kindness

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✶ masterlist last updated: february 27, 2021 -> march 6, 2026

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warning: these stories are fictional and may contain mature content. ✘ means 18+ only please.

➪ harry styles

➪ tom holland

➪ peter parker

➪ shawn mendes

➪ steve harrington

[tinfoileddd]

☽ the basement ☾

steve harrington x fem!reader (18+; MDNI; 7.1k words)

It’s always been easy being around Steve, ever since the day that he and Robin showed up at the Squawk and announced that they were there to work at the station. You hadn’t argued — honestly, it was kind of nice to have someone else helping you out — and Steve is the kind of person who can make hours melt by in seconds. Whether he was cracking a joke to try and make you laugh, sliding a sandwich across across your desk when you forget your lunch, or seeking you out by the coffee machine for a chat between sets, time always passed a little too quickly when you were with him. (You search the basement of Hawkins Lab and find a little more than you were expecting.)

cw: sex pollen, dub con (ish, there's still pretty enthusiastic consent), p-in-v sex, creampie, pussy eating, fingering, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, spit, big dick!steve, steve being a munch (go read keer-y's sex pollen fic too btw cause we parallel wrote them lol) masterlist || divider by @/enchanthings || ao3 link

The sight of the old Hawkins Lab looms in front of you, all concrete and barred windows, and your stomach sinks at the sight of it. To your left, Dustin lets out an annoyed huff despite the fact that abandoning your post at the church was his idea, and to your right, Steve shuffles forward as your ragtag group presses forward, Nancy and Jonathan a few paces ahead of you.

Your job, as it has been for a few months, continues to be the physical blockade between the warring friends. To be Switzerland, the Demilitarization Zone of conflict, the human embodiment of a white flag. Your role is to never spill your own personal opinions on the arguments that you’re caught between, because if you did, the scale would absolutely tip in Steve’s favor — you’ve heard quite enough of Dustin’s barbed insults in the past year, thank you very much — but as the it was, you haven’t been around the rest of the monster hunting crew long enough for your thoughts to be valued by the wider circle.

(You do like to give Steve a reassuring shoulder squeeze from time to time though, especially whenever Dustin starts insulting him outright. You’re not sure it helps, but the soft smile you get in return is enough to settle some of the lingering guilt over not being able to do more.)

But still, you fall in step next to Steve just as Dustin surges forward, catching Nancy’s attention as he asks a question you can’t quite hear. You take the moment to cast a sidelong glance towards Steve, quietly asking, “Everything alright? You hit your head pretty hard back there when the car crashed.”

He sighs, passing the flashlight back and forth between his hands. “Yeah, I’m fine. More worried about…”

His face tilts up, and you follow his gaze forward. 

Dustin.

“I think if there were any lasting damage, he would’ve complained by now,” you offer. 

“Fair enough,” he says. A beat passes before he asks, “And you? I know you were in the backseat with Nance and Jonathan, but…”

You blink in surprise. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just got a face full of your headrest. No biggie.”

A hushed laugh escapes him, and for the first time since the crawl that got you all in this mess in the first place, the tension in his shoulders loosens incrementally, and he turns to look at you fully. “Well, if it starts to hurt, let me know, okay? I can try and scrounge around for—”

“Steve!”

Dustin’s voice cuts across your conversation, and you both turn to where he’s waiting impatiently by the entrance to the lab, hands planted on his hips as though he’s a beleaguered mother and not a sixteen year old boy.

Steve lets out another sigh, and with a nod towards the kid, settles a hand on your back as he guides you forward. Dustin disappears inside, clearly not wanting to wait for the two of you to catch up. You get to the door first, but Steve’s quick to dart forward, yanking the door open and gesturing you through with a flourish.

You smile despite yourself.

Nancy and Jonathan are already in deep conversation by the time you catch up, and you bite back a laugh when Steve gestures to the space around you, saying, “Wow, this looks promising.”

Dustin shoots back a comment you don’t quite hear as you take in your surroundings, eyeing the vines wrapping around every surface that you can see. Hesitantly, you reach over, fingers outstretched towards a thick tendril on the wall, but before you can make contact, Steve’s at your side, intercepting your hand.

You blink up at him owlishly.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” he offers in way of explanation.

“Is it dangerous?” you ask.

He shrugs and gestures towards the faded scar around his neck. “Remind me to tell you about ’86 later.”

You nod and follow him back to the rest of the group, confused to find them in an intense discussion about a movie plot of all things (Is this really the right time? you wonder) and Steve calls across the lobby, “Why are you explaining the plot of a movie that we all know, Henderson?”

“Because, Steven, Return of the Jedi is an oddly relevant movie!” Dustin snaps.

“Yeah, and we’ve all seen it,” Steve retorts.

You frown. “I’ve never seen a Star Wars film.”

Steve winces. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say.

“Anyway,” Dustin interjects. “As I was saying…”

You listen attentively as Dustin explains his theory — even if you’re only half following it, because you’re not quite sure what a shield generator even is — and brush your hand against Steve’s wrist after Dustin once again shoots the guy a snarky comment, sticking close by as you follow the group into a staircase.

Which, in turn, causes another debate when Steve points out, “Henderson and I need some space. New groups?”

“Are you serious right now?” Jonathan demands. “Who exactly are you planning on going with, Steve?”

Steve opens his mouth, incensed and ready to retort, but you quickly draw everyone’s attention towards you when you say, “Steve and I’ll go down, and Dustin can go up with you and Nancy, alright?”

Nancy shrugs, Jonathan nods, but Dustin only shoots you a scornful look.“Really? Send the two idiots downstairs? You don’t even know what you’re looking for, much less Steve.”

“Henderson!” comes Steve’s sharp admonishment. “Seriously, man?”

You breathe in and out of your nose slowly, tamping down your annoyance. “Steve and I know enough to not touch anything suspicious and radio if we see something. That’s the point, right? Radio if we see something odd?”

Nancy, thankfully, nods, and draws Dustin’s attention away. “Come on, Dust. There’ll probably be more interesting stuff upstairs anyway.” With one more sweeping look towards Steve, she adds, “Make sure to call the second you see something.”

“We will,” he promises, lifting up his walkie as if to make his point, and without another word, he steps off the landing and onto the staircase leading down.

You offer the rest of the group a silent wave and quickly follow after.

The two of walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s not until everyone else’s footsteps have fully receded into the distance that Steve speaks up.

“Hey, about what I said back there, in the lobby,” he begins, clearly uncomfortable. You pause on the steps, taking in the shape of his shoulders tensing up beneath his suede coat. “About, uh, the movie. I’m sorry. If I’d known you hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have—”

“Steve,” you cut him off gently, closing the gap between you to grab his arm. “I’m not offended by it.”

But he refuses to meet your eye. “It’s not that, it’s just — that was totally rude and I shouldn’t have—”

“How could you have known that I haven’t seen a movie literally everyone else has seen?” you ask. “Trust me, I know I’m the outlier. I didn’t think anything of it.”

And finally, finally, he turns to look at you. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you say. “Maybe being stuck down here will give me the motivation to catch up on pop culture.”

His lips quirk up, and for a moment, he looks like the twenty-one year old man he is and not the more worn version of himself you’ve become acquainted with through months of working alongside him at the station. “Maybe.”

“Anyway, I feel like I should’ve brought a flashlight with me,” you say, ducking around him. “Feels kinda stupid that I didn’t in retrospect.”

He shines the light on the next set of stairs. “Well, in your defense, it’s not like you could’ve known we would’ve gotten stuck down here when you got into my backseat. Hard to prepare for that kind of thing.”

Your laugh rings around the otherwise empty halls, and the two of you settle into an easy conversation as you go round and round, losing count of how many steps you’ve descended. 

It’s always been easy being around Steve, ever since the day that he and Robin showed up at the Squawk and announced that they were there to work at the station. You hadn’t argued — honestly, it was kind of nice to have someone else helping you out — and Steve is the kind of person who can make hours melt by in seconds. Whether he was cracking a joke to try and make you laugh, sliding a sandwich across across your desk when you forget your lunch, or seeking you out by the coffee machine for a chat between sets, time always passed a little too quickly when you were with him.

It’s, like, the one normal part of my day, he’d admitted to you once, his fingers brushing against your own as he passed over a mug. I love Rob, but her head’s in the clouds most of the time.

By the time you touch down on the bottom floor, your sweater is sticking uncomfortably to your chest and Steve, panting, says, “Jesus, that was way too many stairs.”

“What the hell even is this place?” you ask, because despite getting inadvertently roped into the group’s tenuously illegal activities, no one ever really bothered to fill you in on the finer details.

You turn in time to find Steve grimacing, face shining from sweat, and he says, “To be honest, no one’s ever really told memuch, but they were doing a bunch of experiments on kids here. It’s where El was raised, actually.”

“Oh.”

You think back to the quiet girl you’d only met a handful of times — always under the watchful eye of the former police chief, always hand in hand with Mike Wheeler — and take in your environment just a bit more closely.

It’s dreary, honestly. No windows, no way of getting natural light in at any point, and the electronic locks affixed to every door leaves no room for doubt as to how little freedom El and the other kids were given when moving about.

You take a few steps forward, pushing open a set of double doors to your left and immediately freeze at the sight in front of you. 

Steve crashes into your back, his hands immediately finding your waist to steady you, muttering, “What the hell is this place?”

Because surrounding the two of you is the starkest playroom you’ve ever seen: All white, with a rather unnerving rainbow painted across the wall. Toys are organized and put away neatly, and you can imagine that the real life version of this place smelled of harsh antiseptics.

In short, no place a kid should be raised in.

“This is creepy,” you whisper. “Like…”

“I get what you mean,” Steve says. “It’s like the set of a horror movie in here.”

You nod in agreement, reaching back until your hand makes contact with the hem of his coat. For all of your bravado and confidence walking into this situation, it’s definitely reassuring to have someone else with you as you explore this place.

Carefully, he leads the two of you around the room, shining his flashlight in every which direction as you search for… 

Something.

(A shield generator? Whatever the hell that is?)

Steve’s starting to glance towards the entrance, clearly ready to search other rooms in the basement, when your eyes catch on the open window along the back wall. More specifically, an odd bump in the wall, one that has you moving to climb through the window before you can think twice about it, ignoring Steve’s protests.

“There’s something back here,” you call out, feeling your way along the wall as he grunts behind you, the sound of his feet slipping along the floor as he catches up echoing through the room. “It’s like—”

A hidden latch pops, and the wall beneath your hands opening up enough to reveal an office tucked neatly behind it. You frown at the grime left on your hand and quickly wipe it against your jeans.

“That’s creepy as hell,” Steve comments, turning the light inside and gently stepping around you to go inside first.

“I bet that hole in the wall was, like, one-way glass or something,” you say, creeping inside. “So whoever could observe the kids.”

“Like I said,” he replies. “Creepy.”

He sets the flashlight down on the desk, dropping the walkie down next to it, and letting the glow illuminate the room as you separate. Steve goes to inspect the wall as you leaf through the sprawl of papers and notebooks on the desk, carefully setting aside anything that looks vaguely important to carry back upstairs. 

“This map looks exactly like Henderson’s,” Steve announces. “That’s weird, right? And this — this diagram thing. It’s, like…”

But before he can finish his thought, you lean down to open a drawer, seeing if you can find anything else of import, when it happens.

Something explodes in your face — some sort of dust, maybe? — and you stagger away, wheezing and coughing and choking as it settles across your skin, infiltrates your lungs, and within seconds Steve makes his way through the cloud, his hands hovering over your body as he asks, “Holy shit, are you okay?”

You hunch over, bracing your hands against your knees as you force out, “Fuck — just — breathed all that in—”

He thumps your back, which does little to help the aching in your chest, but the heat emanating from his hand feels nice even through the thick sweater draped across your torso. 

“Just get it out,” he murmurs gently. “There you go, get it all out.”

“Fuck,” you say again, tears welling in the corners of your eyes. “Fuck, that was awful. What was that stuff anyway?”

“Not sure,” he says, helping you stand back up. His fingers linger on your arms just a little longer than they ever have, and he looks almost… pained when he finally pulls away, turning back to inspect the open drawer. “I’ve seen a lot of floating dust and shit down here, but never anything like that. Whatever, it’s gone now and there’s nothing inside here.”

“Great,” you say, leaning against the wall, rubbing your chest as an odd warmth settles in your lungs. “I probably just got lung cancer or something.”

“It didn’t look like asbestos,” he says. “Though it did kind of just… disappear. So who knows.”

You draw in a shaky lungful of air. “How do you know what asbestos looks like?”

“My dad’s work — he owns some construction company,” Steve explains. “So when all those studies about asbestos came out in the seventies, I saw a bunch of pamphlets at home about what it looks like and what to avoid. Dad had to distribute them to the guys building houses.”

You blink in surprise. Steve’s never talked much about his parents, not in the year you’ve known him. You don’t think there’s really any tragic backstory hiding around the corner or anything; You’ve heard him on the phone with his mother, soft and affectionate in a way that an only child can be with the person who raised him, but he’s always seemed like the kind of person who grew out of the need for his parents’ involvement in his life far younger than other people. Independent in a way you’re not quite sure you’ve ever managed. 

And clearly not, because your lungs are still burning from whatever it was you inhaled (and you’re not quite sure that you believe it wasn’t asbestos, even with Steve’s expert opinion) and the burning is quickly morphing into something else. Something more, something you can’t quite put your finger on as you watch Steve hop up on the desk, legs swinging.

“So—” you begin, grasping at anything to fill the silence, to distract you from the heaviness tugging at your bones. “Your dad owns a company?”

“Oh, yeah.” There’s an odd note to Steve’s tone, one you can’t quite parse out. “My grandpa owned this, like, pet grooming business after the war. Successful as hell, and Dad went to Kelley down in Bloomington, got an MBA, started a construction business. I think originally he owned some realty thing, but there was more money in building or whatever.”

“That’s nice,” you say. “And your mom?”

“She stayed at home. Did a bunch of volunteer work around Hawkins, and, uh…”

He trails off, and you jump onto the next question. “Where are they now?”

“North Carolina,” he says. “They own a beach house there. Told them to evacuate Hawkins before lockdown, and they’ve been there ever since.”

Sweat beads at your temples, slipping down your face, and you can feel moisture gathering on the back of your neck as well. “Oh, wow, uh… and—”

“No offense, but,” he interrupts, strained. “Not sure I want to talk about my parents right now.”

You nod and continue to rub the space just above your breasts, feeling rather lightheaded over the lack of oxygen from your coughing fit. You press your eyelids shut, willing the dizziness to pass, but it only molds, intensifying.

It crawls down your spine, a heaviness you’ve never felt before, a heat creeping slowly through your body, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. Honestly, you must’ve spent longer coughing than you’d thought, because you’ve never felt like this before, never felt anything like this grip all your senses to firmly, swirling around your tummy as the warmth turns up, up, up—

An uncomfortable noise echoes through the room, and it takes a moment for you to parse out that it came from Steve.

You force your eyes open, noting in an almost detached manner just how sweaty he looks. Which is odd, because it was really, really cold when the two of you descended into the basement, but now that you think about it, you’re also feeling rather flushed, aren’t you? 

His gaze meets yours, and the heat inside of you feels like it explodes, and you realize, startled, that it’s not warmth, per se, but—

“Steve.” Your voice is hoarser than you intended. “Do you feel weird?”

“Weird how?”

You swallow once, heavily, suddenly woozy from just how overpowering the feeling burning through your veins is. A feeling that you’re now able to identify with an uncomfortable clarity. “Did that dust make you unrelentingly horny too?”

There’s a sound that escapes his chest — something between a whimper and a groan, the noise of a man who prides himself on self-restraint beginning to fracture — and you blink blearily at him to find him still sitting on the desk, fingers digging into his thighs, looking just as wrecked as you feel. You glance down, unbidden, to see a rather obvious bulge in his jeans.

“Don’t ask me that,” he croaks pathetically.

“Steve,” you say. “I think we might’ve — I think we might have to—”

“No.” It comes out firm despite everything, despite the fact that the cotton bra against your breasts feels so restricting that you think you might suffocate. “I don’t care that what that shit did, I’m not — I won’t—”

“But you feel it too, right?” you ask, suddenly desperate to know. “It’s not just me, right?”

“I — yes, but—”

“Then shouldn’t we do something—?”

“No!” Sweat glistens across his forehead, and you watch with fascination as a droplet slides down his cheek, dripping onto his sweater. “I’m not going to — to take advantage of you, not like this, not when—”

“Steve.” It comes out pathetic, a whimper you can’t help as the feeling swells inside you, becoming too much for you to not do something. “Please.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, though it comes out less certain than you’re sure he intends it to. 

“Fine then,” you say, fumbling with the button of your jeans. “You won’t mind if I take care of myself, will you?”

He chokes. “What?”

You don’t bother responding though, and there’s no time for embarrassment as you shove your jeans down just far enough that you can slip a hand into your panties, finding yourself already drenched. Your heart is pounding erratically against your ribcage at the first swipe against your clit, and your knees buckle from how overwhelmingly good it feels, and you know for a fact that if you were in a more solid state of mind — if every conscious thought in your brain wasn’t slowly being eroded by the heady pressure of arousal — you’d be more concerned by how quickly the pleasure is building up in your core with only the lightest touch.

But you’re not in that state of mind. You’re here, burning up from the inside out, the fire of desperation and debauchery consuming you until it’s almost painful, as you circle your fingers faster, faster, faster until—

And as abruptly as your orgasm built, it stops dead in its tracks.

“No, no, no, no, no.” Your breath catches as your fingers slip against your clit to no avail. The pleasure refuses to grow, refuses to tip over into what you want most, refuses to let you into the sweet embrace of your orgasm. It dances teasingly just far enough out of reach to keep you on the precipice, to drive you mad with want. To drive you mad with need.

You tilt your head up, finding Steve’s gaze searing into your body, his hands still gripping his thighs tightly, and another heaving cry billows from your lips as you utter, “Please.”

He goes very, very still.

“Please, Steve,” you beg, uncaring of how you sound — not when he looks just as wrecked as you feel, not when he still hasn’t moved a single muscle. “Please, please, please help me, please — it hurts so much, I can’t — I can’t—”

Slowly, he slips from the desk and makes his way to you with controlled, even steps, and you watch as he sinks to his knees before you, his voice completely torn with need as he murmurs, “Let’s get your shoes off, yeah?”

“Steve,” you plead again. “I need you to touch me.”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, hands shaking as they find their way to the laces of your tennis shoes. “I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

The sentiment rings hollow in your ears.

“You’re not taking advantage of me,” you insist, tears spilling from your eyes. “I want this, I want you—”

“Whatever we breathed in, that’s making you feel this way,” he insists, and you don’t understand. You don’t understand how he’s still so in control when you’re ready to burst at the seams, ready to fall apart into a million pieces at the feeling of his breath on your thighs. “But I can — I’ll help.”

He slips one of your shoes off, then the next, stacking them neatly somewhere you don’t bother to look, and with a firm grasp, he slides the denim down your legs, helping you step out. Your panties are tugged down next, and you watch somewhat deliriously as he tucks them into his back pocket. Your brain struggles to catch up as he draws your leg up and over his shoulder, tilting his head up to meet your gaze, his fingers tracing through the thatch of hair on your mound. 

His eyes burn into yours when he says, "I need to hear it."

You whimper. “Please, Steve. I need you.”

Seconds later, you're roughly pulled down on to his face.

And as it turns out, truly all you needed was him. His nose brushing against your clit is all it takes before you clench around nothing, waves of pleasure crashing into you as you come harder than you ever have in your life. Your chest heaves as you grip onto Steve, shaking and trembling and crying until your knees buckle.

He’s quick to catch you before you fall to the ground, grabbing your hips as he slowly lowers you down onto his lap. “Did that help?” he asks, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweater.

“Yes — no,” you whimper, your head so full of everything that you can’t think straight. “It hurts so bad, Steve, I need — need more — not enough, it’s not enough—”

“Okay, okay,” he soothes, even if he sounds a little broken as he says it. “Let me put my jacket down for you, yeah?”

You shake your head because you need it now, but Steve ignores it — ignores you — and groans loudly when you grind down into his erection, desperate and chasing any form of relief you can get as he slides his jacket off. You don’t care though, burying your face into his shoulder and breathing in the intoxicating scent of some woodsy cologne and human musk underneath, the smell of a man who has worked hard to be where he’s at right in this moment, and you roll your clit against the zipper on his jeans even harder, not paying attention when Steve lowers you to the ground, your back hitting his coat that he laid out without your notice.

It feels like it takes ages for him to settle between your legs, spreading your pussy open carefully, as if it were made of something precious, and you twitch up pathetically as his breath ghosting against where you ache the most.

“Steve,” you whine, your own hands sliding up under your sweater and beneath your bra, rolling your nipples between your fingers.

“Don’t worry, honey,” he murmurs. You meet his eyes and your arousal grows at just how big his pupils are, wide with desire as a flush spreads across his cheeks. “I’ll take care of you.”

That’s all the warning you get before he dives in once more, lapping up your wetness like a starving man. You squirm, and his grip against your thighs is bruising as he holds you in place. It’s an exhilarating dichotomy: Commanding yet so at odds with how soft he speaks to you, gentle in every word. 

And when he presses his fingers into your skin just a bit deeper, you know for a fact that his composure is cracking the tiniest bit more.

Just like with your first orgasm, it doesn’t take long for the second one to build, cresting until it washes over you with an urgency. But instead of relief, the only thing you feel is a hungry need for more — more of his tongue against your clit, more of his fingers plunging into your pussy, curling up until they hit the spongy spot that makes you feel stars, more of him — and you cry out, not bothering to wipe the tears spilling down your face as you twist your nipples, trying to extend your orgasm a little longer. 

And yet, somehow, the need that has taken over every one of your sense, the fire of arousal caused by whatever it was you stumbled into, it only grows hotter, burns brighter, and within seconds after your orgasm abates you’re reaching down, winding your fingers into his hair and begging, “More.”

Steve glances up at you, his nose still firmly pressed into the seam of your pussy, and the only response you get is one long, languid lick from your entrance up to your clit. 

A shiver runs down your spine at just how ravished he looks with his hair askew and eyes blown wide. Fucked out of his mind, even, despite the fact he's been so entirely focused on your own pleasure that you're pretty sure he's ignoring just how much the pollen's affected him.

(How does he manage to do that?)

You moan raggedly, louder than any sound you’re sure you’ve ever made before, and within seconds his head lifts from your core. A pathetic sound escapes you at the loss of touch, but he doesn’t leave you wanting long. One big hand comes up to grip the hem of your sweater, tugging it up and shoving the fabric into your mouth, hoarsely saying, “They’re going to hear you upstairs if you don’t quiet down.”

Privately, you think that you don’t actually care who hears you, but clearly Steve is still managing a level of sense that completely abandoned, because he only tucks the sweater more firmly against your tongue. Your teeth scrape against his fingers and he groans, wanton but quiet.

“Bite down,” he tells you as his hand retreats, commanding but in a way that doesn’t feel like a demand. Your pussy clenches at the tone, and you're pretty sure you'd do anything as long as he keeps looking at you like that.

So you do as told, and his throat bobs as your mouth closes around the woven yarn, his gaze lingering on your lips. He's trembling with barely restrained desire, and just as you get the bright idea to try and convince him to do something about it, your bra gets roughly yanked down, your breasts spilling into the cold air. Your nipples peak, and Steve’s mouth is on them before you can even blink, sucking one into his mouth while his hand dips back down to your pussy, gathering wetness on his fingers before dipping inside where you ache the most.

The effect is instantaneous. Fireworks explode under your skin, growing bigger and brighter when he slips a third finger inside. He moves at a slow and methodical rhythm, and entirely at odds with how he ravishes your chest, and you can’t help the pathetic mewl that escapes your throat, tears slipping down the side of your face.

He releases your nipple with a wet pop, and immediately delves into the valley of your breasts, sucking spots into your skin that should be painful, but the only thing you can think is that you want the marks to be tattooed into your skin forever, a permanent mark of the pleasure he’s giving you.

Spit trails from his mouth as he makes his way to your other breast, giving it the same ministrations. Sucking, teasing, biting until you yelp through the cloth in your mouth, and you can feel rather than hear the vibration of his laughter, even as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.

The third orgasm doesn’t sneak up on you as much as it consumes you, forcing more tears from your eyes as you shake and shake and shake, clenching down on Steve’s fingers as he works you through it, low, soothing noises murmured into your skin as he makes his way down.

If you were in a more coherent state, you’d recognize his actions for what they were: The further fraying of carefully kept control, because he doesn’t skip a beat as his mouth makes contact with your pussy once more, not bothering to stop and check in, to make sure you still want this.

At this point, you’re both completely aware of what you want, even if he’s still refusing to fully give into the lewdness of the situation.

You, on the other hand, let the fever consume you entirely as he sucks your clit into his mouth, cheeks hollowing, fingers pumping in and out at a steady pace, driving you completely and utterly insane.

You wonder, in a vague, abstract way, if he’s this good even without the added effects of whatever it was that infected the two of you, and you know instinctively that you’d give anything to find out. Especially when his teeth graze across your clit in a way that should be painful but just has your hips jerking against the arm wrapped around your leg. 

“So good for me, honey,” he murmurs into your pussy, twisting his hand to find that sweet spot inside you once more. “Come on, come for me, honey — come for—”

Your fourth orgasm leaves you thrashing against his hold.

Stars burst behind your eyelids as waves of pleasure crash over you, ebbing and flowing but never quite stopping, and somehow — somehow — the heat only builds, consuming the very essence of your being until you’re sobbing in earnest. You scrabble to pull Steve up, up, up until he’s hovering over you. His chin glistens with your arousal, and your chest cracks open as you weep, “Don’t you want me?”

