lazing around all day here with you, that’s for damn sure."
You tap a pattern onto his sternum with the pad of your finger. “I’ll have you know I’ve been slaving away all day,” you argue sleepily.
“Oh yeah?” he snorts. “Believe that when I see it.”
If you weren’t so comfortable cuddled against his chest, you would have glared at him. “I have. I made scones for the church picnic, and I cleaned out the laundry room cabinets–”
“Mm, sounds hard,” he mocks you.
You huff indignantly. “Sounds like you’re not getting any of my scones.”
His laughter rumbles in his chest.
“I also went to check in on Mrs. Dougherty–”
“Crazy old bat,” Gator grumbles of your eighty-two-year-old neighbor who despises him. She’s really a sweet lady– just sees too much of Roy in Gator. You go over there every now and again to pick up the house for her and attempt to smooth things over between the two of them.
“And I picked up a morning shift at the diner,” you finish stubbornly. “And nobody else competent was working.”
His sigh ruffles your hair. “Baby, what’d I tell you about picking up those extra shifts?”
You roll your eyes. “It was only four hours, Gate.”
Gator pulls back to give you a displeased look. “I wish you’d just quit working at that fuckin’ place already. Those scumbags’re runnin’ you ragged.”
“I like my job, Gator,” you tell him pointedly. And you did– as shitty as any off-the-highway diner job was, yours was just decent enough to keep. And besides, you liked your coworkers, and it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to spend your hours keeping children from crying with smiley-face pancakes. It was more rewarding than what Gator did all day, that was for sure. “The people are nice. The tips are good.”
“Tips’re only good ‘cause you’ve got all those jackoffs making eyes at you,” he complains.
You fight not to roll your eyes again. “That’s not the reason.” Gator’s always been the jealous type– something you both love and hate about him. If he didn’t make it so difficult every time he came into your work or went out with you to a bar, you might have found the trait endearing. But he always made it all but impossible for you to hold a conversation with another man– interjecting and putting his hands all over you like you weren’t in public. It was no secret in town who you belonged to– Gator had made damn sure of that.
“Like hell it isn’t,” he argues. “I see ‘em every time I’m in there. Runnin’ their eyes over ya like they want a piece of ya.”
“Gator,” you cut in placatingly. “Everyone in town knows I’m with you. They know better than to try anything.” More importantly, they know Gator– know what it means when Roy Tillman’s son staked his claim. Every one of your regulars would much rather keep their eyes from wandering and their tone respectful than face the other end of a bloodied tire iron.
“They fuckin’ better,” Gator adds, already spinning himself into a bad mood. But, as if he’s caught himself on it, realized what he’s doing, that anger melts slightly, replaced with a wicked, possessive mischief. “Maybe I should just knock you up. Finally send a message to all those assholes.”
Shock and a delicious jolt of warmth travel through you, and you glare at him. You pinch his side, then pull one of your hands free and hold it in front of his face, waggling your fingers. “Or maybe you could just get a move on and put a ring on it, stud. Start there.”
“You gonna quit your job if I do?” he teased, leaning forward to nip playfully at your neck. “Stay home all day makin’ scones ‘n shit?”
“Gate,” you sigh, your hand cradling the back of his head as he attacks your neck. “You know I like having something to do with my time besides sit around and take care of you.”
“Takin’ care of you’s my job,” he insists, his voice muffled against your skin. The vibrations travel up your pulsepoint, and you fight your shiver. “Y’should let me do it better. I’m the man. S’posed to provide for you.”
“You do,” you assure him, knowing this is a pressure point for him. “I’m just better for you if I’m not going stir-crazy in this house every day.”
He sighs, finally retreating from the junction of your shoulder and neck. “You’re so fuckin’ stubborn. Drives me crazy, woman.”
You press forward, locking your lips onto his. Your mouths move together, slow and luxurious. “I love you,” you mumble, eyes crinkling as you stare back at him.
“Mm,” Gator intones, holding out on you on purpose just to show he’s still not pleased. You snort, nonplussed by his pouting.
“I’m starving,” he announces, pressing one last kiss to your cheek before beginning to extract himself from the bed. “Gonna go make something to eat. You want anything?”
That reminds you– you make yourself sit up and get moving again, yawning wide. “There’s pulled pork in the slow cooker. I waited for you.”
“Why the hell’d you do that?” he asks, exasperated. He stands by the side of the bed waiting for you, which betrays the annoyed look on his face with more of that hidden sweetness.
You shrug, stretching your arms above your head. “I don’t like when we don’t have dinner together.”
“You shouldn’t have waited,” he scolds you, a frown tugging at his lips. “It’s late, doll. You can’t just starve ‘cause you’re waitin’ up on me."
“What time is it?” you ask, still groggy, ignoring his chastisement as you grab his right wrist and pull it up so you can look at his watch. When you see the time, you roll your eyes. “It’s only eight-thirty, Gator.” You swing your legs over the side of the bed and let him grab your wrists, pulling you to your feet.
“You just told me you worked all day, stupid,” he reminds you, letting you lead the way out of the bedroom. “Next time, you eat without me. Got it?”
You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you pad down the hallway toward the kitchen. It’s almost endearing how fast he switches between the insults and frustration and that care you’ve come to see in him– care that’s unlike how anyone’s ever treated you before, huge and constant and limitless. Like this boy would drive to the ends of the earth for you and yell at you all the way back home for being dumb enough to strand yourself out there.
He’s got rough edges, your Gator. But there’s no denying he loves you.
When he’s standing behind you, beating you to taking the plates down from their high shelf as you stretch for them, you can feel it. When he watches you dig into your food and complains that you’re eating like you’ve been starving to death, it’s there, too. When he takes the dirty dishes from out of your hands and washes them while you sit on the counter beside him, drying them with a dishcloth, it’s impossible to ignore.
On the way back to the bedroom, Gator lands a sharp smack to your ass, and you jump, glaring over your shoulder at him. He grins at you, the expression turning him so boyish. “Gotta be my favorite part of comin’ home.”
“Hm,” you intone, flicking your hair over your shoulder as you walk. “Mine’s giving you head. But I don’t know if you’ve been nice enough tonight.”
He laughs aloud, catching up to you and gripping you around the waist, spinning you in his arms as you reach the bedroom and he kicks the door shut behind him. Ignoring your squeal, he picks you up and throws you back onto the unmade bed.
You can’t help but grin as he comes over you again, his arms caging you in.
“Careful what you wish for, pretty,” he teases, his voice a husk. “You’re lucky I love you so much. Wouldn’t take this kinda attitude from anyone else.”
Your fingers come up to clasp behind his neck, teasingly chaste. “If anyone else is offering you head, you’ve got another thing coming, Alligator.”
He leans down and kisses you, his tongue sweeping past your lips as he languishes in your taste. When you part for air, he’s smiling. “I love you,” he says begrudgingly, like he’s admitting something you can’t already tell in everything he does.
So, grinning back up at him, you only tell him, “I know.”
---
a/n: wrote, edited, and posted this in like one hour which is bizarre for me so apologies for any mistakes. also my first real x reader fic...