His face cracks at your words, and all at once, you’re able to see everything that he’s been holding back: Fear, confusion, and without a doubt, complete and unadulterated desire.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, honey, I don’t—”

He cuts himself off by burying his face into your neck, the scratchy feeling of his wool sweater against your pebbled nipples doing nothing to tame the arousal burning inside you. And you realize, suddenly, that you asking for it isn’t enough, because it’s Steve — sweet, understanding Steve — who never fails to make you laugh, who always makes sure you’re safely inside after a crawl before going in himself, who has shown up time and time again in such small ways for the duration of your friendship that you know, without a doubt, that asking for it will never convince him of what you want, of your feelings.

“Steve,” you whisper, capturing his face beneath your palms and forcing him to look you in the eye. “I’m glad this was you.”

His brows furrow and his eyes tighten — once, small, pain seeping through his expression — and he throatily says, “What?”

“I’m glad it’s you here and not anyone else,” you say. “If I had to be in this situation with anyone, I’d want it to be you.”

He licks his lips, and his expression blooms into something more hopeful. “Do you really mean that?”

“Steve,” you say softly, full of affection. “I would’ve done this without the crazy dust. Just, you know, maybe not in a random office.”

He searches your face for a moment before finally breathing out, “Okay.”

You freeze, not sure you're hearing him correctly. “Okay?”

He nods, and you watch the feeling swell in him, his composure finally disintegrating in the sureness of your fingers skimming down your side, sliding under your knee to press you open just a bit more. “If you’re — are you sure that you want this? You’re completely—?”

“I want this,” you say again, firm in your conviction. “I want this with you, and I’ll want this with you even once we’re out of here, Steve.”

You watch as your confession hits him: First quietly, then all at once. He looks at you with so much affection that for the first time since you opened that drawer, your chest aches with something other than arousal. Through the haze of pleasure, he looks down at you tenderly, brushing your hair plastered to your face away and, with more regret than you expected, “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

But he doesn’t give you any time to question what he means before he’s surging forward, self-restraint in tatters around the two of you as his mouth crashes into yours. You taste yourself on his tongue, and as his forearms bracket your head, you reach down, scrambling to unbutton his jeans and shove them as far down as you can reach. They barely make it to the top of his thighs before you’re taking him in hand, gasping with pleasure at how big and heavy and warm he feels in your fingers and give a few, lazy pumps. He shudders against your hold but doesn’t fight when you line him up against your entrance and look up at him through hooded eyes, asking one more time, “Please, Steve? I need you.”

This is all he needs to finally snap.

You can feel the last remnants of sense leave his body as his hips thrust forward, his cock pressing entirely inside you in one swift, fluid motion, punching the air from your lungs. He doesn’t give you any time to recover before he’s dragging himself out slowly before pushing back in, and he sets a brutal pace that has any last coherent thought driven from your head as he tends to the fire that’s been coursing throughout your veins. 

And that fire — it changes. Whereas every orgasm he’d drawn out of you with his mouth and fingers had only left you aching, left you wanting for more, with his cock bullying its way in and out of your cunt, you can only feel the fuzzy pleasure of contentment, like there’s been a piece of you missing your entire life that’s finally found its way home.

You think he feels the same when he gazes at you with such adoration, such fondness as he presses your leg even higher, hitting a new, deeper spot within you that has you gasping for more, more, more.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Steve throughout this whole thing, is that he is nothing if not a giving lover.

He snakes a hand back down to your core, fingers slipping over your sensitive core as he breathes, “One more for me, honey?”

(Could you ever deny a request made so lovingly?)

Despite how he pounds into your pussy with reckless abandon, he’s effervescently gentle in how he circles your clit, like he’s aware of just how sore you’re absolutely going to be when all of this is said and done. 

His teeth scrape down your neck as he continues his ministrations, fingers flexing over your most sensitive spot, and it’s as he sucks a hickey into your skin that he coaxes one final orgasm from your worn body.

Your cries come out quieter this time, more exhausted as you clench down on his cock, and within seconds his hips stutter as he spills warmth inside you, and finally, finally, the fever inside you dissipates.

Steve practically collapses on top of you, only just cognizant enough to keep the worst of his weight off of your body as the remnants of whatever infected you both tapers off until the flame is extinguished entirely, leaving you sweaty and spent yet somehow feeling better than you’ve ever felt in your entire life.

The two of you stay like that for a few minutes, chests heaving as you catch your breath. You stroke a hand down his back, watching his face carefully as his eyes flutter open, exhausted but happy as he meets your gaze.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay? That was…”

Intense.

It doesn’t need to be said though. You nod, dragging your hand up to his face to push his bangs from his eyes. “I’m fine. How about you? You held out super long.”

He huffs out a laugh and presses his cheek a little firmer unto your palm. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Promise. Better than I’ve felt in a long while.”

You open your mouth to say something — to confess something — though what, you aren’t quite sure, then the walkie across the room crackles to life, and Dustin Henderson’s panicked voice comes through. “Steve? Steve, are you there? We found something and it’s—”

Steve pushes off of your prone body in seconds, and you’re left achingly empty as he stumbles over to the walkie, snatching it off the table it’s rested on next to the flashlight, calling into it, “Henderson, what’s going on?”

Sticky come slips from your core, wetting your thighs.

“Don’t touch anything!” Dustin demands through the walkie. “It isn’t a shield generator, and Nancy wanted to shoot it—”

“Hey!”

“Have you found anything?” Dustin asks, ignoring Nancy’s protest.

Steve sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and spares you a sidelong glance as you sit up, righting your bra and sweater. “Yeah, I think we found Brenner’s office. Don’t come down here, though. We’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Dustin calls his confirmation, and Steve’s quick to drop the walkie back on top of the table. He makes his way back to you in two, long strides, and kneels down.

“Let me do it,” he says, batting you away and replacing them with your own as he tucks your breasts back into the cups of your bra, gently pulling your sweater down. 

You don’t quite manage to choke down a laugh when he helps you stand up and frowns at the cum dripping down your thighs, looking around to find something to clean it up and coming up short.

“It’s okay,” you say, and Steve nods as he’s forced to accept the situation.

He doesn’t bother giving you your panties back as he draws your jeans back up your legs, holding you steady as you step into each of your shoes that he insists on tying.

He’s quiet, and it takes you a few minutes too long to realize that he’s embarrassed, like you caught him doing something that he wasn’t meant to do. It doesn’t sit well with you.

But he pushes forward with methodical ease, gathering his coat and all of the notebooks that you picked out before the two of you got into this mess, and leads you from the office with the stride of a man used to performing confidence.

Except—

You know it’s an act. You’ve seen him soft, you’ve seen him pushed to the edge, and you now know the way it feels to be the center of his universe, even if only for a singular moment, and you know that you want more.

You jog forward to catch up to him just as he hits the staircase, grasping his arm and force him to look at you.

“Steve,” you gently say. “When all of this is done — when we’re back in Hawkins and — whatever — would you go on a date with me?”

He freezes, but hope still blooms on his face. “I — what?”

“Would you go on a date with me?” you ask again, firmer this time. “Maybe you can show me Star Wars and I can finally see what I’ve been missing this whole time.”

“Really?” You can tell that the question slips out without him meaning to by how quickly his face flushes, but he barrels forward. “You’d really want to go on a date with me?”

“Of course I would,” you say with a smile. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I wanted this when we were out of here. And I didn’t just mean sex, I — I want everything, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, honey.” It comes out breathless, and in the next second he’s leaning down, pressing the softest kiss against your swollen lips. “Of course I’ll have you. I just didn’t want to assume…”

“You can assume,” you reassure. “With me, you can assume.”

And the smile he gives you will leave you burning brightly for many, many more days to come.

[kassy-djomunson]

he’s the most boyfriend ever i’m sick

[shawnxstyles]

guys i got a brazilian for the first time yesterday and honestly it wasn’t that bad. and the lady was sooo nice and kind and gentle and informational that she makes me want to do to again later. i recommend it lowkey

[thecreelhouse]

enjoy the ride

Paring: Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader

Summary: Gator busts a party and finds you stoned and bratty. Someone’s gotta take care of that, right? (Insp. by this post!!) // MDNI

WC: 2.3k

Includes: weed (sorry pals r’s a shameless horny stoner lmao), language, filth with no plot, Gator being a cocky motherfucker, teasing/humiliation/degradation, mentions of threesomes, intox kink, mentions of spitroasting, oral fixation, boot kink/grinding, masturbation, dirty talk, cum play

A/N: I was gonna say I’m not sorry for this one, but if you’re not new here, you know damn well this is one of my tamer fics lmfao. Enjoy <3

“Y’know, you used to be a good girl,” Gator’s got one hand on the steering wheel, while the other holds his vape to his lips; he’s pulling a thick, white cloud out, tilting his head back to blow it towards you. You grimace as the strawberry kiwi vapor hits your face. “What happened, huh?”

You glance out the window, face contorted in annoyance as you shift yourself again; these cuffs were digging into your wrists while pinned between the car’s seat and your body.

“Nothin’ happened, asshole.”

“Watch it.”

“Fuck you,” You spit, kicking the back of his seat like a child. “Why the hell do y’gotta pretend you care about the law when you’re always shoving your dumb ass above it—“

“I said—“

“Oh, go to hell, Gator.”

He slams on the breaks in the empty street, throwing his truck in park and whipping around in his seat towards you. 

“M’sorry, who was the one doin’ drugs tonight?”

“For fuck’s sake, Gator, it’s just weed!” You kick his seat again, causing his brows to furrow and nostrils to flare, pissed. “You’re always stealin’ blow from drug busts for yourself, so you’re one to talk.”

“Shut the fuck up,” He drops his vape on the passenger seat, using the free hand to grab your hair, and yank hard. You’re still stoned, and despite the anger bubbling within you, you can’t help but whine as he pulls your hair. “Oh… oh you’re really fucked these days, aren’t ya’?”

You whimper, eyes screwing shut; Gator releases your hair, but grips your chin forcefully. 

“Look at me,” He orders, but you try to shake your head in his grasp. It’s no use. “I said, look at me.” 

Reluctantly, you do.

“Good girl,” His voice drips with mockery, making your jaw set with resentment. “The fuck were you doin’ tonight?” You roll your eyes, so he tightens his hold, and you wince. 

“It was just a small party, stupid fuck,” You grumble, pissed off, but you can feel yourself softening at your own sharpened edges; you resist folding, though. “You’re like a goddamn rent-a-cop bustin’ a tiny ass college party. Bet your daddy’s so proud.”

Gator’s features are overwhelmed with rage, but he doesn’t act the way you expect. He shoves you back, turning toward the wheel as he continues driving again.

“Spoiled rotten brat,” He mutters, combat boot pushing the gas pedal further down. “What were ya’ gonna do, get high and let some scumbag, frat boy fuck ya’?”

You want to snap back, want to respond with something you know will be a blow to his fragile ego— like how he looks like a damn frat boy himself wearing that cap backwards— but you’re only sinking further into a dreamy daze despite the situation at hand. The edible you took earlier is finally kicking in, and you’re not sure if you should call it good or bad timing.

Instead, you giggle, “Nah, I was gonna let two of ‘em ruin me.”

Gator chokes on the pull from his vape, eyes darting from the road to the rear view mirror, completely caught off guard.

“Y- you what?”

Oh, you feel good, really good. Yeah, the timing’s perfect, you’ve decided. 

“Uh-huh, they ain’t half bad at spitroastin’.” You’re so smiley, bubbly, while talking so crudely. Gator does a double take, but forces himself to watch the road, not you. “Did it a few times already— you ever share a girl with another dude?”

He’s speechless; there’s no way you’re the same girl he grew up alongside with at Sunday School.

“Didn’t think so, you’re too much of a stubborn dick to share, huh?” You lean back, the pain subsiding in your wrists as the high takes over. “Probably never even fucked a girl on your own before—“

“Will you shut your fucking mouth already?”

“You could always shut it for me,” You grin, but it doesn’t appear as mischievous as you’d like; your eyes are red, squinting as you giggle again.

Gator had every intention of bringing you to the station, but where he should make a right at this light, he goes left. He keeps quiet, lets your loose lips do the talking.

“Bet you’re— you—“ The giggles are full on laughter now as you lose whatever insult you’re about to throw his way; the big problem when you’re intoxicated is not being able to keep your thoughts to yourself. Any truths or beliefs that cross your mind are willing to slip out. Like, this one, “Bet you got a big dick.”

He rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t hide the way his face is flushed red, or how his cargo pants feel too tight now.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” He’s smug as he plays it off, but internally he’s a nervous wreck. 

“Maybe I—“ You glanced out the window, surroundings passing by familiar, but not for the direction you thought you were going in. “Gator, ain’t this the way to your house?”

“It’s this or the station,” He offers, and you shrug, smirking. “Unless you want your family findin’ out how much of a disappointment you are.”

You ignore that last part, “S’long as you touch me—“

“That’s not what’s gonna happen,” He’s aware the lie comes off weak, but keeps going. “But if you’re gonna be a stoned slut, someone’s gotta do somethin’ about it.”

Your thighs squeeze together, whining and aching for relief. 

“Gator…”

He pulls up to his house, windows dark and driveway empty; he’s grateful tonight of all nights he has the place to himself. Without a word, he tugs you out of the truck, leading you up to the front door.

There’s a lot of stumbling and giggles from you, a few times you even lean into him, about to fall over.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re a hot mess.”

With patience stretched thin and a little more effort, Gator gets you up the stairs and into his room; he grips your face roughly, a smug trace of a smile curling up as you wince. He studies your face, eyes lost in a daze and tinged red.

“Used t’be so sweet,” He mutters, gripping tighter, earning a broken whine from you. “You’re gonna tell me you wanna let two scumbags use you like some toy, but can’t handle me holdin’ your face?”

“It hurts, asshole,” You do your best to grumble out while his grasp squishes your face. Finally, he lets go, eyes trailing along the red fingerprints left behind. The same hand runs up and through your hair, grabbing a fistful at the crown of your head before roughly yanking like earlier. You fight back a moan, “Let go!”

Gator runs his tongue along his bottom lip, smirking at the way you squirm, how your thighs are pressing together, telling a different story. “You want me to? ‘Cause it seems like you’re a lil’ needy right now.”

“You’re the one that ruined my night, fucker.” All you wanted was a good time after a long, awful day at work. That was it. Your irritable mood was fading off as the high only got stronger as the minutes passed. Instead of looking pissed, you look pathetic.

Gator mockingly pouts at you, “Poor thing didn’t get railed, what a fuckin’ tragedy.”

What once felt good was turning into too much; you’re too high, and when you’re high, you’re horny. So right now, you’re a straight up disaster of sexual sensitivity.

“M’really high,” Is all you can get out, bottom lip wobbling. You’re not upset because he’s being rough with you, nor are you upset over your ruined night anymore. You’re just really, really turned on and needy, and bothered that you can’t do anything about it. 

For a second, you swear you see a flash of sympathy in his eyes, but it could just be your mind playing tricks on you. “And whose fault is that?”

“… Mine.”

“What, you get all panicky or somethin’ when you’re too stoned?”

You shake your head. “Not really, but I- I—“

It doesn’t take long for Gator to get it. His large hands push down on your shoulders, directing you to the floor. Meanwhile, he sits on the edge of his bed; you’re about to kneel between his legs, but he stops you, sliding his leg forward. He pushes you to straddle his boot; even through your shorts, the slightest pressure on your heat makes you shudder and moan.

“So needy, like a fuckin’ dog.” He shrugs his vest off, stripping his upper half until he’s left in a white tank, and leaves the cap on. “Go ‘head, show me how bad you need this.”

“You’re so gross, Gator,” You grumble, trying to lift yourself away from the boot, but he shoves you back down, holds you with a strong grip. Again, you moan, head falling forward into his leg. Your hips involuntarily roll forward, brushing your core against the rough, worn leather. “Fuck… I hate this.”

“Bullshit.”

He’s right, but you won’t admit that, at least not in your own words. Your hips have no problem telling the truth, though. He slightly tilts his foot up, giving more pressure to where you want him most. 

“C’mon, brat, m’givin’ you what you wanted,” He takes a hit off his vape, blowing in your face again. Your face scrunches up in annoyance, but that falls away when you feel him press harder into your core. “But y’gotta work for it.”

“Well, my dignity’s fucked after this, might as well enjoy the ride,” You think to yourself, hips slowly finding a rhythm; you giggle out loud, amused by your own thoughts. “Enjoy the ride. I’m funny.”

Meanwhile Gator’s lost on what has you laughing, glaring down at you, but perplexed.

“You’re fuckin’ weird when you’re high.”

“And you’re always fuckin’ annoying.”

With an eye roll paired with a huff, he leans forward, pushing two fingers past your lips before they close. He half expects you to protest with a whining pout, but he’s not really surprised when you moan around his digits instead. You’re just happy to have your mouth occupied, and he’s not complaining about the lack of attitude coming from you.

Swirling your tongue around his fingers, you hollow your cheeks, eyes heavy with lust, fixated on him as you grind on his boot. The cuffs’ chain gently jingles, still holding your arms back. 

“You’re fuckin’ disgusting,” He snarls, nudging his boot against you. Your eyes roll back, still grinding, still sucking. “Bet the only reason guys like tag teaming ya’ is ‘cause it shuts you up. You’re prettier with your mouth full.”

That last one would probably sting if you were sober, but right now, the degradation only adds to the slick building between your thighs.

Gator palms himself with his free hand, groaning at the sight before him, and the feeling wrapped around his fingers; the vape’s forgotten by now. It’s not long before he hastily unzips his pants and frees himself.

At first, you’re lost in the moment— how good the friction feels, how you’re imagining his cock instead of his fingers in your mouth, but then, you look up.

When you joked earlier that Gator was big, you didn’t actually believe that; you gag on his fingers, drool around them, legs shaking while you watch as he slowly pumps himself. A gravelly chuckle rises out of him as he pulls his fingers away, amused by the look of loss and desperation on your face now that your mouth’s empty again.

“How wet are you right now?” You shrug, completely fuzzy and blissed out, but struggling to reach climax. “‘Cause I can fuckin’ smell your cunt from here.”

“Gator, p- please, I need— I—“

“C’mon, get yourself off and I’ll reward ya’.” He sounds… oddly sweet. Sickeningly sweet. “Or are you fucked dumb already without me touchin’ you yet?”

You shake your head, crying out, inching closer to your release. He nudges his boot into you again; this should not feel as good as it does right now.

“Poor thing… can’t even think for yourself,” The way he taunts you causes you cunt to clench around nothing. Watching how he strokes himself has you envious over his hand; you want him, want him deep inside you, and you don’t care where, as long as he’s fucking one of your holes. “S’probably from all the times you’ve had your thoughts fucked outta your head. Anythin’ left up there?”

Again, you shake your head, pouting.

“Gator, m’so— I—“ You tense up, head lolling back before a strangled moan leaves you. An electrified jolt of pleasure courses through your body as you finally reach your high— the other one you’d been craving all night.

“F- fuck—“ Gator watches you fall apart with hooded eyes, hips flexing up towards his fist. He spills over himself, moaning out, and Jesus Christ is he loud.

The two of you are panting, twitchy messes. He slides his grip up his shaft, collecting his arousal before pushing a cum-soaked hand towards you.

“Clean it up, brat.” You’re a little too eager to follow his order, tongue lapping along his skin, tasting the salty, musky cream with a whimper. “God, you’re so fuckin’ gross. Gonna keep ya’ forever.”

“S’that supposed to mean?” You murmur, tongue flitting along the last of the pearly substance, swallowing it all. 

“Means you ain’t gettin’ fucked by any frat boys any time soon. I’ll even let ya’ get as high as ya’ want when we fuck around.” He taps your lips, and you open, tongue out to show him you did as you were told. “Good girl.”

“You gonna make me feel better than they do?”

“Depends if you can handle me eatin’ ya’ out for hours.” You nod enthusiastically. 

“Just… can you cuff me in the front instead?” Your question comes out soft, but still pathetic. He quirks a brow. “Wanna lay on my back so I can see you.”

Gator groans loudly, “Yeah, fuck. Get up here,” He begins pulling you up, but pauses, glancing down at his boot, glistening with slick. Your shorts are ruined with wet heat soaking through, too. “Clean that up first, though. And take your time, ‘cause I wanna watch.”

[thecreelhouse]

always ready to be left out in the cold

Paring: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Getting stuck with Steve in the van on crawl nights fucking sucks. Getting stranded in a snowstorm, forced to cuddle up next to the one person you cannot stand, all to share warmth and hopefully survive the night? You’re almost certain you’d rather freeze to death. Almost.

WC: 18k+

Includes: bitchy idiots to lovers. one bed & forced proximity tropes. hurt/comfort. angst w/ some fluff to balance it out. language. steve’s trauma. reader’s trust issues. smut- heavy petting, humping, oral (f receiving), PiV sex, dirty talk. reader has no descriptions beyond breasts & vagina, and she/her pronouns. fic takes place in the winter, pre s5. prob some inaccuracies re: treating hypothermia; everything I researched was conflicting with other info, so for the sake of the fic, pretend any errors work lmao. lmk if I forgot any tags. // MDNI 18+ as always with my fics, please respect that.

A/N: Said I wasn’t gonna even try to write a van fic, the fandom has enough, and then this idea slapped itself permanently into my brain after vol. 1, and unfortunately took me months to finish. So... sorry if you’re sick of the van fics, but here’s one more 😅 title is a lyric from hard - hayley williams, and the fic is loosely (very loosely lol) inspired by the song itself. dividers by @/cursed-carmine

‎♪ always ready for the piano to fall / always ready to be left out in the cold / armor’s heavy, never suited me at all / but it’s the devil I know ♬

This has to be the worst night for a crawl yet.

Much to your dismay, you're stuck with Steve in the van tonight.

Dustin's sick with the flu, Will is still restricted from ever leaving Joyce's sight at this point, and you were more knowledgeable on telemetry tracking than Jonathan.

Leaving you- alone- with your least favorite person, for the rest of the night.

Yeah, lucky you.

This isn't the first time you've been paired up with him, nor would it be the last, you're certain. However, tonight's forecast called for snow and plummeting temps; accurate as ever as the evening grew near, with grey-white clouds blanketing the skies, flurries fluffing up by the minute.

You tried warning the others about the weather, understanding that crawls were usually non-negotiable, keeping flexible to the military's burn schedules, unbeknownst to them.

It still had to happen; any chance to find and defeat Vecna is a chance to end this nightmare, once and for all.

And that's never your call to make.

Creaking the passenger side door open, the first greeting that hits you is a miffed grumble, "Jesus, took you long enough."

"Yeah, hi to you too, Steve," you deadpan, careful to climb in backwards, kicking as much snow off your boots as you can before shutting the door.

He gives you a once-over, poorly stifling an ill-fitted chuckle.

Rolling your eyes, you glare over at him. "What?"

"You look like that kid from A Christmas Story with all those layers."

"Ha-ha, very funny." You struggle to cross your arms, puffed up and padded down with your winter coat.

"There's heat in the van, y'know." Glancing over his shoulder, he throws a thumb to the back of the van. "That box of stuff is back there, too, but… kinda just a waste of space, don't you think?"

"Oh, for the love of—" you crawl between the front seats, shoving Steve's shoulder in the process. Reaching the medium-sized cardboard box, you drag a well-loved and worn blanket out. "We've been over this, Steve."

"We get it, your circulation sucks, or whatever. I don't see how that's anyone else's problem."

"If I have to put up with you leaving all those goddamn Boppers wrappers around, you can deal with the emergency box." Holding a hand up, you add, "Which, is for everyone, by the way."

"Yeah, well, a sleeping bag's a little much. And extra socks? A sweatshirt? C'mon—"

"Last week Dustin was glad I packed that sweatshirt when it dropped to 40 degrees at night," you settle in the back, unlocking the wheel on the ceiling. "Because you refused to shut your window."

Exasperated, he throws his arms up. "The cold keeps me awake! Sue me!" Steve turns around, lip curled upward in disgust. "Also it's gross you just… leave socks for other people to use."

"They're new and I wash them if they get used! I wash everything in here, you fucking mor—"

"Hey, guys, you good to go?" Robin's voice through the tinny speaker of the walkie disrupts the insults you had on standby for Steve.

Glaring at Steve while he reflects his own sharp stare, you respond, "As good as we're gonna get."

There's no room for Steve to bite back; you're already tugging the headphones over your ears, focused as you fidget with the knobs. Your main concern isn't him, it's tracking Hopper to keep this as successful and safe of a crawl as possible.

Steve's gaze lingers, but it softens, deflates into one of dejection. You feel his eyes on you, but ignore it, thinking he's still trying to hold out on the sign of animosity; it's not that.

Despondency plagues him whenever you're around, and he resorts to cynicism, trapped in its ugly cycle. You hate him, why should he play nice in return?

It's easier to allow bitterness to keep distance between the two of you. Easier to forget how you and Steve were just in reach of something more.

Until you just… left. 

 Friendship break-ups are sometimes harder than romantic ones.

No one ever talks about that weird gap, suspended between acquaintances and beyond, falling into potential friendship, drifting back off into something bitter, a bond you only shared, tip-toeing along a jagged edge.

You'd drift in, drift out.

Grew close, just enough for hope to thrive, only to push him away.

In, out.

All while longing for something more, desperate to ride out a wave that drifts back and builds momentum, only to crash ashore into nothing.

So you cough up water, take a few deep breaths, and dive back in again.

Turns out, that shit gets exhausting over time. Especially when you discover a grim truth, hidden from the start.

When you're not treading water to stay afloat, it's swimming through a naval minefield in murky waters; drift into one, and you're blasted into overthinking what went wrong, what stopped the bond from blooming. And all it takes is one 'what if?' to shift course and bump into one these mines, ruining your day completely.

What if you hadn't moved away after Starcourt's explosive demise, deciding on a fresh start by leaving this nightmare of a town behind?

What if you and Steve were able to become more, if not stay friends, and he had just been honest about the Upside Down from the beginning?

What if you allowed that friendship to swell into something more? Standing him up on a date that could've changed everything; a wave ready to ride out naturally, only to retreat. Withdraw like the ocean before returning full force as a tsunami; why follow the tide out just to trap yourself in the path of imminent destruction?

If you stayed… would it have been worth it?

The two of you were star-crossed; Steve was still hung up on Nancy when you discovered your feelings for him. When he moved on, you found someone else. It almost turned into a sad, little game; when one was ready, the other had been redirected elsewhere.

It was even pitiful, the way you two barely had a friendship to build on, because one wasn't ready, and the other got tired of waiting.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Your time outside of Hawkins brought you steps away from turning fully into stone; get hurt enough times, you refuse welcoming anyone and everyone in so easily. One too many soured relationships had you settled on the idea that maybe you just weren't meant to share love like that.

That hurt transforms your body as a shield for your heart, ribs hardening into steel cages as an added last line of defense; you were one heartbreak away from adding electric barbed wire for good measure.

No one would get in again. Not if you could help it. Not like that.

Coming home wasn't an easy choice, but it was the only one that felt right. Your friends were still here, who you loved as family— bonded through unholy tragedies rather than blood, still family all the same; you had to check on them. You couldn't leave them hanging again.

Because your first thought upon hearing of the destruction, was what if any of them died?

Then you return to find out the worst what if came true: someone among the group died; Eddie's gone. And Max? Well… she's closer to a tragic ending than most of you.

You suffocated yourself in distractions, helping your parents to pack up and move out, promising you wouldn't be too far behind, that you needed to check on your friends immediately.

Unfortunately, coming home right before the town went into quarantine was not part of the plan.

Time away had you forget how downright stubborn Steve could be if he set his mind to something, and all he wanted was to break your walls down, at least to find common ground.

That was still far too much give, and not enough take for you. They're not uncharted waters, you just know you're not meant to navigate them, and know damn well Steve would just stand by and watch you sink.

Those what ifs of your past resurfaced, pulling you under, taunting you to open your mouth when there was nowhere to breathe.

The last place you needed to drown in emotions you couldn't afford was in a town under quarantine. Locked in, fenced off from the rest of the world, with someone you barely had a chance to build a friendship with. Someone you always yearned for more with, yet royally fucked up any chances with.

That more, those chances, they're thousands of meters below a rough, choppy surface, down to the pitch-black depths of the abyssal zone; it's just not in reach, and you've protected your heart this long, you didn't need all that effort to go to waste within a impulsive dive, head first into what would certainly make your heart implode.

You can only tread water for so long, though.

"Hop's going as slow as possible tonight, so we don't have to speed, alright?"

Steve only shoves an aggressive thumbs up over his head, tongue prodding into the side of his cheek.

"I mean, it'll pick up if he hitches a ride on a military truck for a while, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Don't go fast unless necessary." He grumbles under his breath, "I'm not stupid."

And that stings, because you genuinely weren't insinuating that. In fact, you're certain you've never insinuated that before.

"Steve, I wasn't trying to—"

"Don't." His shoulders tense up, grumbling out, "Unless it's about this crawl, I don't wanna talk. You focus on your job, I'll focus on mine."

His flat tone and curt demeanor makes your stomach churn. Nights like these where you're forced together have you longing for the past. Before you knew of the Upside Down, before he was trapped in a bunker below Starcourt, before you left like a goddamn coward.

Ever since you returned to Hawkins, it's like he resents you for protecting yourself. Your peace. Your sanity.

What the hell was the point of continuing to stick around, pour your heart into a friendship that only opened if you brought the crowbar?

Despite the mutual loathing, you and Steve make a pretty solid team when kept strictly to business.

Keeping up with a telemetry tracker while stuck in a snow storm is tricky, to say the least. Neither of you have a problem blaming the other for what's outside of your control, though.

"Jesus, Steve, slow down." It's hard to sit upright as he keeps his speed— a speed that normally wouldn't be a problem, if it weren't for the slick roads. You hiss under your breath,"Fucking lead-foot."

He hears you, snapping back, "You wanna drive? Huh?" His eyes stay fixated on the road. The windshield becomes more obstructed as the snow gains momentum, falling heavily onto every surface within reach. "By all means, be my guest."

"God, you're such a bitch."

"Me?! Have you ever heard yourself talk for even, like, five seconds?" Steve's tempted to turn around to shout at you, but he keeps whatever cool he has left— which isn't much— and continues driving safely. "You're so fucking rude, and- god- you're so annoying, so fucking annoying."

"That's bold, coming from a pain in the ass like you…" you grumble, trailing off as the signal on the tracker drops; Hopper stopped moving. "Steve. Steve!"

"What?! Christ, can't you shut up—"

"Stop!"

"How come I have to stop, but you can keep bitching and moaning—"

"I meant the van, asshole!"

Steve slams on the brakes, hoping to skid to a stop, but the van keeps moving.

Gliding. Coasting. The van's skating on the slick road, completely out of control.

You throw the headphones aside, scrambling to the front to peer around Steve's seat. "Dude, what the fuck?!"

"Shit, shit, shit!"

Steve's death grip wraps around the wheel, knuckles turning white; he's ready to turn it toward the shoulder to get off the road, but you grab his arm and hold him in place. Eyes darting to the floor, you see his foot is still weighed down on the brake pedal.

"Wait— watch it! Harrington, keep the wheel straight!" Voice trembling from the frenzy. Steve's about to slam his foot down onto the brake when you panic, "Fuck, get your foot off the brake!"

Despite sliding, you don't spin. Snowfall rushes around the van, limiting visibility to just a few feet ahead. Even as the van slows, it fishtails. Steve frantically switches into low gear, breaths heavy and jagged as he releases control.

His right arm shoots out, bridging between the seats to brace himself and create a barrier to hold you back. Alarmed, he shouts, "Stay down!"

You don't move in time before impact, but you're projected into his arm with force, restraining you from hurtling over the seats and into the dashboard. The van's wheels rumble as it veers off the road, the ditch finally slowing you down to a halt.

Adrenaline rushing, you pant as you're frozen against his arm, processing that absolute disaster.

"Shit…" Steve gasps, trying to catch his breath. "… You okay?" Scanning over your figure, unable to find immediate concern beyond the fear on your expression, his shoulders begin to relax.

"Uh-huh," you rasp out, glancing up at him. "You?"

He nods firmly and swallows. "M'okay."

Static harshly shoves into the van, with Robin's voice following close behind.

She drones out, "Angry Lovebirds, do you copy? Hellooooo? Where the hell did you two go?"

You cringe at the code name, wishing you could shrink on the spot and disappear.

"Why the hell does she still call us that?" Steve gripes, running his hands over his face. "We've never— I don't even—"

Her voice drops to a mutter and cuts Steve off, asking as if the others aren't on the same channel, "Please tell me you two didn't kill each other."

"Oh my god," Steve rolls his eyes with a groan, head falling back against the seat.

In reluctant favor of answering Robin, you leave the warmth of Steve's side to grab the walkie. You curse yourself inwardly at the misplaced feelings.

Thumb jabbing in the talk button, you exhale a winded response, "We're good, we, uh…" Your eyes meet Steve's before darting away. "We hit black ice, though."

"Shit! Can you make it back safely?" She adds, "We were trying to get a hold of you guys, 'cus we had to call off the crawl. It didn't work out."

So the two of you slid on black ice… for nothing.

Fantastic.

"Um, hang— h- hold on." Turning to Steve, you noticed smoke rising on the other side from the van's hood. "Oh, fuck."

Steve jerks his head up, jumping into action. He kills the engine, immediately cutting off the warmth from the janky heater. Throwing his jacket on, he flings the driver's side door open and jumps out. Snowfall drifts sideways from the wind, and he winces as it pelts into his face.

"Guys?" Nancy's voice takes over now, concerned with the delay. "What's the status on the van?"

"Uh- well, it's actually—" You forget to release the talk button, shouting after Steve. "Wait! I'm coming with!"

Releasing it, a booming voice immediately floods through the speaker. "What the hell is going on out there?"

Hopper.

Oh, boy.

Meanwhile, Steve stands firm, shouting over the brutal, howling wind, "No, you're staying put!" He bites back on his own shivers, already creeping down his spine as he slams the door shut.

Well, can't say you didn't try.

Flicking your thumb against the talk button, your explanation comes to life with nervous laughter. "Hop! Hi. Soooooo… we're stuck in a ditch."

You can just imagine the drawn out sigh he lets out before responding, pinching the bridge of his nose, and all.

"Okay, where are you exactly?"

The glass of the back door window is freezing as you try to peek out. You huff your breath onto the glass, rubbing your sleeve against it to clear it up. It barely helps, with snow and frost beginning to coat it completely outside.

You squint through the narrow opening between patches of snow, gaze landing on the landmark in the near distance.

Groaning, you punch the talk button with your thumb. "The fuckin' cemetery."

"Language."

"Hey, I'm an adult! Last thing on my mind right now is censoring myself," you grumble into the walkie.

"How the hell did you two end up out there? That's not where I was in the Upside Down."

So, not only did the van throw you and Steve around like rag dolls on a failed crawl, but the tracker was off.

Way off.

"I- I don't know."

A frustrated shout cuts through the whistling squall outside. The van rocks as Steve kicks the bumper, cursing wildly at the shoddy engine.

"I thought you said you could handle tracking?"

Your blood begins to boil. Now's not the time for some trivial debate, not when you're possibly stranded in what's shaping up to be one of the worst snow storms Hawkins has seen yet.

There's no chance to respond when another voice, congested and hoarse, cuts in. "She can, she's actually good at this."

Dustin Henderson is a goddamn good egg, even while battling the flu.

You wish Hopper could see the smug grin on your face right now.

"I personally think Hop lost the tracker—" silence cuts in for a second, returning with Hopper scolding him; they have to be fighting over the damn walkie. "Watch it, kid. I didn't lose shit."

You slam your thumb down onto the talk button within another pause, mocking back, "Hey, Hopper? Language."

Another pause draws itself out, and eventually Robin returns with an exasperated huff. "You and Steve did nothing wrong. Hopper definitely lost the tracker."

"I didn't lose the fucking—"

The talk button is released on her end, abruptly interrupting Hopper's rant.

"Anyway… we're not that far from the station, right?"

"Five miles an hour in that van might take way longer, but you're not making it here on foot in this weather. It's not safe."

Woven into the wind is a muffled "son of a bitch!". The hood slams shut, jostling the van before Steve yanks the van door open, gracelessly stumbling inside.

Snow sticks to his hair, his clothes, slowly melting to leave him like a freezing, wet dog.

"This is fu- fuck, it's cold—!". Steve huffs out a mirthless chuckle, appearing nowhere near amused. "S'fucking ridiculous." His teeth chatter as he gripes, eyes falling on you, then to the walkie. "Give m- me that."

Steve's hand brushes against yours as he snatches the walkie from you, frigid and stiff. It takes a few tries to hit the talk button and hold it in successfully.

"Can anyone come get us? The van's f- fucked." With his jaw this tight, he's about to crush his teeth to dust. For a second, his eyes flicker to you, and you swear there's a flash of something genuine within the hazel. "Leaving the engine run is a d- disaster waiting to happen, so we can't use the h- heat."

There's silence on the other end; lack of an instant answer usually never fares well for any of you.

Scouring through the emergency box, you pick out a small, rolled towel, handing it over to Steve. For once, he doesn't look at you like you're nuts for keeping the damn box stocked.

He accepts it with a trembling hand, murmuring a both grateful yet defeated "Thanks".

"It's too dangerous for anyone to drive out, and way too dangerous for you two to try walking back. The nearest tunnel is at least a mile out from you, give or take on where you two ended up exactly in the cemetery."

Steve exhales roughly through his red, wind-bitten nose, handing the walkie back to you. "You t- take it. M'too pissed off to be nice ri- right now."

Nodding solemnly, you grab it back, responding to everyone. "Okay. We'll just… tough it out. I got some stuff to stay warm, so we should be okay for a few hours at least." Sighing, you glance up at Steve, laying out the now damp towel on the dashboard. "But the second it's safe enough, someone needs to come get us."

Hopper presses the talk button early, releasing a weary sigh first. "We'll try when we can."

That's not good enough, not for you, and not for Steve; the two of you cannot be stranded here overnight.

Together.

Alone.

"No, you'll do it when you can. I warned y'all the weather would be shit. You get us out of this mess the moment this storm slows down. Got it?"

A lengthy pause begins to irritate you the longer the seconds pass.

"Yeah, kid. I got it."

In defeat, you chuck the walkie aside, swallowing down the urge to scream.

It's no use to be angry now; best to bury those emotions and redirect that energy into something useful. Like helping Steve.

Even if he doesn't really deserve your help to begin with.

"Okay, Harrington, here's what's gonna happen." He turns slowly, heavy-lidded with fatigue settling into his expression. "I think the clothes in here are your size—"

"How the hell do y- you know what size clothes I wear?"

Would it kill him to be nice? Or quiet? For just five fucking seconds?

"To keep this shit on hand if we need it, and you're welcome, by the way." You toss a t-shirt with the radio's logo on it, wool socks, and sweatpants his way. "There's a reason I asked everyone what their sizes were months ago."

Steve catches it all, just barely, but he's left dumbfounded. Through chattering teeth, he snaps, "Wh- why the hell do I want these?"

"Are you kidding me? Dude, you can't stay in those clothes. You're gonna get hypothermia."

"Whatever," he starts peeling off his clothes, and you take that as a cue to turn around. A faint comment slips under his breath, "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's still audible enough to you, clear enough to sting. You feel like a damn fool for thinking Steve was finally presenting something other than hatred, for once.

"You're not the only one who doesn't wanna be stuck here." Rubbing your eyes, you sigh.

There's no way you can last the night in here without killing one another; it's too long to put up with his bullshit.

Unless…

There might be one shred of hope left. And okay, sure, it's more a thin, fraying thread that could lead to nothing, but you won't know until you try.

You bundle yourself back up, zipping up your jacket, winding the scarf around your neck tightly, tugging your hat over your head. Steve notices when you're slipping your hands into a pair of mittens.

"Hey, whoa—" Now comfortably changed, he clambers to the back, a little too close for comfort. "No. What are you doing? You're not going out there."

But you ignore his concern, if it's even real to begin with. "That gas station's still down the road, right?"

"Maybe? I don't— that's not—" Frazzled, he stumbles over his thoughts. "You're not walking down there in the snow." His fingers fight against stiffness, winding around your wrist shielded under your coat. "You need to be safe."

"Why? So you don't get the blame if something bad happens?" Irritated, you yank your hand back. "Just… wait here. I'll be quick."

"Quick? Yeah, right. It's not that close by foot." Steve, still stiff from the cold, clumsily shoves in front of you to block the back doors. "Your circulation sucks, remember?"

His attempted smartass comment fails miserably as concern seeps through the cracks of his tone.

"And you said it wasn't your problem," you retort, shoving him aside. "Look, it's right down the road. Maybe we'll be lucky and they'll have coffee, or something hot. We both could use something like that right now—"

"You brought your thermos! I haven't seen you use it once." He runs a hand through his damp hair, sighing. "And even if they did have coffee, it'd be ice cold by the time you got back."

"Oh, you watching my every move now, Harrington?" Your voice drops low, dry, sick of this conversation. "That's precious."

He doesn't react, only argues, "What if it's closed?"

Your eyes dart away from him, faltering. "T- there's a pay phone outside," you really thought it'd be easier to shake him. "I can call someone to get us out—"

"No. Now you're just being ridiculous." One hand perches on his hip, while the other waves wildly as he speaks. "Who the hell's coming out after curfew? Especially in this?"

You shrug, shrinking into yourself with a weak lie. "… I might know a guy?"

"Cut the shit, what's out there that's worth freezing to death for, huh?"

"I'm trying to leave you the fuck alone, Steve!" Seething, the explosion silences Steve, guilt and shame softening his expression. "I'm not thrilled to be stranded here with you either, but I was willing to play nice! I was willing to get along, but you don't want that, and that—" You bite back tears, ones born of anger, maybe even a hint of rage. "That's fine. Just trying to make it easier for us both, give some space."

"Wh… what?" He's dumbfounded. "When I said I didn't want to be stuck here, that wasn't about you—"

"Oh, please. Like I buy that for a fucking second."

"I wish you would!" He exclaims, voice fracturing with panic. "You really think I want you to freeze to death 'cause we can't get along? That's the last thing I'd want."

"Yeah, well…" your hand lingers over the handle, glaring back at him, returning the jagged comment to sender. "It'd be better than being stuck here."

It's tempting to tack on "with you" at the end, but you bite your tongue. You're not even sure if you'd mean that.

Eyes set forward, you miss his sullen, wounded stare, etched into his features when you exit the van. You're plunging head first into regret once your boots hit the snow. Instead of swallowing your pride and climbing right back in, you feign indifference as you slam the doors shut without looking back.

The doors never reopen, and he never calls for you; it's clear how much of a relief the space is for both of you.

If you tell yourself enough times that it's better than being stuck in that doomed ice box on wheels with Steve all night, maybe you'll begin believing it.

Before the Upside Down, before losing his friends, losing Nancy, losing the cheap crown on his head in his fall from grace— Steve could fall asleep with ease. His head could hit the pillow and he'd be out.

The typical high school blues were enough to send any teenager into stress-induced sleep loss, but the Upside Down's daunting reminder that the fight was only dormant, forced full blown insomnia to become his closest friend.

Exhaustion would lead him to eventually sleep, but he'd fight it off as long as he could; you can only handle the bloodcurdling screams and cries of your friends dying in your dreams so many times before giving up on sleep completely.

Every creak in his house on nights home alone— loneliness all too common in that house— had him holding his breath, waiting for sudden movements to echo out again. Every light bulb, flickering on its way out for good, froze him in fear of who, or what, lay in wait on the other side. And if a detail, no matter how small, is enough to keep him from sleep, that's an open invitation for his mind to spiral.

Tonight, trying to rest in the van, he notices a gap; it's thin and barely noticeable, between the flimsy plywood floorboards underneath the shag carpet. Steve feels it every time he tosses and turns; it always digs into his left hip, slightly uneven from the other board it should be snug against.

He flips to the right, but no, that feels wrong; he's not a right side sleeper. That changed after '84, and he's not exactly sure why, but he sleeps better on the left side.

And on his back? He doesn't even dare, not after a sleep paralysis episode after those fucking bats attacked him. That one and only episode he felt pinned to the bed, like a bat was choking him all over again. His scars ached for hours after, the one around his throat singed through his skin like some god-awful, hellish rope-burn.

So, yeah, Steve can't sleep, clearly not from the cold; turns out, that sleeping bag of yours was a good idea. He won't outright admit that though. Or, how your emergency box actually was, and continues to be, useful.

He tries to rest, flip-flops between sides to get comfortable, but the minutes you're gone only accumulate in his mind to a concerning degree, like the heavy snowfall outside. Every second that ticks past is a second too long without you.

By car, the gas station is a few minutes away. By foot, in weather like this, bundled up in excessive layers? Shit, even he'd struggle to move quickly. He'd definitely get sick, too.

Time passes, snow builds, and Steve continues to overthink. Eventually, he wonders, Am I really that fucking awful to be stranded in the snow with?

What the answer would be to you, he already knows. You think he doesn't give a fuck, and it's not like he's done much to prove otherwise.

To you, Steve's fears to let you go out into the cold were only linked to the clear concept of: if you got hurt, he'd be to blame.

To Steve, though, it goes beyond blame; he's scared, now rueful, that he didn't fight harder to make you stay, because the thought of losing you more than he already had terrifies him.

The possibilities of what could go wrong were endless: you, losing your way, disoriented from the blizzard. What if you froze to death out there? Or got caught being out past curfew? Though, Steve's pretty sure the military doesn't give a fuck about two idiots stranded in the snow.

The wind howls and whistles, whipping around the van as the snow falls diagonally. Every now and then, he opens each door to slam it again, shaking off the snow outside; there's too much buildup to keep an eye out for you.

He checks his watch; you left about an hour ago. The footprints that trailed behind you are now covered over with fresh snow.

Steve's tempted to radio everyone at the station— assuming they stayed in for the night with the storm— but that means admitting he didn't stop you. He didn't protect you.

You're your own person, though. You don't need to be babied, or protected.

Sure doesn't stop Steve's protective side from caring about you.

It's not like anyone could come out to rescue either of you in the first place. But if you're gone and he says nothing, he'd never forgive himself if you got sick. Or worse.

Jesus, what if you're already freezing to death?

In the midst of internal panic, a thud! with fierce force slams against the van outside. Steve jolts upright, startled enough that it clears his damn sinuses while his heart races.

There's another thump, with a few more to follow, inching towards the passenger side door. It flings open, snow sprinkling in as you flop forward, face against the seat.

"Jesus Christ," is all Steve can manage to say, because he's grateful to see you, alive, but also, you're such a fucking idiot.

You crawl into the van, collapsing onto the floor. "'Idn't wanna get th'carpet wet," you mumble through your teeth, jaw rigid, struggling to close the door as the handle slips through your weak grip.

"C'mon, sit up for me." Steve guides you into the seat while you struggle, clumsy like you're intoxicated, yet your limbs are stiff. Under your freezing wet clothes, he can feel you shiver, practically vibrating uncontrollably.

When you're settled up right, he shoots an arm between the seat and wall, barely managing to grab the door handle and slam it shut.

"Ow… S'loud," you groan.

"Shit, sorry." He drags the box over, rummaging through it haphazardly. A pair of sweats and a sweater lay at the bottom, warm and ready to wear. He lays them aside, leaning over the seat to unzip your coat.

"D- damn, a'least flirt with me first," you slur, lips a muted shade from their normal lively color.

It's a joke, but not an invite for playful banter; Steve bites his tongue, quickly helping you out of your coat. He unwinds your scarf and tugs your hat off, dropping all of them to the driver side's floor.

Your clothes are soaked underneath, too. Though you're still pretty covered, he can see how strained your muscles are from stiffening.

Steve peels your puffy vest, hoodie, and sweater off next— Jesus, he forgot how layered you were. And it still didn't help.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" The fondness in his tone sneaks through the disapproval. When the air hits your skin, damp and frigid, gasp, face twisting from discomfort; it feels like sharp needles prickling along your arms.

"M'fine," yet you look far from it— hair tangled and soaked, frozen in spots, skin dull of its usual shine and shade, lids weighed down like you're drunk and sleepy, even a little puffy.

Funny how concerned you were of him getting hypothermia earlier, when you're already there.

And by funny, it's fucking scary, because there's no way to get you to a hospital tonight.

Really, he doesn't think it's that severe, but at any stage, hypothermia's nothing to fuck with; you're still suffering no matter what, and he hates to see you in pain.

Hates that he just admitted that to himself, too.

"Bullshit," he contends as he pulls another small towel from the box— seriously? You thought of everything with this box.

He'll thank you later. Maybe even apologize for being such a dick about it if it saves your asses.

Steve lays the towel over your head, gently tousling your hair against the fabric to help it dry. You shiver violently, "Hey, the sooner you get changed, the sooner you'll feel better."

"Said m'fine," you grit your teeth, attempting to shove him away, but your arms are still weak and stiff. "Jus' put the heat on."

"We can't run the engine, remember?" Steve throws the towel onto the driver's seat; that's a problem for future him. "C'mon, you can't stay in your clothes."

The moment the words leave his lips, he cringes, waiting for you to snidely remark, insinuate he's a pervert, but you're quiet.

Yeah, you're worse than he thought.

"I'm gonna help, okay?" There's no protest from you. He reaches down to the hem of your shirt, tugging up, but pausing before it passes your belly button. "This alright?"

"M'yeah, s'kay."

If you weren't tumbling into a life threatening condition, he'd poke fun at how wasted you sound.

Steve's perceptive, keeping an eye on your reaction, ensuring he's not hurting you. Prioritizing your safety doesn't make the reveal of you, half naked, any easier to deal with.

Shirt thrown to the side, Steve scrunches his eyes shut, scolds himself internally to behave, don't be a creep. He leans from behind the seat, over you to unbutton your jeans— Jesus Christ, why the fuck did you wear jeans? They're practically painted onto your form after all the ice and snow sunk into the denim.

He sucks in a breath, "Uh… can you get them off yourself?"

"S'okay, jus' leave 'em like this."

"It's really not," he sighs, climbing between the front seats and sliding down to the floor before you. The space is limited, incredibly limited, and he's contorting in a way he's never folded before, just to fit here. And for you, of all people.

He finds the chair's lever, shoving it back as far as it can go, though not much of a difference exists.

"Okay, c'mon, boots first."

Steve undresses you with care, tries not to notice the position you're both in, how close his face is to your core. How he's imagined on lonely, late nights, him kneeling for you, while he strokes himself, cock twitching as always while wondering what you taste like.

Every last ounce of self control is gathered up to keep his composure. You're in your underwear. Nothing else.

And your underwear? Yeah. That's wet, too; bra sticking flush to your chest, nipples peaked enough to reveal their shape through the fabric. He dares to take a lower peek when your eyes flutter shut as you sigh— out of concern, not pleasure, he reminds himself— and the fabric against your core is damp, hugging to the shape of your puffy lips.

He scrunches his eyes shut, runs a hand down over his mouth as he thinks … fuck me.

You shiver and twitch and whimper as the near-numbness finally settles into fucking freezing. It shatters whatever trance Steve was falling into.

"Honey," he frowns at himself immediately, because where the fuck did that come from? "You need to warm up."

There's no way to suggest sharing heat without sounding like a total pervert. Every choice of words could definitely be taken as suggestive, at best.

At worst? Steve's coming off as Hawkins' biggest douche-bag.

"Don't wanna," you whine, petulant and pained.

"It's this or freeze to death," he forces himself to deadpan, afraid of coming off as too concerned.

"You'd— bet that'd make y'happy."

He's not sure if he should file that comment under the usual banter the two of you have, or something worse.

"It wouldn't." Steve crawls up, hands gripping the sides of your seat as he tries respecting your space— the little bit left, at least. And still, he stumbles, catching himself right before he headbutts you. "Shit. Ah— shit, I- I'm sorry."

If he makes eye contact with you right now, it is game over. The whine you just released, though likely in pain, doesn't help his already wound-up, touch-starved thoughts.

"Okay. Okay," he sighs, more to himself, finding his balance again. "C'mon, we're gonna use that sleeping bag of yours to stay warm."

You're slow, painfully, agonizingly, moving at a snail's pace, while Steve moves you out of the seat. He's patient, cautious, already trying to press his body against yours to share warmth from the moment you begin trembling.

"Slow, take it easy," he guides you to the carpet while he murmurs softly. It's a miracle you make it to the back safely, considering how frozen stiff your joints are. "Doing okay?"

That's a dumb fucking question.

"Other th- than my t- t- tits freezing off, m'f- fine."

When you flash a curl of a smirk, just the tiniest one, Steve still feels relief. It's a speck of relief, but he'll gladly accept.

About to sit from your kneeling position, he grabs your hips to stop you. Steve clears his throat, awkwardly releasing you.

"Sorry, just, uh… your, uh… the—" he nods vaguely to your chest, eyes lingering for a second too long, wondering how soft you'd feel. By the time he peels his eyes away to drift lower, he gulps. "Those need to come off."

"Wh- why?" You pout, body violently trembling the longer you go without warmth.

"Just work with me, okay? Dry clothes aren't gonna warm you up enough on their own." He huffs, kneeling near you. "M'not trying anything funny, I promise."

Leaning close, Steve's face is near yours while his hands reach around your torso. His fingers skate up your cold skin, bringing about his own shivers, finding your bra clasp and unhooking it.

Poorly strangling a gasp, it still manages to slip past your lips, and he's almost certain it's because you're in pain. Nothing else.

But it sure sounds like it stems from another source.

Hovering his touch, he halts, eyes wide as they dart to meet yours. "Did I hurt you?"

"N- no, just co- c- cold." Teeth chattering, you grab onto his shoulders weakly as he removes your underwear. He bites back the urge to yelp from how bone chilling your touch is.

You hold your balance against him while shifting onto one knee, then the other, to step out of the soaked garment. "'Vry'thing hurts."

He hears you, knows you're hurting, but your panties, soaked and bunched up in his grip, make his cock twitch. The fabric is nowhere near his face, but your scent is dizzying; he wonders if they're only soaked from the snow, or yourself, too.

What stands between him and dirty thoughts is your fragile state; you need help, not him as… some horny creep.

Steve pushes past the tempting thoughts, for your sake.

"I know," he murmurs, heart aching, wishing he could take that pain away instantly. "It's gonna be okay, promise."

He guides you into the sleeping bag, eyes off and away from your figure out of respect. When you're settled, he rips his clothes off, save for his boxer briefs. One glance down his body and he's reminded how scarred he still is. He falters, swallowing thickly; what if you notice them? What if you're disgusted by him?

That's not like you, though; you've never been shallow like that.

Your teeth clatter together so loudly, it breaks him from those looming insecurities. With a deep breath, he finally slides in next to you.

Steve zips the sleeping bag up, arms hooking around your torso to pull you flush against him. He weaves his legs between yours, careful not to press his thigh against your core. He has to throw his thoughts as far away from you as possible; the last thing either of you need is a poorly timed hard-on.

He thinks of the time he broke his arm in sixth grade, falling off the seesaw at recess. Tries focusing on the concept of race cars and the specific tires they use. Forces himself to wonder how broccoli grows, or if it really matters to separate the dark garments from the lights when doing laundry.

That tangled trail of curiosity leads him to wonder what life outside of Hawkins must be like these days, and if they're forgotten to the rest of the world.

The last one's bleak, so he redirects to thinking about aquariums, and if fish sleep— they sleep, right?

God, he really wished he paid more attention in school. Did they even talk about any of this stuff? What the hell does he care if race cars use specific tires?

Whatever.

It's a challenge to keep his thoughts on a steady path away from you, because every time you breathe, your bare chest pushes against his, and that's— no. Just no.

The plush of your breasts squish up against him, nipples poking through his chest hair and into him like an accusing finger, shaming him for fighting off a natural response to a naked figure entwined with his own.

Doesn't make it any easier that your breaths are shallow, because logically, he knows it's because you're freezing. But every so often, you make these faint gasps as you shiver that sound closer to pleasure than pain.

That's not the case, and he feels guilty for letting his mind wander that far.

Okay, focus. Think about… concrete. Sure. That. Must be fascinating to pour that shit for sidewalks and—

"How come your underw- wear is on but not mine?"

Well, that's not fucking helping when you just out right ask it like that.

Steve's face burns up, rushing out, "Didn't wanna make you uncomfortable."

Your heart is pounding so viciously, he can feel the thumping against his own body.

Which, yeah— you have hypothermia. Of course your heart is working overtime. Just from that. Only that.

He reaches outside the bag to throw a worn, knitted blanket over your bodies, hoping for extra warmth while he's zipping the bag back up.

"Please tell me this shit is helping," he murmurs, fighting the urge to gently rub your back; this isn't supposed to be some kind of cute, intimate moment. And rubbing to create heat isn't helpful for hypothermia.

He doesn't remember why, just that it's unsafe for a situation like this.

"S'helpin'," you shudder against his skin, face tucked into the curve of his neck. Your lips brush against one of his sensitive spots, and he gulps, praying you don't notice. "I sh- shouldn't have lef-f- ft."

Steve doesn't scold you, but he doesn't disagree. "I really wish you didn't." He shivers, nowhere near as violently as you have, but exchanging body heat with someone in this state isn't all rainbows and sunshine. "I wish I didn't let you go. I should've gone with you, or had you stay here while I went out."

The words ache with more desperation than he intends.

"I'm a b- bi- big girl, s'my choice," your body involuntarily twitches, rutting into his bulge.

"A- ah—" Steve manages to swallow down the breathy moan before it can fill the van.

"Sor- sorry. Did I h- hurt you?"

He's quick to shush you, gently, rushing out, "I'm fine." One hand wanders to your head, delicately threading your damp hair through his fingers. "How are you feeling?"

"Fu- fucking cold."

"No shit," Steve dryly retorts. "You have hypothermia, dumbass."

You hum out what he thinks was a shaky hum. "Surprised y'even kn-know anything about i- it."

"At least something good came from me being a Boy Scout for one year," he snorts. "That, and I know how to start a fire... which, not very helpful while snowed into a van. Don't know much more than that."

You don't respond. Whenever he's shared something personal of his past, even just a passing comment, you groan and fuss about "learning Harrington lore against your will". The lack of that snarky response is just another sign of how unwell you're feeling.

Shifting cautiously, your arms bend slowly, snaking between the two of you. Steve's breath hitches, wondering what the fuck you're doing.

Your hands travel north, both to his relief and disappointment, cupping over your chest. "M'sorry, m- my tits hurt." And sure enough, the attention is brought to your stiff nipples, harder than minutes ago, brushing up against him through the gaps between your fingers.

Steve doesn't have the chance to panic, not when he fails to stifle a chuckle before it slips out. That comment was the last thing he expected to leave your lips.

"Be n- n- nice!"

"Sorry, sorry!" He relaxes against you again, tries not to dwell on how much of your figure he can feel against his. "Are you getting any warmer?"

"Why? You h- hate this?" Your tone is dry, but he can feel the curve of your smirk against his neck. "Want me to go back outside?"

The lighthearted energy drains quickly; Steve feels his heart drop just at the mere thought of you enduring the blizzard.

Like a fucking fool.

"Don't joke about that," he mutters, daring to speak aloud, "I thought you were dead."

The shrill, whistling wind draws out the lapse in conversation.

"… Didn't th- think you c- cared."

"I do, it's just—" Steve huffs, pausing. "We can talk about it when you're feeling better. Deal?" You nod slowly, sighing. "Do you think you could sit up? Just for a few seconds?"

You were feeling warmer, still cold, still aching, but nowhere near the severity you felt before your return. "Um… I g- guess?"

"Just hang tight okay? Where's your thermos?"

"S'up by th'cup h- holder," you nod to the front. As soon as Steve moves, you begin to harshly shiver again.

He's quick to snatch it, unscrewing the top to pour out whatever you had inside into it. The warm aroma hits him head on. "Hot cocoa? Damn, if I knew that, I woulda' stole some."

"You could h- have some f'ya' want."

"Maybe later, but you need to drink something warm." Steve slides a hand under your back, arm curling around to lift you upright. He tries to ignore the sleeping bag falling off your chest, leaving you exposed. "C'mon, just a few sips."

"N- no, m'cold, wanna get back in."

"I know, honey, I'm sorry." There it is again, a slip up without warning. Like it's natural, familiar.

You manage to sit up, resting against a crate on the shelf behind you. Reaching a shaky hand out, Steve gently pushes it aside. "I got you, try to keep still for me."

He eases the mug top to your lips, cautiously tilting it while you sip on the hot cocoa. It's slow, but Steve's relieved you're not at the severe stage, where you wouldn't be able to drink anything at all. "That's it, a little more… s'good for me."

Oh god. He's one step away from praising you with a 'good girl, and now is not the time or place for that.

"Promise it'll help," he assures, feeling horrible for dragging you out of the warm cocoon of the sleeping bag. Yet he's desperate to try everything, anything, as long as it brings your temperature back up.

You finish off the mug with a gasp. Steve takes it away, watching as that muted tone in your lips begin to fade. It's subtle, but it's a change for the better, nonetheless. A step in the right direction.

"Can't say th- that shit to me," you pant, forcing an airy, uneasy laugh. "I'm gonna start thinkin' y- you're— you like me, or something."

Oh, if only you knew.

"C'mere," Steve murmurs as he gently brings you close. Guiding you back into the sleeping bag, he slides in cautiously next to you, zipping it shut around the two of you. "Don't make this weird, okay?"

"Make wh- what weird?"

Arms winding around your waist, he reels you in, body flush against your own. It's like every goosebump on your skin brushing up along his he can feel. Every shiver runs out of you and into him, like an electrical current.

The gasp that leaves your lips is unexpected and sharp. "Fu— fuck, Steve, m'so c- c- cold."

"I know, sweetheart." He tangles his legs between yours, large hand reaching up to cradle the back of your head. You bury your face into his shoulder, shivering violently. "Just stay close to me."

"M'tryin'," you whimper as your hips shift closer. If Steve didn't know any better, he'd think you were trying to rock your hips against him, as if you're aching for relief, release.

The airy, shattered, "oh, god", sure doesn't help his imagination either. His cock twitches again.

"You're okay," he reassures, not just for you, but for his filthy mind to chill the fuck out. When you roll your hips again, he seizes them, grip tightening to end the attempt. "Don't— hey." You huff as he firmly holds you in place. "Hey, listen to me. No sudden movements."

"S- sorry, jus'thought friction would help," your teeth chatter as you force you words through them. "… Oh my god. Wait. Oh my god, no, wait."

You sound mortified.

"What?" Steve defaults to panic once more. "What's wrong?"

"I- I swear to go- god I didn't mean it like that." You untangle yourself from him, limbs haphazardly knocking into his own with the limited space in the bag. "I just— friction causes he- heat, and I didn't— I wasn't tr- tr- trying to—"

He nervously chuckles, not at you, just— well, shit. How should anyone react in a situation like this?

"S'okay, you're okay." The reassurance seems to help; you relax against him once more, still trembling from the cold in your bones, though. "Can't warm you up too quickly, it could make you feel worse."

"Well that's fu- fucking stupid."

He chuckles, taunting, "You're starting to sound more like yourself again." It's much more endearing than he wanted to sound.

There's no response, just your steady breaths in spite of your jitters. You hum, winding your embrace around his torso, burying your face into his neck again.

Steve's about to lose it; you've got to stop resting your lips on his skin.

Talk about something else. Anything.

"Hey… thanks for helping earlier," he mumbles. You lean back to meet his stare with a perplexed one of your own.

"Hm? Wi- with what?"

"The black ice," he clarifies. "I panicked and blanked out, forgot how to handle it. I could've fucked up real bad… could've wrapped us around a tree, or something."

"We still ended up in a ditch—"

"Alive. It sucks, being stranded in the storm sucks, but we're alive, thanks to you."

You shake your head, cuddling closer to him, still shivering, still unable to shake the cold. It's not warm in the van anymore, but it'd be more tolerable if you weren't recovering.

"You know how to dr- drive this damn t- thing," you quip, shuddering and clinging closer to Steve. "S'like a fuckin' boat."

Steve laughs heartily, tightening his embrace around you. "Guess we make a pretty good team."

"When we're n- not trying to ki- kill each other."

Emboldened, Steve's lips brush against the top of your head; it's not quite a kiss, but it's enough to be noticed. Enough to mean something. They linger as he takes a deep breath, voice rumbling low against your scalp.

"… We don't have to fight all the time," he suggests, fingers skating along the length of your spine. You arch your back, pushing the hardened peaks of your nipples against his chest. He swallows down a moan. "We don't have to hate each other."

"S'jus'easier," you slur, though, he's not sure it's from the cold.

"Yeah? Why's that?" Face still buried into his shoulder, you shake your head. "No, c'mon," he hopes the low, gentle rasp in his voice is enticing. "You can tell me."

It's quiet for a moment, swirling gusts of wind providing filler noise among your shallow breaths.

"'Cus liking you means letting you in," you're shuddering as the van sways, wind strong enough to sneak into the drafty vehicle. "Letting you in m- me- means this is real, and that's just a set up to be let down— be a let down to you, eventually."

He has to be hallucinating from the cold. Or maybe you're still delirious. There's no way you just said that.

"… What?"

Because since when do you care about letting him down?

"You've been hurt enough, I didn't want to add to that hurt." Steve feels you shift with a whimper, has to swallow back the cocky remark he'd make if you felt better. "Your heart's always g- gonna be elsewhere, anyway."

Steve would do anything— hike through this blizzard, move mountains, face a swarm of demo-bats— if it meant he could use a time machine, return to the moment things shattered before they could flourish. He'd do anything to fix it all.

"Even when it was elsewhere, it—" Your trembling brings him to a pause, a reminder how real this all is. After hoping for so long that you'd return, dwelling too much on the anger of you just… leaving, fleeing so quietly, so abruptly— you're here, in his arms. "You were always in it, but I didn't want hurt you, either."

And look where that got the two of you.

Steve's stunned into silence by your confession, tumbling out in unstoppable waves.

You trail off with a huff, tensing up; Steve's unsure if the cold's at fault, or if teasing went too far. "It's hard to… to trust. It scares the hell out of me."

"Scares me too, but look at you. You're trusting now."

"It was that or freeze to death, Harrington."

"Still chose to trust me after everything between us." His voice softens, moving on autopilot— courtesy of his heart— as he cradles the side of your face. His cheeks grow warm as he whispers your name, just loud enough to be heard over the howling winds outside. "Thank you. For trusting me."

The pads of your fingers press into his skin as you tighten your hold around him. "Thanks for not letting me die."

We're not out of the woods, yet, he thinks. But you should be able to keep warm now.

"I used to hate that you couldn't relate to what Robin and I went through last summer," Steve's got no reason to hide this anymore. "Truth is, I was relieved you called out sick that day."

An aching warmth bleeds through his chest with the confession, one that he hopes is enough to warm you up, even a little.

Or, maybe that's just because Steve's bare chest is pressed up against yours, still generating heat like a human furnace for you.

"I still have nightmares, and I—" He chokes up, arms tightening around you. You return the squeeze with reassurance, leaving patience and silence for him. "Sometimes, in them, they're hurting you, too… and I- I can't do anything but watch."

It feels like is heart is caving in all over again; he had done so well ignoring the hurt, but now…

Now he realizes he only bottled it up, shelved it away for darker times.

And dark times have arrived; here you both are, trapped in a goddamn, broken down, radio station van in the middle of a blizzard.

"Then you just… you left. You stood me up. You were gone not even a month later. We were finally getting close—"

"And I f- fucked it up." A sigh rumbles out of Steve; he doesn't agree or disagree, just… acknowledges it. "This is gonna sound so dumb, but I felt… guilty, for calling out that day. I should've been th—"

"No. I mean it. It's a relief you never went through that shit. And then in the spring…" Except, you came back. Right after the destruction, but you came back. Colder, yet braver than you left. "I get it. I don't blame you for leaving. You were scared." He swallows thickly. "… But so was I."

Scared is an understatement.

He's feared for his life before, the year prior, and before that. He was scared for Nancy, hell, even Jonathan, the night they tried to trap the Demogorgon in the Byers' home.

He was terrified in the junkyard, plastering on a brave face for the kids. No way in hell would he let them down; he was gonna succeed or die trying— to Steve, no other choices existed.

He was convinced he'd die down in that cursed bunker with Robin, and if it weren't Erica and Dustin— two children— that anticipated fate would've played out to truth.

And the Mind Flayer— Jesus Christ— that fuckin'… thing. A grotesque terror on monstrous legs; too many damn legs, arms, everything, if you ask Steve. He can't think too hard about what exactly it was made up of, who specifically turned essentially into human jam and—

Yeah. No. He really can't stomach it. Just like the nightmares of losing you leave him shaken for the rest of the waking day.

Most nights, Steve has to double, sometimes triple check the locks on the doors before he goes to sleep. He latches all the windows. Sometimes unlatches just to re-latch, jiggling the window's frame, just to be certain it's closed. Every room, every hallway, holds a night-light's subtle glow for peace of mind.

Peace of mind from what, exactly? A Demogorgon? Demodogs? The Mind Flayer? The Russian guards, and flayed former classmates? All this time later, he hasn't been able to pinpoint which exactly he wants peace from the most. They're all equally fucked up, all royally fucked him up.

Steve knows his efforts are not enough to stave off these fears forever. They never are.

And Vecna? He's still processing that. After all, it hasn't even been one year since it all happened.

Less than one year since Eddie died, slowly killing Dustin with each day that passes without him; the more Steve tries to be there for the kid, the more he's pushed away. It's taking a toll on Steve, trying to be mindful of Dustin's grieving, trying to remind this kid he's not alone.

Less than one year since Max technically, in clinical terms, died, for over a minute; even a second considered dead is way too fucking long, and for a kid her age? Too damn soon. If it weren't for El reviving her, the party would be in shambles— yet they're on the verge of crumbling while Max is in a coma, anyway.

If anything happened to any of these kids, it'd devastate the rest of them. It'd devastate anyone in this little, yet forever growing, found family Steve's tripped and fallen into years ago.

And you.

You— he can't even stomach the idea of your safety being threatened. It only circles back to the nightmares he still has of you. He fears one of these days losing you will come true, and… and—

It hits him like a nuclear missile, dead on.

He didn't want you to leave earlier, to go out into the storm, because he was afraid one of his greatest fears, losing you, again, would come true. This chance to fix everything, at least make peace with what never came to be, has been right in front of you both for months since you got home.

Instead, it's been spent stuck in a cycle of hate, giving and taking sharp glares and words only dripping in venom.

So much wasted time—

"Steve?"

Reality settles in around him again, eyes focusing on you, remorse taking hold of every thought crossing his mind.

Unexpectedly, even to him, Steve blurts out, "I'm sorry." When your brows furrow, the remorse floods out. "I- I'm sorry for not being honest from the start—"

"You were trying to protect me, I get that now." He feels the tension dissolve out of you. "I'm sorry too." Your voice trembles, not from the cold this time. "Can we… start over?"

A smug smirk curls along his face. "Um… we can, but it'd be pretty awkward to start over like this."

"Oh my god, Steve."

"What? I'm just saying!" He chuckles with a shrug. "When we met, I had strawberry ice cream stains on my shirt, and I got, like, maybe three hours of sleep the night before. This seems incredibly different, considering we're both naked."

"You're not the one fully naked." You stifle laughter, rolling your eyes.

"Oh, what, I'm sorry— did you want me to be blunt instead? Because I am really fucking sorry if I get hard." Flustered, he rambles as you blink up at him, wide-eyed. "Seriously, you keep rubbing against me like that and it's- I'm— fuck."

Your hips are rolling into him again as the corners of your lips gradually quirk upward. "Okay," you say simply, not matching your devious smile.

"… Okay?" Steve scoffs.

"I mean… it's not like you're the only one struggling here," you admit, brash and certain. "Can't tell you how wet I've been since you started holding me."

"Oh, trust me. I know." Steve bounces back, stifling a smug chuckle. "Felt it the whole time."

Mortification contorts its way into your face. You hide again, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder.

"Hey, nuh-uh, no hiding. I thought it was hot." His fingers trail down your spine, sweeping to your side. He rests his hand over the curve of your hip, drawing slow circles into your skin with his thumb. "… Still do."

A shrill, piercing whistle whirls past the van, leading in a wave of howling wind, rocking the van. The instant jostle nudges you against him completely, It taunts you and Steve as you dance around you feelings.

The van's frame sways and creaks as the blizzard continues. You shift, trying to get comfortable, until your thigh presses against Steve's bulge and he hisses under his breath.

"Fuck, shit, fuck—"

Yeah. He's hard.

He tangles himself into you, thick thigh flexing against your slick heat. All carnal desires aside, he's sure fucking relieved to feel some part of you completely warm.

Thinking of being warm, and staying that way, leads him to speaking unfiltered. "Might not be the worse way to keep each other from freezing to death."

"Uh-huh…" you sound breathy, the last of your animosity towards Steve long disintegrated by now. "S'good idea." A shiver down your spine sends your hips bucking forward; Steve's curious if it from the cold or not. "S- sorry, m'sorry, I keep—"

Steve shushes you delicately. "Don't be sorry, take what you need."

Your thighs tighten around his, clit throbbing against him. Arousal builds onto his bare skin the more you drag your cunt against him.

"Just go slow, okay?" His reminder is tender, faces close enough to touch, breaths picking up speed. "Slow, slow, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yeah but—" your fingers hook under his waistband teasingly, breaths growing shallower. "Want you n- now—"

Steve grabs your hands, pulling them up within eyesight. He needs you clear-headed. "Hey, I mean it. We gotta be smart about this."

He doesn't expect you to frown, ego visibly wounded in your expression; what did you hear out of what he said?

"We don't have to do anything if you're not into it."

"No, no, I'm—" Steve puffs his cheeks out, exhaling quickly. His arms rope you back in, pressing up against him with a gasp. "You were freezing to death less than an hour ago—"

"Not to death."

"Only 'cause you came back before it was too late." And that he kept you stable, but he's not seeking recognition for that. His hands rise to cradle your cheeks, forcing you to look him in the eye. "Last thing we need is your heart over-exerting itself."

"But you're the one who suggested—" you collect your thoughts with a deep breath. "You're sending mixed signals, Steve. Do you want this or not?"

"I do, but I want you safe and warm. So, let me take care of you, alright?"

"Okay…" Steve looks down as you trail off, noticing your mood shift. Concern draws your brows together, tugs your lips downward and hushes your voice to a whisper. A cold finger traces the scar around his neck, and he gulps. "When did this happen?"

He was dreading this, grateful you'd been so delirious while recovering that you didn't notice the freshly healed skin, taut and pink— now a little purple from the cold, he's sure; this kind of weather always promises to emphasize souvenirs of the past.

"Last year," he trembles; the more he focuses on trying to breathe steadily, the more he shakes. "… Bats."

"The same that…" He hears you hesitate, holding that one, brutal truth on the tip of your tongue, only to soften it for both of your sake. "Same ones that… that attacked Eddie?"

"Yeah, I guess." Steve shakes his head, "I don't know how I survived and he didn't." His voice drops, laden with guilt. "Kinda fucked up if you ask me."

"Do they hurt?" You ask so tenderly, sincerity woven within your words. It pricks hot tears in Steve's eyes, ones he blinks away quickly.

No one ever really asks Steve if he's okay. Not like this. Not when it comes to the Upside Down.

"Yeah," he croaks out. "Sometimes, yeah." Unprompted, he adds, "Not as much as the headaches, though."

"How often do you get them?" You ask, but Steve only shrugs. It's not enough to quell your concern. "Steve…"

He doesn't need you to know just how bad it gets sometimes. The warning signs leading up to a flare— like how his neck aches and stiffens, how his vision doubles, and the ringing in his ears only grows louder.

Steve doesn't want to worry you, or anyone, of the throbbing, consistent pain; how similar it feels to being cracked in the skull with a fist, something he's experienced more than once— one time too many. The agonizing throbbing that morphs into pounding, and sometimes he can feel it behind his left eye, like it's still swollen shut.

Sounds become unbearably sharp and jagged to his brain. Too much light enrages him. They're more than just headaches, he knows that. Yet he bottles it all up, because emotionally, he can't afford to not be okay. He has to show up for everyone else.

Acknowledging him, you hum softly; he's grateful you've never been one to push him too far on a subject he'd rather avoid. "Should I, um—" you clear your throat awkwardly, "avoid them? The scars, I mean."

Not like this one's much easier to talk about.

Steve's shoulder's tighten while his breath hitches, sharp and obvious and shit, he wishes he caught that in time. That wish strengthens when you grimace.

"I'm sorry. That's— I'm not trying to be rude, just wasn't sure since sometimes they hurt—"

"S'okay," he relaxes after a deep breath. "Don't worry about 'em."

You hum, tracing the one along his neck with your finger. The warmth left in the wake of your touch is another reminder he's safe with you.

It's when your fingertips trail up to his face, palm caressing his cheek before resting there, that his heart skips a beat. And when you gingerly sweep your thumb against his cheekbone, his breath hitches.

"Whenever your headaches start… you'll tell me, right?"

When that simple question, loaded with empathy and laced with tenderness, leaves your lips, something within Steve breaks.

"It's… it's okay, I can handle it on my own."

For the first time, those words aren't convincing enough to lie to himself.

"Steve," you whisper, head shaking as the color of your irises bore into the hazel of his. "You don't have to handle anything on your own."

It's so direct, so honest— how can he even respond to that?

There's so much to say— how he'd always put the kids before himself, no questions asked. How he wants to do his part and keep everyone safe, during crawls and beyond. How his trauma, chronic and relentless, stays bottled up and shelved away, only to have manifested into a physical curse on every nerve ending in his entire being— and he still keeps it hidden away.

The past you narrowly escaped while he was beaten to hell and back, that's not yours to carry, it's his.

"I won't let you handle it alone," you whisper, challenging his unspoken thoughts. "Not anymore."

Feelings for you that he forcefully sunk long ago, rush to the surface and consume Steve. It's overwhelming, and words aren't enough; he surges forward, his lips finding yours while you squeak with surprise.

Steve breaks away, presses his lips to your jaw, kisses down your neck while his hands caress the shape of your figure. His touch is gentle, yet sturdy. Firm, yet sweet.

You bite back a moan, teeth pinning your bottom lip down, but you still shiver. He knows he's making you feel good. If you won't say it, he certainly feels it in the way you grab him, anywhere you can find purchase; his hips, his arms, his back, leaving behind little divots from your finger tips, dug into his skin.

He moves lower, one hand pausing on your breast, kneading it tenderly, kissing down your chest to pause at the other side. His lips gently lingering against the sensitive, pebbled peak is all it takes to begin unraveling you.

The gasp that slips out is one beyond what Steve's dreams could even imagine. His cock kicks as he flicks his tongue on your nipple.

"Shit, Steve…"

He sucks softly, a distinct pop! filling the confined space when he pulls back. He looks up with a thread of spit tethering him to your skin, and you look wrecked already.

He can't even wrap his mind around how devastatingly fucked out you'll look when he's through with you.

"Coulda' kept each other warm all this time," Steve breathes, kissing across the valley between your breasts to the other side. His tongue flits out, lazily teasing your nipple while tweaking and pinching the other. "You just had to be stubborn, huh?"

"Only 'cause you- you— a- ah, fuck…" your hips roll up into his, cunt grazing against his clothed cock, sticky and warm and slick and god… if you weren't so fragile right now, Steve would love to ruin you immediately.

If, you know, you were into that.

His cock twitches as his mind drifts, curious as to what the hell you're even into, and if he'll be lucky enough to have more chances to find out.

The two of you just have to survive this night first.

"'Cause I what?" He should be a little softer, a little kinder, but the edge is returning, and only because of your wanton, needy squirming. "Finish the sentence."

You gasp as Steve nudges his knee between your legs, parting them to flex his thigh against your cunt. You're soaked enough to glide yourself effortlessly against him.

Except, Steve grabs your hips, hovering above you while pinning them in place.

"Finish. The. Sentence."

You clamp your legs tight around the one against your core, but he plants his hands on your thighs, pushing them apart to admire your glistening cunt.

"I wouldn't h- have left if you weren't so m- mean!"

"Yet you're a mess right now." He withdraws, only to use his thumbs to part your folds. "Look at you, dripping and pretending like you're not into this."

Steve licks his lips, one thumb casually gliding up from your hole through your folds, resting lightly over your clit. You jolt from even the slight pressure.

"Bet you were this wet before you left."

Your brows knit together. "I wasn't."

"No?" He taunts you, pad of his thumb circling your clit, so close to where you want him, yet so deliberately distant. "Hm… you sure?" Your hips twitch while you gasp, inflating his ego as he simpers. "Seemed like earlier you were pretty fuckin' soaked."

"From t- the snow!" The more flustered you become, the more Steve's confidence grows, bordering onto being cocky. "Jesus, I was outside in a blizzard, in case you forgot."

Steve laughs. He laughs; it's cruel and runs straight to your throbbing clit, adjacent to his teasing touch.

"I don't think so, sweetheart." With a smug grin, he adds, "Doubt the snow would make you smell this damn good either."

"Steve!" You gasp, taken aback. The line's almost tacky, straight out of a bad porno, but Jesus Christ, he can't help himself around you.

"In fact—" he reaches out of the bag, retrieving the garment in question. Reservations long buried under the snow, he brings the pair to his face, eyes rolling back as he huffs in your scent. A guttural groan tears through him, while you're left speechless. "Been wanting to do that all fuckin' night."

Jaw hanging ajar, you whisper, "Holy shit, Harrington."

The smug expression falters, "Too much?"

"No," you breathe out, "fuck, no."

Relief revives his smirk. "Good. I'm far from done with you."

Trailing wet, painfully paced kisses down your body, Steve begins unzipping the sleeping bag; he'd rather not suffocate in that while going down on you. If anything keeps him from breathing tonight, he prays it's only your slick cunt smothering his face.

He's gentle, mindful, caressing your sides slowly to keep you warm. It softens the mean streak he just held out for your sake.

Parting your legs, he glances up to you. "Doing okay?" His lips drag along the plush of your left thigh, gentle, pointed kisses trailing closer to your core. His strong grip digs into your thighs before switching to the right one. "Need to hear you, honey."

"Mhm, yeah, I'm—" Steve parts your slit, moaning softly as he takes you in. "M'good. Promise."

"Good," he husks, leaving a chaste, open mouth kiss over your core. "Don't wanna neglect this pretty pussy."

You huff with an affectionate eye roll. "Swear to god, Steve, if anyone else said shit like this to me, I'd leave instantly."

"So what you're saying is…" Steve's lips linger on your folds, tongue teasingly flitting out, barely meeting your clit. Your legs twitch while you whimper. "I'm the exception?"

"D- don't let it get to your head, Har—" Sharply, you gasp as he spreads your core apart with his thumbs, only to spit on your puffy clit. "Fuck."

He leans in, mouth working languidly as his lips meet your glistening slit. It's already written in stone that the taste of anyone else won't ever compare; you've effortlessly wrecked him.

And he's already ruined you with each drag of his tongue, leading to your clit to suckle tenderly. He looks up, hoping to see you slowly unravel, and he does; your eyes roll back in time while you clench around nothing, rolling your hips to chase his tongue.

The soft sounds from his mouth cause you to throb, feeling every hum and groan, hearing him lave at your arousal. Hooded stare weighed down with lust, he continues watching you fall apart on his tongue.

Steve's moans tremble through you, with gravelly murmurs in between; every oh shit, and fuck, and little praise in between is enough to roll waves of heat through you. He must be able to feel it.

"See? You just needed to get warmed up." Your hips jolt against his mouth as he laps at your clit, while a thick finger circles your hole. He grins smugly. "Be good for me, and I'll keep you warm."

Your clit throbs against his tongue, and Steve moans. It's almost as pornographic as the sound he let out minutes before. His arms hook around your thighs, tugging you flush against his mouth.

"Is this all it takes to shut you up?"

Though drained and still trembling, your fingers tangle through his hair, pulling to trap his mouth against your pussy. He notices the light pressure in your grasp, mindful of his mention of headaches earlier.

"I dunno, I- I should be asking you the same damn thing."

The switch is subtle, tiny, but it's enough to send Steve's eyes rolling back into his head, whimpering as he bucks into the floor of the van.

"Oh…" you grin deviously. "You're into that, huh?"

The ounce of power, that microscopic switch, falls apart instantly as Steve leans back. Warmth withdraws along with him, your hands fall away, and all pleasure ceases. He slides two fingers up the edge of your folds, spreading them apart to spit directly onto your clit; you twitch and gasp.

"Hey!" Exasperated, you yelp, "Why'd you stop?!"

Steve doesn't answer, only runs his hands along the back of your thighs, gently nudging your legs to fold closer to yourself. He reaches your hips, pushing up to throw a nearby blanket underneath your back.

"What— what are you—" His mouth is back on you, tongue delving into your slit, running around your clit before puckering his lips. "Ohmyfuckinggod— Steve—"

You gasp when he mouths sloppily at your cunt, making out with it, taking his time to explore this part of you he's already dreamed so much of.

This part, this sweet, tight, hot part of you that he's fucked his fist to the thought of almost every night since you've moved home.

Not even his wildest dreams could've conceived what you really taste like. Your scent. How soft you are. And pretty, so goddamn pretty.

And as your hardened personality thaws out, the real you— the one Steve's always pined over— finally melts through.

He's missed you. So, so much.

The obscene sounds, all of the slurping and suckling to make you fall apart, fill the van. Walls clenching around his fingers as they barely enter you, your body sucks him in greedily.

"Jesus Christ," Steve breathes, getting sloppier as you get louder. He angles his fingers differently, and with the way he's got you positioned, you're blindsided by an orgasm shattering through you.

"Oh my god, oh my god—" he brushes up against your sweet spot, triggering your legs to shake around his head. "Fuck!"

Your high's barely over as he kisses your inner thighs, eyeing up your puffy, dripping folds.

"Got one more in you?" His lips and chin glisten with your essence in the low light. You nod breathlessly, hand over your chest as it rises and falls rapidly. His demeanor softens. "Hey, look at me."

Dazed, your eyes flutter open. They lock with his, full of concern.

"Should we stop?" You shake your head, but the silent conformation isn't enough. "Need you to say it if you want it," there's a flash of dull pain as he nips at your inner thigh, kissing away the sting immediately. His hand pulls away, leaving you empty and needy.

"I- I want it."

"Want… what?"

Exasperated, you whine while throwing your head back, "Oh my god, Steve."

"C'mon, you can tell me." He begins taunting you, "Usually you have no problem running that mouth of yours."

"You're so fucking insufferable sometimes, I sw- swear to god." The tremble in your voice is more from aftershocks than the cold.

Even when you were nice, you had an edge, and he missed that, too.

Steve crawls over you, nose nudging against your own. His fingers feather and tease along your slit, retreating as you buck your hips to chase his touch.

"There she is," chuckling, he slips a finger back into you, leaning down to murmur against your lips, "There's my girl."

As you gasp, he takes the chance to kiss you, really kiss you this time. Your back arches while he pumps into your slick heat. Lips parted against your own, slotted together, tasting yourself on his tongue while he licks into your mouth— it's all so goddamn dizzying for the both of you.

You break apart when you palm him over his boxers, rendering Steve speechless for a moment.

"Who knew that'd shut you up so easily too," you snicker, giving a gentle squeeze to his bulge, eliciting a sweet gasp from him. "Fuck, Steve. You're…"

Cheeks heating up to a rosy pink, he freezes, eyes darting down between your bodies, then back to you. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I- I just…" Keeping an airy touch, you trace a finger along his cock. He whines pathetically, head falling forward onto your shoulder. To muffle his sounds, he mouths at your skin. "You're so… big."

He sighs; yeah, he should've expected that.

"It's not a bad thing! No part of you is bad!" You're tumbling into a nervous ramble. "That stuff doesn't matter anyway, y'know, size and whatever. I just- I don't know—" you clear your throat with an awkward laugh, rushing out, "Idon'tknowifyou'llfit."

Steve blinks as the words sink in.

Oh.

"Hey, shh, s'okay," he chuckles softly, confidence flowing back. "We can try, if you want. But there's no pressure."

"I wanna, I really want to, it's— I'm— you—"

He cuts you off with a kiss. There's a soft hum reeled out of you, shaping his lips into a smirk against your own. It's short and sweet, resting his forehead on yours as you break apart.

"One step at a time, okay?"

He's back between your legs as before, allowing you both to relax as he tries to take this slow, almost at a lazy pace, but that lasts all of five seconds.

Because one more taste of you, and Steve's a fucking goner.

Steve juts his face into your cunt, tapering his tongue to fuck into you as you're grinding onto his face. He grants your wordless wish, sinking a finger into you again. In search of that sweet, sacred spot, he curls it, grazing somewhere inside that makes hips rock with desperation while you cry out.

"Harder," he grunts into your core, the rumble of his order going straight to your clit without direct touch. He yanks you closer to his face— as if it's even possible at this point— and his gaze travels away from you, rolling to the back of his head, groaning as you're the only taste on his tongue. In way too deep to speak, he just hums with satisfaction, laced with an air of praise.

Licking into you, the strong bridge of his nose nudges against your clit as it throbs. You buck forward accidentally, but he happily accepts, burying his face between your thighs. He slides another finger into you and smirks as your legs begin to quiver.

"Steve…" You cover your mouth, but he yanks your hand away, while leaning back to spit onto your cunt again.

In between flits and laves of his tongue, he husks, "Wanna hear you again." The vibrations of his gravelly voice are what send you to the edge, but his tender encouragement is what seals the deal. "It's just us, honey. C'mon," he coaxes. "Lemme hear those pretty sounds you make."

Steve works overtime, meticulous in the speed he pumps his fingers, while your essence drips down his hand. The curls and flattening of his tongue between your folds, lapping up every drop you have to offer. Eventually rubbing his nose against your clit while he both tongue and finger fucks you simultaneously.

Bliss rolls through your body, luring out whimpers of his name and babbles of praise.

"Steve—" you gasp, back arching up as your tangled fingers anchor him to you. "Fu- oh my god, fuck—!"

You tremble, you gush, you unravel at the seams, and he'd keep doing this, and only this, all night if you'd let him. Watching you fade into such a fucked out state has his cock throbbing, sandwiched between himself and the van's floor.

Steve feels sticky; that much he expected. But… his boxers are damp, tacky against his skin, along with his tummy, where the tip of his cock lay snug under the waistband.

Oh, no.

"So, uh…" he kisses your core, smirking as it clenches around nothing. Kissing your thigh, he peers up through his lashes at you. "… How hard is it to wash cum out of a sleeping bag?"

Dazed, you're still smiling, dopey and giddy and sighing, "Mmm, dunno. Can't be that difficult—" your eyes pop open before you study Steve, still between your legs. "… Why?"

"No reason, really, just— I'm just curious—"

"Steve."

"M'yeah?" His eyes shift away for a second, guilty.

"Were you— oh my god."

"What?!"

A taunting, victorious smirk comes to life. "Did you hump the fucking floor?"

"Well, when you put it like that…" Steve cringes, blushing intensely. "Kinda?" Your playful stare narrows down at him. "It's not like I was trying to! It just— I— you—" he groans, burying his face into the plush of your inner thigh.

The embarrassment's worth it to hear your laugh, genuine and breathy woven into your comedown. "Better on the damn bag than the actual rug."

He could fall asleep here, so cozy and warm between your legs. You card your fingers through his soft hair, gingerly scraping along his scalp, earning his content hum.

Steve lifts his head to be met with your longing stare, soft, weary smile. It's impossible to hide his own smile. "What?"

"Come back up," you shoot out grabby hands. "M'cold."

"Oh," he snorts, crawling back into your arms. "Is that all I'm good for?"

"Nah, your tongue is pretty great, too."

Rolling his eyes, a smile peeks out as he zips the bag back up, cuddling close to you. Your leg swings over his hip and he reels you in. Fatigue settles in, and it's not long before you're drifting off.

You're not cold anymore, with most symptoms finally fading or completely dissipated; he figures it's safe to sleep. Hell, he could use the rest, too.

It's not until the first, faint snore, that he realizes his goddamn, sticky boxers are still on, and he doesn't have the heart to move you.

A little discomfort is worth it if you're safe and sound in his arms, but… Jesus Christ, this is going to be one long fucking nap.

Steve's unsure when the two of you shifted in your sleep, but with the limited space in the bag, you've ended up spooning him.

It's… kinda nice. He's never been the little spoon before, not with anyone he's ever cuddled with.

By some higher power or sheer, dumb luck, you're warm— fucking finally. You're clinging onto him from behind and nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck.

Steve's breath hitches when your lips graze his neck. He chokes back a whine as you brush your soft figure against his back.

He gently murmurs your name into the dark while your arms tighten around his torso. You hum in return, soft and content.

Splaying out your fingers, they creep down his body, teasing around the waistband, dipping just below the elastic of his briefs.

"Mm—" Steve bites back some kind of pathetic sound. "Baby, what're'y'doin'?"

The pet name blooms heat under your cheeks. He hears you hum, feels you shrug. Your fingers sink a little lower, brushing up against the head of his cock.

"S'okay?"

"It- yeah, but—" Steve gasps when your thumb sweeps over the slit on his tip, still tacky from when he came in his boxers earlier. Now, on top of that, arousal weeps his slit on command by your touch.

"But?"

Your hand begins to retreat, until Steve grabs it, shoving it toward the base of his cock. His hips buck into your palm, groan rumbling deep from his throat.

Whether it's because Steve's been touch starved, or just really, really into you (both. it's totally both), your fingertips tracing down his shaft cause him to twitch.

He can feel himself pulsate into your palm as your grip winds around him. You only pump once, twice, three times, and he's quick to begin unraveling.

"I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that," Steve whines, bucking into your fist. "I can't— ah… f- fuck—" he grumbles, forcing out, "I— dammit, I can't afford to come in my pants again. I only have one pair!"

"Then take 'em off," you giggle. "Need you in me."

Any other circumstance, Steve would allow the teasing to drag on, but he can't take any more tension. He flips over to lean above you, switching positions; you're the little spoon now, and you're flustered from the sudden change.

As you roll to your left side, you lean on your elbow to prop yourself up. Steve hastily plucks a condom from his wallet, still in the crumpled, damp jeans he discarded earlier and within reach.

You keep your legs bent as Steve settles behind you, backside on full display to him. Glancing over your shoulder, you've got a perfect view of him, already reveling in the way he's struggling to keep himself together while rolling the condom down his length.

Hand at the thick base of his cock, he drags the ruddy tip between your folds, teasing your clit before catching at your entrance. He repeats the taunting motion, smirk building with each whimper and whine you set free. One last drag through your slick slit, Steve rests the head at your entrance, pushing in only a little bit.

"Still okay?" He asks, eyes flitting to yours. One might think he sounds groggy from a nap, but he's just pussy drunk already.

"Yeah, mhm," your breathy reply makes his cock kick in his hand and against you. "Ju- just go slow, okay?"'

Steve leans down, planting his lips on your forehead. "Promise I will."

And he does; inch by inch, he slides into you, stretching you out to a limit you've never reached before. In awe, he watches himself disappear inside of you, breath hitching the further he goes.

"Fuck— fuck, you're—" his eyes roll back, twitching against your tight, warm walls. Hips tilting, you push your ass back to help him ease in. All it does is make Steve a total wreck. Pathetically, he strains out through bated breath, "…Might need a minute."

"Yeah?" The teasing edge he secretly loves so much is returning; a sign you're feeling more like yourself. "You look like you could use ten."

"Keep it up," he huffs, "you're gonna need a few days 'til you can walk again."

Steve's hips reel back, dragging out torturously slow as you banter on. He leisurely slides back in, stretching you out. Again, he pulls out, even slower this time.

"We talkin' business days? 'Cause tomorrow's the weekend, and I'd love to not be in recovery—" He slams into you, bottoming out in one thrust. "— Christ, Steve! What the—"

Fully retreating, his shaft caresses your silky, slick walls. Fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, he teasingly glides the tip of his cock through your folds, dipping into your entrance.

With each push back, he pulls out; your desire is only met with taunting, dangling bliss just in reach.

"You done talking logistics yet?"

Though your jaw falls open to quip back, only a gasp tumbles out. With another snap of his hips against yours, he fills you again.

That stretch isn't dizzying on one end only; Steve has to gulp down steady breaths to relax. He's wanted this, wanted you, for years now.

No way is he fucking this up now with a pitifully swift finish.

"N'you were worried you couldn't take me," he patronizes, yet your walls clenching around him mercilessly wipe the smug grin off his face. "Jesus fuckin' christ."

"Maybe you can't take me," you dare to challenge him. The teasing ignites something deep within, and, well, you're the one who started a fire you most likely can't extinguish.

Steve lifts the leg closest to him to rest it against his torso. You roll a little more onto your back as he straddles your leg against the floor; similar to missionary, but the angle hits so sinfully as he sinks back in. 

Then, without mercy, void of warning, he relentlessly pounds into you.

Already at a loss for words, all you have to offer are sharp gasps. The plush of your body bounces with each of his thrusts, enticing his grip of one hand to dig into your hip.

What he doesn't expect is your hand to glide down your form, conforming to your curves until your fingertips brush over his knuckles.

Steve's breath hitches, hips stuttering with a faltering pace. Hesitantly, he laces his fingers between yours, and to his surprise, your grip doesn't falter.

It tightens.

Just like the choke-hold his feelings for you have on his heart.

"Don't get sappy on me now," Steve teases, fighting off his own emotions. His eyes flicker down to your hands intertwined, cock twitching inside you when you tighten your hold on him.

The gesture is small, but his heart flutters; what's meaningful to Steve is something you're probably not even thinking twice about. He rolls his hips against you, slow and deep, hoping to distract from his feelings.

"Wouldn't dr— oh!" You gasp, eyes rolling back as he hits the spot that makes you weak. He hears you murmur his name, strung together with expletives under your breath. "W- wouldn't dream of it."

Fog blankets the windows as each thrust rocks the van on its frame. Sweat beads at your brow, and there's relief found in the sight. You feel so warm, only reminding him mere hours ago you were freezing to death.

But you're here, underneath him, closer than he ever imagined to be outside of his dreams. You're here, warm, coherent, safe.

Safe because of him. Alive, because you chose to trust him.

That plucks at his heartstrings, too.

"Steve?"

Your voice is breathy, but concern is laced throughout, tugging him back into the present. He locks eyes with you, but you're blurry. He registers your hand extending to rest on his cheek, instinctively leaning into your tender touch.

"Hey, slow down," you swipe your thumb across his cheek, and it glides against his skin with ease. Too much ease. "Baby, stop for a second. You're crying."

Baby.

Anytime he's been called that, it never felt right. But hearing it from your lips is a whole different story.

Wait, did you say he was crying?

"Sorry, I…" he trails off, glancing away and kissing your palm, panting heavily against it. "M'okay."

"Steve—"

"No, I swear. I'm just—" he shudders out a breath, one with relief. "I'm glad you're okay."

"So much for not getting sappy," you tease, but when Steve only halfheartedly smiles, you fall back into the energy he has. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. I'm okay."

"I know." He nods, hair flopping in his face. "I know, I know that. I know."

Maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it.

"St—"

He cuts you off abruptly with a kiss, insatiably slotting his lips against yours. His tongue runs along your bottom lip, silently pleading for more. When you oblige, parting your kiss-swollen, wind-bitten lips, he groans, thrusting without warning into you again.

You break the kiss reluctantly, grabbing his face. "Steve. You should—"

"I'm fine, I mean it," he whispers against your lips, sloppily rocking into you. "I'm okay. Promise."

And, really, he is, he just didn't think those emotions would sucker punch him right now.

You gasp again as he hits your sweet spot, eyes falling out of focus into a dazed stare. "M'gonna cum," you rasp out, staving off a strangled moan. "Steve, I'm— I—"

He unsheathes himself from you, and it pains him to do so, whimpering as the chill of the air around erases your warmth. He glances down to your cunt, watching it clench around nothing.

"Why'd you do that?" You're breathless as you manage to ask, and the heartbroken look on your face almost tempts Steve to give in. Instead, he runs a finger through your folds, dripping and enticing as his touch drags over your throbbing clit. "Oh my god, this is the second time tonight you've done that!"

"M'not letting you finish that easy," he teases.

You whine, tossing your head back against the worn pillow, now damp with sweat. He restrains himself from splitting you open again, ignoring how needy his cock is, throbbing, red, and leaking at the tip.

"Up," he orders, throwing the sleeping bag off your tangled forms. Eager for more, you sit up, a little too quickly for his liking. Immediately his tone softens with concern, "Okay, wait. Careful, slow— Don't need you passing out."

Steve's hand finds your cheek, lips planting on yours, kissing you so sweetly. He smiles against your lips before he rolls a blanket up while nodding to the carpet. "You okay on your knees?"

"Okay?" You climb onto all fours, teasing, "I'm pretty fuckin' great on my knees."

Steve shakes his head, though his smile doesn't fade, "Jesus Christ, and I had the bad lines?" He places the blanket under your tummy, hiking your hips up with the extra support. "That help?"

It's a small gesture, one he probably doesn't think twice about, but it sure sticks with you anyway. "Uh-huh." You wiggle your ass, impatiently eager to be filled again.

His large hands slide over the curve of your backside, squeezing and kneading the doughy flesh. Your core glistens with arousal, practically begging for indulgence.

And Steve? He's in a trance, mouth on you for the third time tonight; he can't get enough of you. No one has ever tasted like you. No one's ever felt as soft as you, been as soaked as you. No one sounds like you, or shows the tiny yet impactful levels of intimacy you do with him.

No one's like you. No one could even compare.

"Fuck…" he lowly sighs out, nose nudging between your folds. "Didn't think you'd get this wet again."

"I—" You cut yourself off with a strangled gasp as Steve's tongue flits out, curling at your entrance, but not quite dipping in. "Hhhohmygod."

Thick fingers drag through your folds as he pulls back, teasing in circles around your throbbing clit, never touching it directly. You push your ass back, but he grips your hip firmly, holding you still.

"Steve," you whine.

"I know, I know," he murmurs, leaning in to suck crudely on your clit, one final time. Lining up with your entrance, one hand roams to your hips, the other, guiding himself into you. "Gonna take real good care of you, honey."

You're already clenching with a gasp. "Can't be saying— a- ah!" Steve nudges the tip into you, barely past the head's flare when you whine out. Sinking in, the delicious stretch lures you both under its spell. "S- sayin' sweet shit to me like th- that."

"I mean it," he groans, eyes rolling back as your tight heat envelopes him again. "Every damn time, too."

"What, this isn't a h- heat of the moment kinda th- thing?"

"Not even close, sweetheart." He digs his grip into the plush of your ass, slowly entering you again. Hypnotized, he watches himself disappear inside of you with each thrust. "Jesus Christ… suckin' me right in."

You nudge back into him. Steve chokes on his breath as your ass slams into him. "I- I need more."

"Yeah?" Thumbs on your lower back circle softly on your skin. He watches the goosebumps rise with satisfaction. "How do we ask for more?"

"Jesus fuckin'—" irked, you grumble. You slump against the pillows beneath you, whining, "Please."

"Please… what?"

"Steve, I s- swear to god—"

"Go ahead," he juts his chin out, smirk strong as he feels a power trip within reach. He wishes you could see how smug he is from there. In a slow retreat, he drags himself out of you, leaving you empty, cold, miserable. "Keep up the attitude, we'll see what happens."

"You're such a—" Steve slams back into you, knocking a cry from your lungs. His cock kicks against your tightening walls. "Oh, fuck…" You clap a hand over your mouth, but Steve yanks it away.

He pins that arm behind your back, thrusting hard and deep.

"Such a what?"

"Nothing. Sh- shut up an' fuck me already." When he doesn't move, you breathe out reluctantly, "… please?"

Steve snaps his hips against your ass, bottoming out within you. The sudden stretch shoves a cry out from the back of your throat.

"Aw, see?” He drags himself out, tauntingly slow. “Not so hard to ask for what you need, huh?" He thrusts again, sinking in to the hilt, "Thaaaaaat's my girl." He moans, rumbling deeply as he fills and stretches you all over again.

 The condescending comment should be that, only that, but instead your breath hitches. It's one that unexpectedly makes Steve's heart jump, his stomach flip; he wonders if you feel the same. 

"I… Yours?"

 Though you can't see him in this position, Steve's eyes flicker away, tongue darting out the corner of his mouth as he tries focusing on fucking you instead.

"Mhm, if…" He groans when your free hand reaches between your thighs, underneath you both to grip his balls and massage them. "Oh, shit, honey… s- so good…"

Fatigue still rests heavy in your limbs, and even with the pillow supporting underneath, you begin to sag down to the floor. It's not much help that you're not holding your own balance anymore.

"Hang on, I got ya'." It's such a basic phrase handled with care, passion coupling with his actions; a strong arm winds around your waist as his thrusts slow. He hoists you back into his lap, kneeling back on his heels while you're sat back onto him.

He moves again, and you cry out from the new angle, feeling him even deeper than moments before. It's almost toointense; your trembling legs are a sign of that.

"Hey, hey, shhh," Steve kisses your neck softly, leading up to your jaw. "Need a minute?" You shake your head, breaths rapid and shallow. "Wanna stop?"

"God, no," you nearly sob, tightly clenching around his cock, almost to keep him inside you. 

"Okay, okay." He kisses your cheek, lips lingering against you as he demands gently, "Tell me what you need."

"Y- you."

Steve chuckles, nuzzling his nose against your jawbone, unable to keep his lips off of you. If this is the only time he has you, he wants to kiss every inch he can reach.

"I'm right here."

Your lips part, but your breath is taken away with each thrust; you can only manage a nod while you whine and gasp.

The smell of sex hanging heavy above you both, the plap plap plap of skin slapping on skin, filling the van alongside your filthy moans; the two of you could put a porn studio to goddamn shame.

And then, there's the mouth on Steve among all of this.

"This pussy all mine?" His head falls back with a throaty groan, hips twitching off-key as embers smolder low in his belly, a fire that's always been easy to build off of.

It's only fair to match his energy.

"Dunno…" You turn your head as he leans over your shoulder, holding you flush against him while relentlessly, sloppily fucking into you. "This cock all mine, Harrington?" You burst into giggles among the breathy sighs. "Got me saying the dumbest shit, that's h- how much I like you."

He doesn't just twitch inside of you, he kicks, with little room to move within your tight walls. The whimper that pairs is one too delicious to ever imagine once, just once.

No, he'll never get enough of you. Not now. Not ever.

"S'all yours, honey," his nose prods into your cheekbone when he kisses the round, soft side of your grin. Huffing and puffing, thrusting into you relentlessly, he adds, "M'all yours."

Steve drives his cock deep within your cunt, dizzy as the stretch barely lets up. The fingers gripped around your chin ease up, two teasing at your bottom lip, tracing it softly. You're so fucked out already, it doesn't register what he's trying to accomplish. Not until he pushes them past your lips. That's when you take him in.

Even just two fingers are thick enough to softly gag you, while your tongue licks and laves at his digits. Warm and wet, you leave him a wreck as he quietly imagines fucking your mouth instead.

God, he hopes this isn't a one time fling; he wants you like this all the time.

"Fuck, you're unreal."

You try and fail to whimper his name around his fingers, drooling onto yourself and his hand.

Steve's fingers slip away, hands sliding down your neck. He loosely holds, gives a gentle squeeze, pushing you right up to the edge. You lean into his palm, tightening around him as you give into trust. His thumb caresses the side of your neck

"St- Steve, m'gonna— I—" his other hand finds your clit, coaxing you to fall into bliss with a steady, tender touch.

"C'mon, come for me," he husks in your ear while his own thrusts stutter, cock pulsing as he follows you into a shared high. He slurs out, "Thas'it. Fu- fuck—"

He spills into you, and you gush around him, yet it's so much more than that. There's a closeness you've craved, finally satiated as you're intertwined and losing yourselves in well-overdue bliss.

Trying to anchor yourselves to one another, there's desperate grasping in tandem with sounds rooted in indulgence. You've got your arm curled behind to tangle your fingers through his hair. Steve's greedily planting his fingerprints everywhere he can reach, digging pressure into every muscle and curve. You pull, he squeezes; the two of you claim one another through frantically passionate touches.

Beyond the lust, this is what you've always longed for with Steve; even if it didn't pan out the way either of you wanted, maybe it was needed to all fall into place.

Wrapped around one another, sweat still drying, smell of sex finally fading, the two of you revel in the afterglow together. Any walls— built with years of spite, grudges, and loss— between you have been demolished.

That doesn't ease Steve's nerves, though.

"Would you…" Steve trails off as self doubt's choke hold tightens on his heart. You lift your head, chin resting on his chest as your eyes find his.

All animosity in your gaze vanishes; he never thought he'd see the day.

"Would you wanna, uh, go out?" Like he didn't just rail you into oblivion, shyness creeps in. He braces himself for rejection, and maybe this question should've waited until after you're dug out from the snow. "Like, on a date, I mean."

Eager, you tease, "Promise I won't stand you up this time."

"Not like you can leave town this time anyway."

Though you scoff, it's playful. There's a smile he never imagined he'd see again, paired perfectly with your sincere laughter that reassures him.

The light in your eyes that radiates a soothing warmth, like spring sunshine on his skin, is back.

"Not sure I'd leave if I even had the chance," you admit. "Not without you."

And the sincerity in those words, it comforts him. Grounds him. For once, just once, the two of you could have something stable, constant, that isn't a threat to your lives.

There's a comfortable silence between you; the blizzard's howling gusts don't sound so lonely and hollow anymore.

"Might be smart to get dressed before the morning." Steve grimaces, reaching between his legs to slide the condom off. "… and clean up first."

"You would ruin the moment with something like that," you groan as he ties it off, sliding an arm out of the sleeping bag to throw it into a small trash bin nearby. "Besides, we're warm and cozy, and—" he smirks, reaching for the zipper next while you whine. "Ugh, no, c'mon— don't open it!"

Steve shrugs, amused. "Then you can explain to whoever ends up rescuing us why we're naked in the middle of a—"

"Okay, okay!" You grumble, stretching over Steve to zip the bag open. Begrudgingly, you shimmy out, rushing to grab the emergency box for clothes.

Despite your protests, Steve helps you get dressed as you grumble over the soreness, no longer numb from the cold. With teamwork and grace, you're back in warm, dry clothes, and Steve follows suit. He helps you back into the sleeping bag, snuggling up next to you once zipped up.

It's effortless, though mindful, how you tangle yourselves around one another. Your leg is thrown over his thigh while you rest on your side. He faces you, slotting his leg between yours and reeling you into his embrace. You tuck your head under his chin, inviting him to kiss the top of your head— and he does.

"We're taking the weekend off," you murmur. It's not a question, it's a firm statement. "No crawls. Not unless they're absolutely certain we're ending this."

"No crawls," Steve agrees, chuckling softly into you hair. "Stay over this weekend? I know it's not the most ideal first date location, but we don't really have the greatest options right now, and—"

"Okay."

"Oh." He pauses, relieved there was no hesitancy from you. "Okay. Yeah. We'll do that."

This might take some getting used to, the whole not being at each other's throats all the time thing. He can't complain, in fact, it's a welcomed change.

"The others can wait, we got catching up to do," you nuzzle your face into his neck, voice vibrating against his throat. "And we'll be dry this time."

He hums with a chuckle low in his throat. "Not sure you could say that for yourself, but sure, okay."

"Steve."

The two of you are too wrapped up in one another to notice the snow finally slowing to something serene, teasing back and forth like you used to. This banter without venom, it's natural now, and he hopes it stays. He hopes you stay. By the way you're so at ease in his embrace, Steve knows you will. 

And he will, too.

[harringtonsdiary]

harringtonsdiary sleepover!

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.

[frootybb]

a secret relationship with your high school coach, Coach Steve (age gap, corruption, dominance/submission)

After Hours

Coach Steve Harrington x College Student!Reader

Summary: You’re the team’s quiet, reliable student trainer. Steve Harrington is the hot 31-year-old head coach who’s been slowly losing his mind watching you every night. Months of unbearable tension, stolen touches, and whispered filth finally snap one night.

Word count: 3.3K

Warnings: NSFW, age gap (31/21), authority kink, d/s dynamics, semi-public sex, size kink, breeding kink, possessive Steve, lots of praise + degradation, creampie

A/N: I changed the reader to a college student because I don’t write smut involving minors.

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You’d been the student athletic trainer for the men’s basketball team at Indiana State for almost two full seasons before Coach Steve Harrington ever looked at you like you were anything more than equipment. Just another clipboard-carrying junior in a navy polo two sizes too big, hair always pulled back because the gym was humid and the players sweated like pigs. You knew the stats, taped more ankles than you could count, and kept your mouth shut when the alumni boosters got handsy at fundraisers. You were reliable. Invisible.

Steve was not invisible.

He was thirty-one, everybody knew because the athletic department printed it in the media guide like it was a selling point and he still looked like the guy who used to own every hallway in Hawkins High. Same thick brown hair that fell into his eyes when he got frustrated, same crooked grin that made freshmen girls in the stands forget how to cheer. He’d played D1 ball for two years before a knee injury ended it, then coached high-school for a bit, and now here he was: youngest head coach in the conference, already turning a perennial bottom-feeder into a tournament threat. The players worshipped him. The boosters wanted to be him. You tried, for a long time, not to notice the way his polo stretched across his shoulders when he demonstrated a defensive slide or how his voice dropped half an octave when he got serious in the huddle.

It started with the knee.

Not yours. His.

Late February, last season. The team had just lost in overtime to Evansville and Steve was limping around the training room after everyone else had cleared out, jaw tight, trying to hide the fact that the old injury was screaming at him. You were restocking the fridge, pretending not to watch him in the reflection of the glass door.

“Need ice, Coach?” you asked without turning around.

He huffed a laugh that sounded more like a groan. “I need a new fucking knee, kid.”

You finally looked at him. He was leaning against the table, arms crossed, hair damp from the shower. The fluorescent lights did unfair things to the cut of his jaw.

“I can tape it,” you said. “Better than whatever half-ass job you did on yourself.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You offering to put your hands on me, sweetheart?”

The word slipped out of him like it was nothing just locker-room banter. But his eyes stayed on your face a second too long, and something electric crackled between you. You felt it in your stomach like a missed step on the bleachers.

You swallowed. “Only if you sit down and stop pretending you’re not in pain.”

He did sit. Let you roll his sweats up to mid-thigh, let you wrap the tape with clinical precision while your pulse hammered in your ears. His skin was warm, the muscle underneath hard as oak. When your fingers brushed the inside of his thigh he inhaled sharp through his nose, but he didn’t move.

“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.

“Practice,” you answered.

He watched your hands the whole time.

After that night he started staying late. Said he needed to review film, but he always ended up in the training room while you finished inventory. He’d lean in the doorway, arms braced overhead, and talk about the team, about the next recruit, about how the athletic director was breathing down his neck. Sometimes he’d ask about your classes. You were pre-physical therapy, carrying eighteen credits, and he listened like it mattered. Like you mattered.

By mid-season this year the tension was a living thing.

He started calling you into his office for “strategy sessions.” You’d sit across from his desk while he drew plays on the whiteboard, but his eyes kept drifting to the way your lips moved when you suggested a different defensive rotation. He’d drag a hand through his hair and mutter, “Jesus Christ, you’re smart,” like it pissed him off.

One night in November the power went out during a thunderstorm. The whole athletic complex went dark except for the emergency lights. You were alone in the training room, counting bandages by flashlight. Steve appeared in the doorway like he’d been summoned, rain still dripping from his jacket.

“Power’s out campus-wide,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“I’m fine.”

He stepped inside anyway. The door clicked shut behind him. The small room felt even smaller.

“You’re always here,” he said, voice low. “Last one out. First one in. You ever sleep?”

You shrugged, trying to ignore how the emergency light painted shadows under his cheekbones. “Someone has to make sure the tape doesn’t run out before you bench the whole team for stupid reasons.”

He laughed, soft. Took one step closer. Then another. Until he was close enough that you could smell rain and the faint cedar of his cologne.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said, “and I’m gonna do something we both regret.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Like what?”

Steve’s hand lifted. His thumb brushed your lower lip, slow, deliberate. His eyes were dark, pupils blown. “Like bend you over this table and finally find out if you taste as good as you smell.”

You didn’t breathe.

He dropped his hand like it burned him. Stepped back until he hit the door.

“Lock up when you leave,” he said hoarsely. “And for fuck’s sake, go home before midnight.”

He was gone before you could answer.

That was the first almost.

There were more.

December. After a blowout win. The team went out to celebrate, Steve stayed behind to watch film. You brought him coffee at 10:47 p.m. He was slouched in his office chair, tie loosened, top two buttons of his shirt undone. When you set the cup down he caught your wrist.

“Stay,” he said.

You stayed.

He pulled you into his lap like it was the easiest thing in the world. You straddled him, heart hammering, and he buried his face in your neck, breathing you in.

“Been thinking about this for months,” he muttered against your skin. “Every fucking practice. You in those little shorts, bending over the cooler. You have any idea what you do to me?”

His hands slid up your thighs, under the hem of your polo, thumbs pressing into the crease where leg met hip. You whimpered. He groaned like the sound hurt him.

Then his phone buzzed, assistant coach asking where the hell the game film was. Steve’s entire body went rigid. He lifted you off him like you weighed nothing, set you on the desk, and stood up so fast the chair rolled backward.

“Go,” he rasped. “Before I lock that door and ruin both our careers.”

You left on shaky legs, thighs slick, panties ruined.

January brought the real corruption.

You’d never been with anyone who made you feel small in the best way. Guys your age fumbled and asked permission for everything. Steve didn’t ask. He took. But he did it so carefully, so deliberately, that you felt cherished and owned at the same time.

It started with text messages.

Late nights. After curfew.

Steve: You still in the training room?

You: Finishing shoulder tape for Walker.

Steve: Leave the door unlocked.

He’d show up in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair messy from practice, and he’d lock the door behind him. Then he’d back you against the counter and kiss you like he was starving. Deep, filthy kisses that left your lips swollen and your brain fuzzy. He never let it go further than that, hands under your shirt palming your breasts through your bra, thumb circling your nipple until you moaned into his mouth. He’d grind against you, hard and thick through his sweats, letting you feel exactly what you did to him, but he always stopped.

“Not here,” he’d growl against your ear. “Not like this. You deserve better than a fucking training table.”

You started touching yourself at night thinking about his voice saying those words.

He knew. He could tell by the way you looked at him during practice, eyes glassy, thighs pressed together. Once, during a defensive drill, he blew the whistle and called you over to “check the ankle tape on number twelve.” While you were crouched in front of the player, Steve stood behind you, voice low enough only you could hear.

“Keep squirming like that and I’m gonna drag you into the equipment closet and make you come on my fingers before the next possession.”

You almost dropped the tape.

He was corrupting you slowly, methodically. Teaching you what it meant to want so badly it hurt. Teaching you to wait. To obey.

By March the tension was unbearable.

The team was 22-6. March Madness was two weeks away. Steve was in every headline, every podcast. And every night he was texting you things like:

Steve: My office. Now.

Steve: Wear the black leggings.

Steve: Don’t you dare touch yourself before you get here.

You obeyed every time.

That night, the night everything finally snapped, you showed up at 11:15 p.m. The arena was empty except for the security lights. His office door was cracked. You slipped inside.

Steve was sitting behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, forearms corded with muscle. The second the door clicked shut he stood up, crossed the room in three strides, and locked it.

Then he looked at you.

“Lock was open,” he said, voice rough. “Anyone could’ve walked in. You that desperate for me, baby?”

You nodded, throat dry.

He stepped close. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. Then his hand slid into your hair and tightened, tilting your head back so you had to look up at him.

“Words,” he said. “Use them.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I’m desperate.”

His eyes darkened. “On your knees.”

You dropped instantly. The carpet was rough against your leggings. Steve’s hand stayed in your hair, guiding but not forcing. He unzipped his slacks with the other hand and pulled himself out, thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You’d felt him through clothes a hundred times, but seeing it bare made your mouth water.

“Been dreaming about this mouth for months,” he murmured. “Open.”

You did. He fed you his cock slowly, inch by inch, until your nose brushed the dark hair at his base. You gagged once; he pulled back just enough to let you breathe, then pushed in again, deeper.

“Fuck, that’s it. Good girl. Just like that.”

You gagged instantly, eyes watering, but he held you there hand fisted tight in your hair, hips rocking just enough to keep you full.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, low and filthy. “Taking every inch like you were made for it. That’s my good girl. Relax your throat. Yeah, just like that. Let Coach fuck it.”

He started to move. Not gentle. Deep, measured thrusts that made your nose brush the dark, trimmed hair at his base on every downstroke. Saliva spilled from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto the front of your shirt. The wet, obscene sounds of your throat working around him filled the office mixed with his low curses and the creak of the floorboards under his shoes.

“You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?” he rasped, thumb wiping a tear from your cheek only to smear it across your stretched lips. “Touching that needy little cunt every night thinking about choking on me. Bet you come with your fingers in your mouth pretending it’s my cock. Such a filthy secret, baby. My perfect little trainer on her knees for the man who signs her paychecks.”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his hips stutter. He pulled out suddenly, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the glistening head of his cock. You gasped for air, but he slapped the wet length against your cheek once, twice then shoved back in, fucking your face harder now, balls tapping your chin.

“Gonna come down this throat one day,” he promised, voice wrecked. “But not tonight. Tonight I’m burying every drop in that tight little pussy you’ve been teasing me with for months.”

He yanked you off him with a wet pop. Before you could catch your breath he hauled you up, spun you around, and bent you over the desk. Papers and a clipboard clattered to the floor. Your palms slapped the wood as he shoved your leggings and panties down in one rough yank, leaving them tangled around your ankles. Cool air hit your soaked cunt and you whimpered.

Steve’s hand cracked across your ass sharp, stinging, perfect. “Arch your back. Show me what’s mine.”

You did, spreading your legs as much as the fabric allowed. Two thick fingers dragged through your folds, spreading your slick from clit to entrance.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Dripping down your thighs already. All this for Coach?” He pushed both fingers inside you without warning, curling them hard against that spot that made your vision white out. “So fucking tight. Been clenching around nothing for weeks waiting for this, haven’t you?”

“I have,” you gasped. “Please, Steve—”

He slapped your ass, sharp and perfect. “Coach. When my dick’s about to be inside you, you call me Coach.”

The word left your mouth on a broken moan. “Coach, please.”

He pumped his fingers fast, thumb circling your swollen clit in tight, merciless strokes. The wet squelch of your pussy filled the room. Your hips bucked back against his hand, chasing the orgasm that was already barreling toward you.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” he growled, smacking your ass again. “You come when I say. When my cock is splitting you open.”

You sobbed, trying to hold it back, but he added a third finger and crooked them just right. Your walls fluttered hard.

“Now,” he ordered, voice dark. “Come on my fingers like the desperate little whore you are for me.”

The orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled. You cried out, muffling it against your forearm as your cunt clenched and gushed around his fingers. He didn’t stop, kept fucking you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive.

Only then did he pull his hand free. You heard the wet sound of him sucking his fingers clean.

“Sweetest fucking pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered. Then the blunt, fat head of his cock was nudging your entrance, sliding through your slick. “Breathe, baby.”

He pushed in slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch stretch you open. You were still pulsing from your first orgasm, and the burn was exquisite. He bottomed out with a groan, hips flush against your ass, balls pressed tight to your clit.

“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “So goddamn tight. Like you were made to take Coach’s cock. Feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You nodded frantically, tears of overwhelming pleasure leaking from the corners of your eyes. He was so big stretching you to the limit, pressing against places you didn’t know existed. When he pulled back and slammed in again, the desk scraped forward an inch.

He set a brutal pace. Hard, deep strokes that made your tits bounce against the wood and your hips bruise against the edge of the desk. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed off the cinderblock walls, wet, filthy, loud. Every thrust punched the air out of your lungs.

“Take it,” he growled, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Take every fucking inch. This pussy is mine now. Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No college boy’s ever gonna fill you up like this.”

He reached around and rubbed your clit again fast rough circles that had you spiraling toward another peak.

“Come again,” he demanded. “Milk my cock while I’m still balls deep. Let me feel how much you need me.”

You shattered. The second orgasm ripped through you harder than the first, walls clamping down around his pistoning cock like a vice. You screamed his name Coach muffled against the desk, body shaking as pleasure bordered on pain.

Steve fucked you through it, hips snapping harder, chasing his own release. But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out suddenly, spun you around, and lifted you onto the desk like you weighed nothing. Papers flew everywhere. He shoved your thighs wide, hooked your knees over his elbows, and drove back inside in one brutal thrust. The new angle had you seeing stars, deeper, somehow, the head of his cock dragging right over your g-spot with every snap of his hips.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice hoarse.

You forced your eyes open. His face was inches from yours, hair wild, sweat beading on his forehead, jaw clenched. Those big brown eyes were blown black, but there was still that soft, possessive tenderness underneath the dominance.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted, rolling his hips in devastating circles. “Eyes on Coach while I fuck this cunt full. You feel how deep I am? Gonna come so hard inside you you’ll be leaking me for days.”

He kissed you then messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth while he pounded into you. One hand shoved your shirt up, yanking your bra down so he could pinch and roll your nipple. The sting went straight to your clit.

“Again,” he growled against your mouth. “One more. Come on my cock while I fill you up.”

You were helpless to stop it. The third orgasm tore through you like lightning, long, shattering waves that made your vision tunnel and your toes curl. Your cunt fluttered and clenched around him, drawing him impossibly deeper.

Steve’s rhythm stuttered. “Fuck—baby—gonna come. Gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my load. Take it—take every drop—”

He slammed in to the hilt and stayed there, hips jerking as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through his chest. You felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum flooding you pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his cock and dripped down your ass onto the desk. He kept grinding through it, milking every last drop, until you were both trembling.

For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the arena’s emergency lights.

Steve stayed buried deep inside you, forehead pressed to yours. His hands gentled stroking your sides, your hair, your flushed cheeks. The dominance melted into something softer, almost reverent.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice wrecked but tender. He kissed the corner of your eye where a tear had slipped free. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, boneless and glowing. “No. God, no. It was… perfect.”

He smiled, that crooked, boyish Steve Harrington smile that still made your stomach flip even after he’d just fucked you raw on his desk. He pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the oversensitive drag. A thick trickle of his cum followed, and he watched it with dark, satisfied eyes.

“Mine,” he said quietly, almost to himself. He grabbed a clean towel from the cabinet behind his desk (the one you kept stocked for the team) and cleaned you up with careful, gentle strokes. Then he fixed your bra, tugged your shirt down, and pulled your leggings back up your legs like he was dressing something precious.

He dropped back into his chair and tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you tight. You curled against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart slowing down.

“We’re careful,” he murmured into your hair, echoing the words he’d said after the first time. “No one can know. Not yet. But this—” He squeezed your hip, thumb brushing the fresh bruise he’d left there. “This is real. You’re mine now, baby. All mine.”

You nodded against his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the sweat-damp skin there. “Yours, Coach.”

He chuckled, low and warm, and kissed the top of your head. “Good girl.”

[dailyjoekeery]

Joe Keery as Gator Tillman Fargo Season 5

[chestharrington]

oh sex pollen s4 steve… picture the way his jaw sets and his eyes get all dark while he’s first feeling the effects. unusually quiet beside you, making your way through the upside down. it’s like his senses are heightened — he’s suddenly hyper aware of you. he can smell you, and not just the smell of your shampoo. he smells your skin, the salt of it, the warmth of it. he can almost taste you on his tongue. steve’s always had a thing for you, and it’s increasing to an absurd degree now. he’s clenching his fists and trying to distract himself, because he’s starting to feel his dick fill out and he’s embarrassed and confused and —

oh! now he’s breathing raggedly, doubled over in pain. he’s so hard it hurts. and all he can think about as you look at him with worried, furrowed brows is how he needs to fuck you full of his cum. now. pronto! and he’s trying to make you leave him behind, because it’s becoming almost impossible to not throw you into the dirt and fuck you senseless.

which is exactly what happens! steve’s breath is hot on your neck while he desperately kisses it, his cock rutting against your ass. dry humping you like an animal while moaning out apologies. he doesn’t know what’s happening! all he knows is that he needs to slide the crotch of your underwear off to the side and push his leaking, desperate cock inside of your tight, wet heat. he groans gutturally when he finally slides inside, your tight cunt trying (and failing) to keep him out.

not that you hate it — in fact, you encourage it! bouncing back on him and telling him to take what he needs <3 maybe you’re infected with the same thing steve is… or maybe you’re just that obsessed with him! obsessed with his groans and grunts and the way his cock finds your g-spot so quickly <3

and of course he comes inside of you once or twice or maybe even three times until it’s out of his system! growling that you’re his now, that you feel so good for him, that he’s going to fill you up. and you’re going to take it, because he wants you to! <3 aren’t you such a good friend!

xoxo stevenose kissy kissy

Omg @stevenose your mind is so powerful and beautiful and amazing and wise and awe inspiring

But I love this sm let me just riff a little 🩷🩷🩷

He started off being irritable. You were the one who got him lost— pulled away from the group on some stupid little side quest that he can’t even remember anymore.

You hadn’t made it far before your impractical heeled boots broke against a rock on the forest floor and the two of you had to meander back towards Maple Street without anything to show for it.

Your hair was still damp from the lake— he could smell the cling of lakewater and honey shampoo. The bite of sharp florals from your perfume. The salt of sweat tracking down your throat as you pulled your hair back in a ponytail.

You paused, foot propped up on a grey looking log as you twisted up your wet hair. “Be careful,” he snapped, but he didn’t even know why he was mad. “Your foot is, like, two inches from that vine.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, I know where my foot is, Steve, I’m not five.” But you were sweet enough to brush off his attitude— always had been. When you stepped down, you approached him cautiously. “How are your bites? Better or worse?”

His sides were torn open, his flesh was exposed in ragged raw strips across his back. “Better than ever,” he deadpanned. There was something about your wrist, turned up as you touched his arm. The thrum of blood pumping beneath, the smell of your skin. He’d never known that you could smell so sweet before.

He swallowed hard and he could almost taste that cloying sweetness— like sea salt and caramel.

“Just checking, sorry,” you replied. “Let’s just walk faster.”

Your ponytail swished while you walked. So did your hips. An uneven gait with your heel broken, which drew attention to the sway of your body. His head felt funny— dizzy like he'd been hanging upside down fro monkey bars. And his cock was half-hard and frustratingly obvious in his loose trousers, and he should have been mortified because it was the worst possible time to have that sort of reaction, but he wasn’t. He thought that might have been even worse.

Maybe Robin was right. Maybe the bats gave him rabies. Maybe his body was doing weird things because of their venom, or the spores in the air, or just because this dimension was fucked up and evil and it wanted him to do fucked up and evil things.

And he shouldn’t have been thinking of pinning you down in the dirt and ripping that stupid, frilly denim skirt off. What kind of person wore a skirt and booties to a manhunt anyway?

His thoughts were debilitatingly loud. Thoughts of ripping your tights down the center and stuffing your cunt with his cock. Or using that ponytail to keep you steady while he buried himself in your throat. Making you bite down on his fist to keep quiet while he stretched your tiny ass.

He had to shake that thought away. He wished he had water to splash on his face, or to take a cold shower in. He was hot all over— sweating like he'd just run suicides. And something aches in him, a searing pain that makes him double over and cry out.

And you look so concerned. Of course you do. With your water-smudged makeup and your big eyes full of worry. "Fuck, I don't know what to do, Steve, tell me what to do." You touched his hand and that searing ache was overtaken by a sweet euphoria— like when he'd broken his leg during the regional baseball tournament and the doctors gave him morphine for the pain.

Something inside of him— the last shreds of morality and reason that were rapidly deteriorating— made him push you off, even as the contact with your shoulders washed over him like the sweetest balm. "Go. I have rabies, or, or something bad, or something." His mind was already failing him, but he had the sense that no matter what he would have said, you wouldn't have left him alone.

Certain things got blurry after a while. What you said, what you did. He had a vague sense that he was begging— please, please, please, please. He wanted to tell you to please go, but he knew he was desperate for something else entirely.

Maybe you realized you were out of his depth, or maybe he looked worse than he realized, because you stood up and told him that you were going to get help. Relief and torment washed over him in equal measure as he watched you go.

It should have stopped there— he'd sit and wait for help, or die while you were gone. Whichever worked. But then you tripped. In all the commotion, you'd forgotten that your heel was broken and misstepped. You tumbled face first onto the forest floor, and he was on you just as fast.

"Wh- Steve?" You gasped, squirming a bit beneath him. He ground down against you, rocking against the rough denim until he managed to hike up your skirt and rut against the thin barrier of your tights and panties.

Aside from the desperate groans and pants in your ear, he tried to be good. Whatever hadn't been taken over by primal urges showed up in sorry's that sounded painful on his tongue. "I don't know what's wrong with me," he murmured in your ear. "I just need—"

You were breathing hard, fingers twitching in the dirt. You smelled so good— so sweet. Before he could stop himself, he leaned down and licked the sweat trickling down the side of your throat.

You sighed and he thought it was the prettiest sound he'd ever heard. Your head tilted, inviting him to lick and suck and bite. You shifted beneath him, hips tilting up, pressing back against him.

Jesus Christ, he nearly came then and there. He pulled back just enough to rip your tights down the center and tug your panties to the side and reveal your slick, sticky folds.

He shoved his pants down as far as he could stand and wasted no time sinking inside of your cunt to the hilt.

His vision whited out when he felt your tight walls gripping around him. So, so fucking tight. He knows that he'd usually need to take the time to prep you, to make sure you were ready before you took it all, but you felt so perfect that any reservations melted away like cotton candy.

It was desperate and animalistic. His big hands pawing at your hips. Grabbing, pulling you back to meet every thrust. He was drooling and didn't even have a sense of shame when he saw thick strings of saliva dripping onto your back.

It was gross, all of it. The spit, the cling of sweat and lake water to your skin, the cool dirt under your nails and in your hair and face, the sticky smack of skin against skin because you were so wet that it was dripping down his balls.

He thought coming might make the feral need go away, but the sight of his load dripping from your cunt just made him need more. A fever he had to sweat out. Maybe this time he'd roll you over so he could see your pretty face. Pull your pretty little blouse down and watch your tits bounce each time his hips snapped against yours.

He wouldn't even have the decency to cover you up if Nance, Rob, and Eddie came to check on you, which they would. You were both being so loud, but it just felt so good. Afterward, he would wish he had been a gentleman, or that what he'd done was becoming of someone as sweet at you, but life just seemed to take and take and take.

At least he was making you come, and you were looking up at him with the softest doe eyes, just telling him it was okay and you wanted him to feel better, and you've always kind of wanted this and isn't it funny that this is— fuck— when it happens? When he's almost died and you're all— god, Steve— on the run from the cops? Why couldn't it have been in a nice motel after prom?

He wasn't thinking about prom, or how funny it was, or the cops, or the upside down, or anything, really. His thoughts had gone monosyllabic right before his first orgasm, and hadn't made their way back. He didn't think he was saying it all out loud, but he could have been. Take it, take it, tight, hot, mine, mine, mine, mine.

Steve collapses on top of you after he's fucked a third load into your cunt, which he thinks is a way of covering you up, in a sense. He's big and heavy one top of you, and so sensitive that just the friction of his spent cock rubbing against the mess between your thighs makes him cry out. Your nails play with his hair, matted and dirty and bloody and gross.

You poke his side and he cries out. "Sorry, I thought you died," you whispered beneath him. "Are you okay?"

He groans and buries his head in your neck. Fuck you for asking him that. And fuck you for being so good. You kiss his hair, he kisses the spot beneath your ear and you shiver. Something for you to both unpack later.

When you finally stood up, your gait was wobbly for an entirely new reason, and your boots didn't help.

[127leilas]

true

[graywrenhart]

pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Reader

summary: After coming off a date with a bad review, Steve sets out to prove that he really is good at going down on girls.

tags: MDNI!! [roommates/friends to lovers] [smut] [oral fem receiving] [mutual pining] [he just needs an honest review] [friends help each other...right?] 2k words

a/n: While brainstorming this fic, I couldn't decide whether I wanted it to be fluffy or smutty, so I had you guys vote. And you wanted me to write both. (Here is the fluffy sister fic if you want to read it!)

It is your deepest held belief that Friday nights are, indeed, best spent in. 

You’re on the couch, curled up with a book, basking in the soft lamplight as steam from your favorite tea reflects in the dark windows beside you. 

All is peaceful. All is quiet. It’s perfect. 

And then your apartment door opens. 

You jump, looking over your shoulder just in time to see your roommate, Steve, storm through the entryway. His dress shirt is untucked, tie loose, and his hair is a wreck, like he’s run his hands through it a million times.

That’s not a good sign for a man supposed to be on a fancy date tonight. 

He said, if things went well, he’d probably end up back at her place for the night. You thought that might be a little presumptuous, but hey, it’s Steve Harrington you’re talking about here. 

Steve looks around wildly, and when his eyes land on you, the intensity in them takes you aback. 

“I’m guessing things didn’t go well, then—?” you start, but he cuts you off, his words overlapping yours. 

“Take off your pants.”

You freeze. 

What the—

He must not register the utter shock on your face, because he’s already moving towards you. The silky tie snaps through the air as he rips it from his neck. God, he must really be wound up. He didn’t even take his shoes off at the door. 

“Excuse me?” You manage to choke out. 

“Don’t freak out, I just really need to try something,” he grunts, rounding the couch. “Just for a second.”

The moment his knees hit the carpet in front of you, your jaw goes slack.  

“Harrington!” You scramble back into your mountain of pillows, nearly knocking your mug off the side table. You reach out and steady it with one hand, suddenly very aware of how your tank top has ridden up with the movement. “What the hell are you—?”

“…can’t believe she said that,” he mutters, ripping back the blanket thrown over your lap. 

“Who said what?”

He doesn’t respond, eyes locked on your short sleep shorts. They’re a cute set you picked up recently at the mall. Navy blue with white flowers. Innocent-looking. Sweet. 

But he’s staring at them like he’s going to rip them off with his teeth. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks. 

While you can’t deny what that look is doing to you, there’s something else trapped in his gaze. Sadness? Not quite. Disappointment, maybe? You’ve only been roommates for six months, but you already know him well enough to know when he’s upset. 

Reaching down, you grab a fistful of his hair and tip his head back. His eyes snap to yours. 

“What did she say?” you ask again, firmer this time. 

Steve’s lips form a thin line before he sighs heavily. You drop his hair. 

“She said I was bad at sex. Specifically, bad at...this.” He gestures unhelpfully between your legs and your stomach swoops as his finger almost brushes the seam of your shorts. 

It takes you a second, but then your brows pull together. “She actually said that?”

“Not exactly,” he groans. “The date was fine. It was our third, so when she invited me upstairs, I figured…well, you know. And then we got to making out and it was hot. I guess…”

You swallow hard and gesture for him to continue, even if the thought of his lips trailing down some other girl’s neck feels like a knife in your side. 

“And then I went down on her and she said—” He cuts himself off with a miserable little huff before resuming. “She said it wasn’t doing anything for her. At all. Like it wasn’t good enough or something. Can you believe that? I could’ve lived if she said my thrust game needed work or something, if we had even gotten to that point, but this? This is, like, my thing.”

Oh. Okay. 

Yeah, you could’ve gone the rest of your lease without knowing that eating pussy is your hot roommate’s thing. 

That is not good for your little crush you have going on that you refuse to talk about. Or think about. Ever. 

You nod quickly and clear your throat. “S-so, what exactly does this have to do with me?” 

Steve just shrugs. “We’re friends, right?”

“Right.”

“Right.” He levels your gaze, brown eyes soft and playful in the lamplight. “So…”

The moment stretches between you, an invitation, an ask, and a dare all rolled into one. 

“So, because we’re such good friends, we just…give each other oral sex?”

Steve sighs. “Look. I just want a second opinion, okay? I mean, this is bad. Really bad. If Cindy didn’t like it, then what if other girls didn’t either? Then I’ve just been lied to all this time—”

Your gaze drops to his fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath you, and despite yourself, a smile creeps across your lips. “Oh my God, this really got to you, didn’t it?” 

“What?” He balks. “No! It’s just…I need to set the record straight.” He taps your knees with a knuckle, playful but firm. “Spread ‘em.”

You bark an unbelieving laugh that ends in a sound too close to a whimper when his hands come down on your thighs. 

You cannot let him do this to you. If you do, you’ll never be able to get over your secret-no-good-very-bad-crush on your roommate. 

You force yourself to breathe. “I…I don’t want thinks to get weird.”

 His eyes flick up to yours. “Weird?”

“Between us.”

Steve seems to take a second to understand what you’re saying, and you watch as an emotion you can’t place crosses his face. 

Suddenly, he moves to stand. “You’re right. Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. What am I thinking, I just—”

Panic spikes and you snatch his wrist before you even really know what you’re doing, cutting him off. “No, wait. It’s like you said. We’re…friends, right?”

He nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah.”

“So, we don’t let it get weird.” The words spill out of you before you can take them back. But you don’t want to. “I’ll give you an unbiased review. A one time thing.”

You watch as his lashes drop again to your legs, and his pupils widen as your knees fall apart a little on instinct. 

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice thick. 

In an effort to appear nonchalant, you shrug. But you’re salivating when his tongue darts over his bottom lip. 

 “Yes,” you breathe. 

He doesn’t waste a second dropping back down to his knees, and your legs widen immediately to give him space. 

“So, you’ll tell me the truth, right?” he rasps, eyes jumping between your face and your hips. “Be honest. I can take it.”

“Honest,” you agree, but the word comes out in a whisper as his fingers slip under your waistband. 

Your face burns as he pulls down your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, baring you to him. His hands gently ease your thighs farther apart, and you fight the urge to squirm under his gaze. 

“Steve! Stop looking at it like that,” you gasp.

“Why?” he asks without glancing up. “It’s pretty.”

Shit. 

You’re not strong enough for this. 

But when he finally looks up, you recognize the silent question in his eyes. He’s asking for permission. You could stop this right now, and he would let you easily. He’s probably never even bring it up again. No harm done. 

And you should. 

God, you should. 

But you don’t want to. 

So instead, you just nod, not trusting your voice to speak. 

As he leans in, you brace for the feeling of his tongue, but you’re surprised when he starts by just…kissing you. 

His lips are soft against your folds, and your breath catches at the tenderness there. His eyes find yours before he goes lower, and the moment his nose bumps your clit, your body jolts in his hold. 

He makes a muffled sound and his eyes drift shut, large palms moving to your hips, pinning them to the cloth couch beneath you.

 Then there’s that wet heat. 

His tongue slides over you with just enough pressure, starting slow and exploring your entrance. 

“Oh, God,” you whimper. 

His hair is so soft against your inner thighs, and when he makes a sound of encouragement against you, and his tongue swirls higher, catching the underside of your clit, your mouth drops open in a silent moan. 

He’s hardly done anything yet, but the way he’s doing it, so confident, and steady, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

“See? Good, right?” he mutters, the words muffled and slick against your core. “I know what I’m—mmm, fuck, you taste good.”

Before you can respond, his hands wrap up and around your thighs, and he hauls you closer. Your tank top rides up even higher as you slide down into the cushions, but you don’t reach up to fix it. 

Mostly because Steve Harrington is going down on you, and that thought alone is nearly making you lose your fucking mind. 

His lashes flutter shut as he makes out with your dripping cunt, his throat bobbing as sucks gently, swallows, and goes back for more. 

You’re surprised to find there’s no performance to his actions, but more of a genuine enjoyment. 

Steve eats pussy like he wants to. 

You watch, transfixed, and you can’t help but roll your hips once against his mouth, smearing your slick all over his pretty fucking face. 

Too pretty for his own good.

A sound escapes his chest, something caught between a moan and a whine, and he nods against you, peeking up from beneath his lashes. 

The carpet whispers as rises higher on his knees, mouth traveling up your mound and over the soft, sensitive skin below your belly button. 

But you whimper at the loss, pushing his head back down. 

His throat vibrates against you with a chuckle, but he follows you obediently. “Oh, yeah? So definitely doing something for you then.”

“Shut up,” you groan, but the sound dies out harshly when his mouth latches to your clit and sucks. 

Hard. 

You gasp, back arching as your core clenches instinctively. 

Then, without warning, he pulls back. 

You look at each other, chests heaving. Suddenly, you’re afraid he’s done. That you now have to give a report based on that. 

“Is that it?” You squeak. 

“What? God, you think I would just leave you like that? No, I was just thinking—” He draws in a breath, like he needs to physically rearrange his thoughts. “Well, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

You just stare down at him, chest heaving, bare and slick from the waist down. 

He takes one look at your face and clears his throat. “Right. Later.” He leans in again, but pauses before glancing up at you one more time. “Yes?”

“Yes, Harrington, I will kiss you, later,” you whine pitifully, canting your hips into his hands. 

He seems pleased, and wastes no time picking up where he left off. 

And this time, he doesn’t tease you. 

Your head hips back, a moan tearing from your throat as two of his fingers spear deep inside and his mouth closes over your clit.

As you threaten to fall apart beneath him, Steve just watches. 

Every little whine and whimper. Every jerk and arch of your back. Every wriggle of your hips and curl of your toes. 

He studies you like a map, surveying everything that makes you soak his face, everything that makes you clench hard around his fingers, his tongue, and finding new routes to all those destinations. 

The tension between your hips pulls tighter, and when he reaches up to palm your breast, slipping his hand underneath your tank top, you wonder if he can feel it. 

The way your heart slams against your ribs. 

A silent, helpless confession. A call for him to see that this will not, in fact, be a one-time thing. 

That you’ve been thinking about this—about him—ever since the day you moved in. 

That ache builds like a tidal wave, threatening to break, and your fingers fly to his arms for stability. He’s warm, and strong, and his muscles shift under his dress shirt. 

It’s honestly impressive how quickly he responds, how easily he reads every subconscious signal your body gives him. Because when that breathy, urgent whine starts to leave your lips, his thumb replaces his mouth on your clit, rubbing firm, perfect circles that drive you higher. And then he dips lower, tonguing your entrance, devouring you in thick, broad strokes, pushing you to the fucking brink. 

“Yeah, you gonna come for me?” He slurs against your aching cunt. “Just like that. That’s it. I’ve got you—mmhm—”

The second his tongue spears deep inside, the tidal wave breaks. 

Your moan fills your quiet apartment, and you nearly come off the couch with the intensity of it. The rush is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You have no option but to surrender fully to it as it pulls you under, shamelessly riding your orgasm out on Steve’s tongue.

Steve’s ready for it though. He goes with you easily as your hips rise and fall, strong hands holding you to his mouth, unwilling to let you slide away. 

When the pulsing eventually fades to shuttering jolts, he pulls back, but his hands stay on your hips, caressing you softly, bringing you back down to earth. 

You bite your lip, looking down at him panting between your knees. Your body aches, but in a good way. Like you need more, but somehow, it still won’t ever be enough. 

“God, Steve—” you whine, but you’re cut off by him lunging up across your body and pressing his lips to yours. 

You laugh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as he kisses you eagerly. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” He murmurs, pulling back a little.

Something catches in your chest at his confession, and you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down for another kiss. 

This one is different. 

Deeper, and softer, and…meaningful. 

He sinks back down onto his knees, squeezing your thigh, your waist, like you’re something precious. 

“So, tell me , honestly, was it good?” He urged, gazing up at you.

You blink dumbly, throughly flushed. “Yeah, uh…no notes.”

He smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Five out of five stars.”

“I don’t know, Harrington. That literally means no room for improvement.” You’re not sure his ego is ready for that. 

“Oh?” His lips tilt in a crooked smile that makes you want to kiss him again. “What would you have me do to earn that fifth star, huh?”

His lids go heavy as you tighten your hold on his hair and urge his mouth back down where you want it. 

“You could do it again.”

a/n: It's my canon that his date, Cindy, was just hung up on her ex, and Steve was the unlucky rebound that night. Plus, Steve wasn't that into it. Because he was thinking about you, obviously. Also, here is the fluffy version sister fic if you care lol

ᥫ᭡ dividers by @cursed-carmine| steve masterlist | drop by my desk

[shawnxstyles]

olivia is playing on my BIRTHDAY NEAR ME. if i don’t get tickets for the 3RD time, i will RIOT. i’m willing to spend big bucks to see her. ticketmaster please let me win the war on thursday 🙏🙏🙏🙏

[shawnxstyles]

update on this: i DID GET TICKETS!! TO MY BIRTHDAY SHOW!!! VIP GA FLOOR!!! DONT PLAY!!

[shawnxstyles]

can we talk about the dance no more video??

that was the FREAKIEST THING HE’S EVER DONE!! FREAKIER AND GAYER THAN LIGHTS UP!!!

and he’s also SO RIPPED??? i’m foaming at the mouth literally.

[shawnxstyles]

olivia is playing on my BIRTHDAY NEAR ME. if i don’t get tickets for the 3RD time, i will RIOT. i’m willing to spend big bucks to see her. ticketmaster please let me win the war on thursday 🙏🙏🙏🙏

[buckysgrace]

4. helpless feeling

Angels Like You

Gator Tillman x stepsis!reader

CW: some good ole groping, vaginal fingering, blowjobs, mentions of drinking

By the next day you were wrecked from the shame and guilt you felt over your own actions,   humiliation eating at you as you were fairly certain that Gator was able to see right through you. 

You couldn’t believe you had thought of your stepbrother while you were touching yourself, that you had longed for his touch and came to the thought of him. It was disgusting and wrong. 

He was messing with your head, you were sure of it. 

And while you found yourself feeling awkward around him, he seemed to bear no acknowledgement of it. He treated you the exact same way as he always did, though he seemed to stand a little closer. His tone a little flirtier than normal. It was like he could read your discomfort, like he’d figured out your weakness and wiggled himself in deeper. 

“Ope,” Gator apologized as his cup clattered to the floor, the water and ice cubes spreading across the wooden boards, “my bad. Sorry, sunshine, I lost my grip.” He gave you a bright smile, eyes filled with mischief. 

Normally you’d tell him to clean it up himself, but you couldn’t do that with Roy getting ready to leave from the living room. 

Asshole.

A stiff smile formed on your lips as you locked eyes with him, trying not to wince as you pulled free a towel and fell onto your sore knees. You could feel his gaze burning into you as you scrubbed the water from the wooden boards, trying to do your best from grumbling to yourself. 

“Think you missed a spot,” Gator tsked from over you, “aren’t you women supposed to be good at this?” You bit back your scoff as you leaned over further to wipe away the rest of the water, sure that this was amusing him to no end. 

You made a show about standing as you came to a halt in front of him on your sore knees. You tilted your head, enjoying the way he pressed his lips together and how his hazel eyes widened momentarily. You stood slowly until you were leveled with him, only a few inches separating the two of you. 

“Aren’t you men supposed to be useful?” You whispered hotly, enjoying the way his lips curled into a little smirk much more than you liked to admit. 

“That mouth of yours,” he bit down on his bottom lip, shaking his head, “it’s gonna get you in trouble one day.” He cocked his eyebrows as he walked forward, hitting his shoulder against yours as his heavy boots thudded against the floor. 

Yeah. Sure. 

You rolled your eyes before you continued your chores for the day, taking your time so you didn’t have to spend much time bored and alone. You weren’t allowed to work other than helping with simple chores around the ranch, and cooking and cleaning. You couldn’t do anything that was considered too manly or anything that was seen as hard labor.

Not that you wanted to do that anyways.

However, you did get a kick out of watching the men work. That was probably the best part of the summer months, when the long sleeves went away and the muscles came out. Nearly all of them had matching tans, and similar profanities. 

You could lie to yourself all you wanted, but you knew your eyes lingered against Gator during that time. Usually he got so hot that he’d eventually just rip his shirt off, exposing his soft tummy and strong arms. His hair would be messy at that time from how much he was sweating, the gel unable to hold his thick hair down because of it. And oh boy, did the sweat look glorious dripping from his thick chest hair. 

Gator was back on the night shift for the week, but there was no time for him to rest late in the day either. You had no idea how he managed to stay awake through the long shifts, but that wasn’t any of your concern either. 

You put in your headphones to drown out your own thoughts, the wire dangling as you worked through sweeping and mopping the kitchen. The house somehow managed to collect dust like crazy, so that’s what you worked on next.

It was always awkward making your way through the photos and having to scrub the images of Roy’s former wives. You didn’t know much about the woman who was married to him before your mother, only that she looked too young to have been married.

Gator’s mother was beautiful, and in some photos they actually looked happy. Although she was always smiling the brightest when she had her arms around Gator, holding him on her hip and squeezing his squishy little face. That may have been the last time he had genuinely smiled as well, and he didn’t have all of his teeth in that image. 

You wondered momentarily how different he’d be if she had taken him with her, but you didn’t linger on that thought very long. There was no changing the past, and you were sure that many people would say you’d be different if your father was still around. And you had no desire to think about him at all. 

Your mom had a smoking problem a long time ago, but occasionally you still found a carton or a few hidden around the ranch. Which is how you landed on two cigarettes that had been placed delicately in one of the hallway drawers that Roy would never dare open on his own. 

Sweet.

The sun was warm as you headed out, your dress catching in the light wind as you strolled towards the fence at the bottom of the hill. It was away from everything else, just where you liked to be so you could sit and watch. 

Brief hellos and greetings were given as you crossed where the men were working. You didn’t know them too well, other than they seemed polite enough. Probably too scared to cross Roy, because some of them still eyed you in the way that men liked to do. No one ever seemed to cross that boundary, however. 

You climbed up the fence, placing your legs through two of the wooden planks before resting on the lower one. Your legs dangled as you pulled one of the cigarettes free from behind your ear, lighting it up and taking a long drag from it. 

You savored the taste of it, closing your eyes as the sun danced across your skin and the music continued to fill your ears. It was over far too soon, and even though your throat was burning, you lit the second one up. 

“You know those will kill you, right?” You jumped as one of your headphones was yanked from your ear, a shadow crossing over you as Gator looked at you with raised brows.

He was out of breath, cheeks flushed and sweat collecting between his brows. His hazel eyes were greener than normal, a fair amount of stubble collecting on his upper lip.

Just as you expected, he was wearing no shirt, skin slightly flushed along his shoulders. His chest hair was thick and stuck against his chest from how much he was sweating. You forced yourself to look away, not allowing yourself to look at the sweat that was dripping through his happy trail. 

“How fast?” you asked him in a teasing manner, earning a disgruntled expression, “I’m kidding. They're not mine. I found them and figured I might as well. They taste better when you’re drunk.” You glanced down at the cigarette, shrugging your shoulders before you took another drag. 

“They do,” he agreed, “and they fucking reek.” He reached a hand out, fingers wrapping around the fence near where your arm was resting. You hummed in agreement. 

“Your vapes aren’t any better.” Popcorn lung, you’d heard it was killer. 

“They smell a lot better.” You could agree with that as you nodded your head, watching as he used his free hand to push his fingers through his slick hair. It was messy, falling along his features roughly. Though it framed his face nicely. You liked when it looked this way. 

You continued to smoke as you let your feet dangle, wondering what he was thinking as he continued to look at you thoughtfully. Probably nothing good. You cocked your eyebrows, observing the way he pulled his lips down and shrugged his shoulders. 

“I hurt my knees,” you commented as you looked down at the scraped skin, “and my back is all bruised.” And sore. This morning you had woken up and wondered if you had broken it. 

“Yeah, you took quite the tumble,” he snorted as he kicked at the rocks in front of you, “basically had to carry you up the stairs.” His lips curled into a little grin as he peered up at you again, squinting to keep the sun out of his eyes. 

“No you didn’t.” There was no way. 

“Yes I did.” Okay, he sounded a little too defensive for your liking. Maybe he really had been kind enough to do so. 

“I don’t remember that.” You admitted softly, watching the way the smoke curled into the air from the end of your cigarette. 

“Figures,” Gator exhaled roughly as he shook his head, “you weren’t making any fuckin’ sense.” Yeah, you could believe that. You got quite social when you had enough to drink. 

“Nathan likes Rumple Mintz,” you answered with a laugh, “and I was fine with whatever he brought.” It could’ve been Fireball, or even Mike’s. You still would’ve drank it. 

“Jesus.” He crinkled his features up, still squinting as he peered at you. Only there was a hint of disgust in his expression now. 

“Why did the cops get called anyway?” You mumbled as you brought the cigarette up to your lips again. It wasn’t like you were a bunch of teenagers, and it was on a farm. No neighbors to disturb. 

“Jeremy lost the house in a divorce,” he snickered, “he wasn’t supposed to be there.” He tapped above your knee, looking at where your skin was all ratted up. You bit down on your lip, ignoring the way your body pulsed in response. 

“I bet Melinda was pissed.” Explains the cops. 

“You have no idea.” He exhaled deeply as he leaned back against the fence, stretching his arms out. 

You observed the way his muscles moved as he did so, rubbing at his nose before he closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze hit against him. His brown hair danced in it, scraping across his sweaty forehead as his musky scent hit you.

It was annoying how good he smelt, especially like this. All hot and sweaty and disgusting. You were sure any other guy would absolutely reek. Which he did, you just enjoyed it much more than you were supposed to. 

You looked at the tattoo on his arm next, shaking your head at how ridiculous it was. Maybe just a little humorous. He had a few more here and there. One on his left forearm, another on his left hip. That one was a small D, apparently for the only girl he’d ever loved, but you didn’t like to think about that too much.

It was hard to imagine that he could love anyone. 

“Want a hit?” A truce for your unusual calm conversation. Plus, he wasn’t being an asshole at the moment. Gator slowly opened his eyes, brows crinkled as he looked at you thoughtfully. 

“Sure, why not.” You held the cigarette out as you waited, expecting him to take it from your hand. 

Gator dipped his head down instead of taking the cigarette from your fingers, wrapping his mouth around it as he let you take control of the drag. His lips were close enough to brush against your fingertips, sending a spark through your body. 

You observed the way he closed his eyes as he took the drag, lips still pressed against your skin as his eyelashes fluttered. A calm expression fell over his features for the first time in a long time as he pulled away, turning to face you. 

His eyes met yours as he blew the smoke at you, the breeze catching it and whipping it against your face. You inhaled sharply, tapping the cigarette as you did your best to keep your composure.

“Have you decided on what I owe you?” You kicked your legs back and forth slowly, examining the way he brushed his fingers across his mouth.

“Still deciding.” He was grinning now, fully amused with the way you rolled your eyes.

“I think you’re just trying to taunt me.”  You took another long drag, trying not to acknowledge that it had just been in his mouth. You didn’t want your thoughts to linger on that.

“Why would I do such a thing?” he turned towards you smugly, “you seem impatient.” Maybe you were, but he didn’t need to know that. 

“I’d rather get it over with.” You were sure he was plotting up some way to humiliate you. Might as well rip the band-aid off. 

“Right.” He turned away again, a thoughtful look on his expression as he peered back towards the ranch. Your eyes drifted across his sharp nose, the slight way it was bent. You wondered if he had broken it at one point.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” You brought up at last, tilting your head thoughtfully. Maybe he didn’t work tonight.

“Eh, I’ll get a few hours,” Gator smirked as he straightened up, taking the cigarette from your fingers, “glad to know that you care.” He teased, warm palm falling over your exposed thigh as he squeezed.

You nearly toppled over with the way he gripped you, how your body pulsed at that simple little gesture. Jesus. It was embarrassing the way you reacted. And you were pretty sure he knew it too as his lips grew into a brighter smile, how he sauntered off with the rest of your cigarette between his lips.

There was no shame in the way your eyes rested on his hips as he walked off, his pants hugging at his small waist. You briefly wondered if he knew how round his butt was, or if that was oblivious to him. Still, it was a nice view.

The most exciting part of your week was always on Tuesday nights, Cindy’s bible study. Which was less than thrilling in general, but you got to hear gossip and pick at little snack boards. 

And it got you off of the ranch from seven to nine. Those glorious hours that you savored. 

It was nice hearing a service that wasn’t mandated by Roy, but honestly your bible study with the ladies never got very far before the chit chat caught up. You, of course, rarely had anything to add. Except for the rumor about Jeremy’s party.

One that you had not been to of course.

You were in charge of bringing the vegetables tonight, carefully selecting the best looking ones from the garden before you chopped them up and made them look as nice as possible. You also brought some homemade ranch, and some olives and pickles. You couldn’t resist either of those.

“What’s this shit?” Gator’s boots seemed even heavier with all of his gear on as he stomped into the kitchen. You briefly looked up, then turned your attention back to the cutting board. 

“Vegetables, they’re good for you.” You stated in a matter of fact way, raising your eyebrow as he leaned himself against the counter next to you. 

“I know what vegetables are.” A scoff left his lips as he rolled his eyes. You grinned, shrugging your shoulders. 

“You asked.”

“What’s it for?” He clarified as he watched you, lips looking all soft and smooth. You didn’t know how it was fair that someone like Gator got a perfect cupid’s bow. 

His hair was slicked back in his usual manner, exposing his pretty forehead as he rested his hands on his hips. His hazel eyes flicked back and forth between your hands and your face, like he couldn’t decide where to look. 

“Cindy’s Bible Study.” You answered quickly, continuing to get everything in order. You were not going to let him distract you. 

“I doubt it.” You cocked an eyebrow, looking at the disbelief that was wrinkled on his features. 

“You don’t believe me?” You weren’t sure why he’d be suspicious of you. You’d never lied before. Well, not about this. You weren’t going to risk your one chance of freedom. 

“I don’t believe a fuckin’ thing you say,” he snorted, “what are you really doing?” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice as his eyes drifted across your features. You laughed. 

“Praising Jesus Christ, what else would I be doing?” You hummed as you bit into the other half of the cucumber, watching the way he looked at you disgruntled. 

“Hangin’ around that loser,” it took everything in you not to laugh, stunned that he might actually be upset, “you’re all dressed up and shit.” He gestured at you, leaving you to look down at your dress. It was nothing special. Just as long and boring as all of the others. Barely any of your skin was exposed. 

For a moment you thought he might be jealous. 

“Is that still bothering you?” You had no interest in Nathan, but perhaps you could pretend that you did. Just for the fun of it. 

“I’m not bothered by it. He’s a fuckin’ loser. If you wanna hang around him, that’s your choice.” Gator stated in a matter of fact way, scoffing like you’d suggested something ridiculous. You pressed your lips into a smile, unable to help yourself. 

He was still grumbling and pouting as you finished cutting up your items, mumbling about how lame Nathan was. It was kind of cute. 

“Open,” you replied softly, taking him by surprise as you pushed a carrot covered with ranch into his mouth, “mhm, yummy vegetables.” You teased as he looked at you stunned, aggressively chewing down on his carrot.

You hummed as you brought your hand up, observing the cautious way he watched you as you dragged your thumb across the corner of his mouth. Ranch smeared against your skin as your heart skipped in your chest, his eyes hot on you as you raised your thumb back to your lips. 

Your tongue curled across your skin as you licked it away, biting back a smirk at the way his eyes darkened. He exhaled loud enough for you to hear, taking a step closer to you. 

“Something you need?” You teased as you turned away from him, biting down on your bottom lip.

Your stomach twisted, heart fluttering as he pressed his hand down over yours; engulfing yours entirely. The knife fell flat against the cutting board as he took a step closer. You stared up at him, meeting his darkened eyes as you faltered, back hitting the fridge. 

He was looming over you as he brushed his fingers softly across your arms, earning goosebumps as you dangled there uselessly. Your mouth fell open in surprise, trying to search for words from your tied tongue. 

A little sound fell from you as he touched your chin, squeezing softly as he forced you up in his direction. You locked eyes with him, refusing to drop your gaze. You weren’t weak. You could do this.

Then he leaned in closer, his nose about two inches from yours.

Oh.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Gator told you at last, reaching up to press his thumb against your bottom lip, “because it’s dangerous.” He warned. Maybe you would’ve scoffed if your body wasn’t on fire, your pulse racing against the side of your neck. 

Fuck. 

He dropped you just like that, stomping out of the room and heading out towards his cruiser. The distance didn’t matter, you could still feel his touch burning into your skin, the smell of him lingering on you.

Jesus. You needed to get over yourself. 

You were still trying to collect yourself when you excused yourself to Cindy’s for the night, glad that he was gone to work. You weren’t sure you could see him again tonight, not without doing something that you’d regret. 

Suddenly you were longing to feel shame again. 

You waited in your car for a moment once you arrived, peeping at the pretty flowers that were growing on the front lawn. A moment later you were twisting off the cap of your shot of Fireball before bringing it up to your lips. It was just to calm the nerves, the same way you drank to help yourself sleep.

Sometimes you just needed some assistance, and that was fine. 

Everyone at the Bible Study was around the same age as you, but they were living completely different lives. All married with young children, leaving you as the sole outlier. You were the only one that was single and not looking. 

They, of course, had been able to pick their husbands on their own. You were forced to sit and wait until the right hand was dealt. Lucky you. 

Gator was in a similar boat, but because he was a man he could be with anyone he wanted. He didn’t do relationships though, and that was the one thing you agreed with him upon. You’d be single for life if you had the choice.

Cindy was always the first one to bring him up, talking about the various ways she’d seen him around town. How hard of a worker he was. She’d been obsessed with him since high school and always batted her lashes and fluffed up her blonde hair whenever he was around. But most women around here did.

“I’m just saying, Lenny’s cousin is very nice. I think you’d like him.” You did your best to keep your expression neutral at the suggestion. You’d met Lenny before, he was gross.

“Roy would never let her go out with him,” Brianne spoke in your defense, “he’s got nothing to his name.” Money wasn’t even the problem for you, it was the fact that he still enjoyed hanging around high school girls.

“But he’s a good Christian.” Sure he was. That’s what all of their excuses were. You pressed a stiff smile to your lips, playing with the hem of your dress.

“Thanks, but I’m not looking to be with anyone right yet.” If ever. Maybe you’d run off before you were absolutely forced to get with someone.

“Must be hard living with Gator,” Cindy sighed as a startled gasp settled over the room, “oh, you know that’s not what I mean. I just mean he’s probably hard to live with.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder, giving you a dazzling smile. 

“I guess so.” He was annoying, but you supposed he could be worse. You also had no desire to set them up. Gator was shit at relationships and you didn’t want to get stuck in the crossfire. 

“What’s he up to tonight?” Cindy grinned as she twisted her fingers through her long hair as you did your best to keep from snorting. He wasn’t free if that’s what she was wondering.

So you recounted that he was working, and very vaguely answered her pressing questions about him. You didn’t think that she should be quite so obsessed anymore. Especially with another baby on the way.

When nine approached that’s when you felt most dreadful. Often you tried to keep the conversations going, lingering until you were the last one. It was then that you knew you could do nothing else. You had to head back eventually.

The town was always much darker at night than most places, the area being so rural that not many street lights were placed about. It was sort of relaxing in a way.

You drove a little white Chevy, one that had been Gator’s in high school. It still worked, still got around and did everything that you needed it to do. But it still smelt like him, still seemed to hold onto pieces of him even after you’d changed the interior entirely.

Police lights flashed from behind you on the drive back, the sirens ringing in your ears as a frustrated groan left your lips. You glanced down, ensuring that you were going the speed limit before you put your hazards on and pulled over to the side of the road.

You quickly checked to make sure there was nothing out to get you in trouble, or at least that it was hidden. You were positive that it was Gator who had pulled you over, probably searching for something to keep him interested. 

A deep sigh filled the car as you rolled your window down, confirming your suspicions as he approached with his thumbs hanging loosely in his tactile gear. He had a sort of swagger as he headed up towards you, though he gave no polite introduction.

“License and registration.” Gator wasn’t even looking at you, instead he was glancing over his shoulder as another car drove by. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

“Gator, what do you want?” He was exasperating, really. You knew for a fact that you hadn’t done anything wrong, and he knew that too.

Gone was his casual demeanor from earlier. A stern expression remained etched over his features as he peered down at you, fingers looped through the vest of his uniform. 

“Get out of the car.” His tone was forceful as he reached inside, popping open the lock before swinging the door open for you. You stared in disbelief. 

“Excuse me?” You looked at him curious, noting the way he’d clenched his jaw. Okay, he wasn’t messing around, but you still didn’t know what you’d done wrong. Though it seemed he was perfectly capable of pulling you out if you didn’t obey. 

“Ya heard me, get out of the fuckin’ car.” You slid down from the seat slowly, sighing as he slammed the door shut behind you. You winced briefly as he trapped you between himself and your truck, eyes locked on you. 

Suddenly you realized his game, that he was continuing to taunt you. You shook your head, trying to hide your annoyance. 

“Is there a reason, officer?” Gator looked down at you, hands on his hips as he gave you a little nod. He pressed his lips together, making a little sound before he spoke up. 

“Got ya for speeding and reckless driving.” You stared at him stunned, jaw dropping as you shook your head. You knew that wasn’t true at all.

“You’re such a dickhead.” You told him angrily as he gave a little laugh, pressing his hand against your elbow softly. 

“Turn around and place your palms against the vehicle.” Gator instructed his grip tightening as he turned you in that direction. You gritted your teeth together as you stretched your palms out, gasping as he kicked your feet apart for you. 

“This is so stupid.” A hiss left your lips as he drew out a chuckle, his warm breath tickling against the back of your neck as he invaded your space.

His body was warm against yours, pulsing as he brought his rough hands against your waist. You jumped at the sensation, snapping your head back as you met his smirk.

“Gotta search ya,” he replied simply, leaning further into your space, “so stop resistin’.” His tone was gruff and raspy as he whispered in your ear, a shiver traveling through you from the sensation. 

Gator’s hands were big against your waist as he began to pat you down, taking his time to drag his fingers up against your ribs. You squirmed at the feeling, doing your best to keep from laughing as he pressed against your ticklish skin.

“Hey, I said stop resistin’,” he reminded you as he kicked your legs further apart, standing even closer as you grumbled, “maybe I should handcuff ya?” His suggestion was laced with humor, like he really wanted to see that.

“I’m not resisting, but you’re tickling me,” you protested, squeaking as he pressed into your ribs again, “s’not fair. I didn’t even do anything.” You grumbled this time, not caring that you were pouting as he snickered in response. 

Sweat collected at the back of your neck as your heart began to pound harder against the side of your neck, biting down on your bottom lip as his fingers pressed higher up your body. His fingertips brushed against the wire of your bra.

“Gotta make sure you’re not hidin’ anything,” he mumbled as he whispered into your ear, making you shiver as you felt yourself leaning back against him, “s’that okay?” His voice was all raspy and deep as he moved to unbutton the front of your dress.

The realization that he was waiting for you to tell him to stop hit you hard, but the worst part was how you couldn’t think of a reason to tell him no. No, you wanted this. At least enough to see how it’d play out. So you stayed quiet, biting down on your bottom lip as you gave a little hum in appreciation. 

Your body was trembling against him, burning as the lust pooled into your tummy. A little sigh left your lips as you nodded your head in agreement, playing the stupid game that he was toying you with. 

A moan left your lips at the first feeling of his fingers dipping into your bra. Your nipples instantly hardened against his calloused palms as he squeezed at you, your head lolling back as your clit ached furiously against your slick panties.

“Gator,” you whispered softly, pressing yourself back against him slowly. A groan fell from him as he continued to grope at your tits, pinching at your nipples, “oh my God.”

“What was that?” Gator teased as his nose brushed against your neck, sending a fresh shiver through your body. You continued to slowly press yourself back against him, feeling his cock hardening against the curve of your ass.

“Nothin’, officer,” you whispered softly, slightly afraid that he would stop. This was wrong, it was so wrong. But it felt so good, “I’m not resisting.” You promised, earning a little moan from him as he trailed his nose up against your neck. 

Your dress was bunched up around your hips a moment later as he wrapped his fingers around the band of your panties, drifting his fingers in and out as electricity burned from where he was brushing against your skin.

A white hot sensation spread through you like wildfire as another little groan fell from him as he rocked his hips forward, dragging his clothed cock against your ass. His fingers dipped across your panties, pressing down on the slick spot.

“Shit,” he hissed against your neck, teeth grazing your skin softly, “do you always get this worked up by your big brother?”

Oh.

A loud moan felt your lips this time as your knees buckled, his words filthy and disgusting as they settled over you. But God, did you like the way it made you feel. This was wrong, this was so fucking wrong.

But you wanted more.

You let out a strangled whine as he pressed one finger against your swollen bud, rubbing down on your clit as you rocked your hips to meet his teasing movements. His finger was long and thick, dragging across your soaked folds slowly before the tip of his finger traced at your hole.

Gator’s finger slowly pressed into you as you felt your eyes rolling into the back of your head, mouth parting as drool formed at the corners of your lips. An unexplainable sensation filled you as you rocked yourself back against him, desperately needing to be filled full of him.

“Greedy little bitch,” Gator hissed as he used his other hand to grip your neck, tilting your head in his direction as he pumped his finger in and out of your slick cunt, “knew you were a fuckin’ whore. Just askin’ for it.” He spit out, squeezing you softly as you continued to rut yourself down against his digit.

“Gator,” you gasped as you watched him, enjoying the lust that was swimming in his eyes, “please don’t stop.” You hated the words that left your mouth, the way you were pleading for him. 

His tongue was wet and warm against your skin as he licked the sweat from the side of your neck, making you whimper as he continued to curl his finger in and out of your slick walls. The tip of his finger was repeatedly pressing against your bundle of nerves, that spongy spot inside of you as your thighs trembled. 

Your fingers formed into fists as you shook underneath him, your clit aching in pleasure as he kept the same deep movements. You whined as you rutted yourself against him, sighing deeply as you felt your pussy clamping down around his thick finger. 

A loud gasp fell from your lips as you came around him, shaking roughly as your clit hummed in awe. You trembled as you fell back against him, his grip firm against your neck as he continued to lick at your skin.

“Jesus,” Gator grunted as he rocked you through your orgasm, pressing his hard cock up against you, “mhm, fuck. Your pussy’s so wet and tight, sunshine. So fuckin’ good for me.” He praised with a little laugh as he slowly removed his finger, grinning at the cum that was soaked around his finger.

Your body was warm from lust and embarrassment as you watched the way he placed his digit delicately in his mouth, groaning as he licked away the taste of you. You watched in hunger, savoring the way his brows furrowed together softly. 

Gator moaned as he continued to lick away your cum from his finger, smirking as he tilted his head at you. You were doing your best to keep from throwing yourself against him, wanting to feel his large hands against you once again. 

Oh God. You were totally fucked. 

“On your knees,” he commanded as he pressed down on your shoulder, leaving you to stare up at him in awe as you obeyed him, “you look pretty like this.” He complimented as he gave your chin another squeeze. 

“Gator-,”

“You still talk too fuckin’ much. You need to learn how to shut up.” He tsked as he placed his thumb in your mouth, hooking it against your cheek as he gave your head a little shake. 

The sensation left you breathless, the corner of your mouth slightly aching before he pulled away. Anticipation fell over you as he palmed at his hardened cock, a little smirk on his lips as he tilted his head at you.

“How bad do you want it?” He gave you a lopsided grin as he watched the way you eagerly moved forward, fingers brushing against his pants.

“Bad,” you whispered as you stared up at him, “please, Gator. I’ll do anything. I owe you, remember?” You pleaded, not even recognizing yourself. This was someone else, overtaken with lust. 

“Ah,” a little laugh left his lips as he bit down on his bottom lip, beginning to undo his cargo pants, “how can I resist those sweet eyes of yours?” He teased softly as he began to free himself.

You stared hungrily at the brief glimpse of his happy trail, the dark boxers he was wearing before his dick plopped out of his pants. You let out a little gasp, eyes widening as you stared down at him in disbelief. 

Okay, maybe he had a reason to be cocky.

Gator was huge, long and thick. His cock looked heavy as it swung to the right, his tip a dark pink as precum leaked messily from it. He had a vein along the underside of his cock. His balls were tight and round, resting on a thick tuft of dark hair. 

“Woah,” you whispered softly as you pressed your finger against the tip of his dick, earning a hiss from him as you smeared the precum down the curve of his cock, “s’nice. You’re big.” You told him in a matter of fact way, cocking your eyebrows at the little laugh he let out. 

“You’re still talking.” He pointed out, leaving you to roll your eyes. God forbid you were trying to enjoy something.

You brought your palm up to your mouth, spitting on it before you were quickly wrapping your fingers around his fat girth. He somehow managed to look even bigger in your hand as you gave him a little stroke, leaving him to moan in response.

Your hand built up a slow rhythm as you watched the way your fingers spread further at the middle of his cock, right where he was girthier. He slowly rocked his hips forward to meet your motions as you stroked his dick, placing a little kiss at the tip of his cock. 

His precum was salty and musky, but something about that made you crave him even more. In an annoying way, he tasted really good. You savored the taste of him on your tongue as you slowly began to lick at his slit, dragging your hand up and down the length of his cock.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” Gator hissed as he pressed a hand up his shirt, closing his eyes and sighing deeply as he jerked his hips forward with your motions, “just like that, baby sister. Doin’ such a good job.” He praised, making your clit throb once again at his filthy words. 

You slowly relaxed your jaw as you pushed the tip of his cock into your mouth, your moans vibrating across the length of him as you wrapped your lips around his thick girth. You continued to drag your hand up and down the curve of him, squeezing at his balls as you bobbed your head up and down. 

Gator continued to groan and moan as he slowly rutted his hips forward, his hands falling to the back of your head as he pushed you down further with each thrust. Your eyes were burning with tears, jaw aching and drool falling from your lips. Every time he pushed into you, you gagged harder around him. 

His balls were warm and heavy in your hand, slick with your spit as you massaged at them. With your free hand you continued to pump at the base of his cock, squeezing to make his sounds of pleasure grow louder. 

Your lungs were burning at the way he began to take control, dragging your head up and down the curve of his cock. You were dragging your tongue out cross the ridges of his cock, moaning as the tip of his dick hit the back of your throat with every movement. 

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” he moaned as he continued to press you down along his cock, jaw aching even harder, “finally got a way to shut you up, didn’t I?” He flicked his tongue out against his bottom lip, cheeks flushed as he peered down at you in bliss. 

Gator’s brows were furrowing tighter together, his neck beginning to strain as he continued to flush harder. His moans were shameless, loud as he chased his high. His cock was heavy against your tongue, the taste and smell of him filling your senses.

His fingers dug harder into your scalp as he cursed underneath his breath, his movements becoming rougher and unsteady as he pushed himself into you. You gripped his thighs tightly as he pushed you down even harder, drool falling messily from your lips as he came in your mouth.

“Oh fuck, fuck,” Gator whined, making your clit ache as he held you still for a moment, “that’s it, fuck. Such a good little sister for me.” He praised as he huffed loudly, grunting in awe. 

You blinked roughly, tears falling from your cheeks as his cum coated your tongue and the roof of your mouth. There was so much that it was leaking from the corners of your lips as you struggled to choke it down. A moan fell from you as you roughly tried to swallow it all, gasping as he pulled away. 

A string of cum and spit connected your lips and the tip of his cock as he squeezed at the back of your head, making you moan as you peered up at him in disbelief. You could feel the realization settling over you, the evidence of your sin burning into you.

Shit. You were so fucked. 

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is harry being engaged real… i’m in denial