╰ in which... steve gets a little too loud for his own good and learns that his girlfriend finds his lack of volume control incredibly attractive.
| steve harrington x fem!reader
𑣲 warnings : smut, unprotected sex, missionary, established relationship
𑣲 from the author : this is so steve you cannot tell me otherwise!!! i love writing for steve so much
your bedroom is your sanctuary. it’s small and a little cluttered, but it’s yours. the curtains are drawn, the only light coming from the little fairy lights strung across your headboard, casting a warm, hazy glow. and steve is on top of you, kissing you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.
it started out normal. well, your normal. a desperate, frantic makeout session that quickly escalated. clothes were shed, hands roamed, and now he’s settling between your thighs, his weight a perfect, grounding pressure on top of you.
he pushes into you, slow and steady, and you both let out a collective sigh. it’s perfect. he feels perfect. he starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that has your toes curling. and then he lets out this sound.
it’s not a moan, not really. it’s a full-body, from-the-back-of-his-throat groan. it’s loud. it’s so loud it’s almost comical, and it’s followed by a string of breathy curses.
“oh, fuck, baby, you feel so—shit—so good.”
you can’t help but smile into his shoulder. you love it. you love how vocal he is, how he just can’t help himself. he’s an open book, and you’re currently reading your favorite chapter.
but then he stops.
he just freezes mid-thrust, his whole body going rigid above you.
you pull back, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “what’s wrong?”
he’s avoiding your eyes, his face buried in your neck. you can feel the heat radiating off his cheeks. “nothing,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by your skin. “keep going.”
“steve, you stopped,” you say, wiggling your hips impatiently. “what happened?”
“nothing happened,” he insists, but he still won’t move. then, in a much smaller voice, he adds, “did i… was i too loud?”
you have to physically bite your lip to keep from laughing. “too loud?”
he finally lifts his head, and his face is so red it’s almost purple. he looks completely mortified. “i just… i get carried away. and it’s… it’s embarrassing.”
you stare at him. truly and utterly stare at him. is he serious? “steve harrington. are you telling me you’re trying to be quiet right now?”
“well, yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “your parents are, like, two rooms down. and it’s just… undignified.”
“undignified?” you repeat, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. you prop yourself up on your elbows, ignoring the fact that he’s still inside you. “you do realize we’re literally having sex, right? the dignified ship has sailed.”
“that’s not the point,” he whines. “the point is i sound like a… a dying whale or something.”
that’s when you do it. you can’t help it. a giggle escapes your lips, and then another, until you’re full-on laughing, your head thrown back.
he looks utterly betrayed. “it’s not funny!”
“it’s a little funny,” you manage to gasp, wiping a tear from your eye. you cup his face, your thumbs stroking his burning cheeks. “steve. look at me.”
he does, his eyes all big and wounded like a puppy’s.
“i love it,” you say, your voice dropping to a serious, sincere whisper. “i love that you’re loud. i love knowing i’m making you feel so good you can’t help yourself. it’s the hottest thing i’ve ever heard.”
his blush deepens, but the wounded look in his eyes is slowly replaced by something else. something hopeful. “really?”
“really,” you confirm. you pull him down for a soft, reassuring kiss. “now, please. stop trying to have polite sex with me and fuck me like you mean it. i want to hear you.”
that’s all the encouragement he needs.
a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, and all traces of his previous embarrassment vanish. he’s back. he starts to move again, and this time, he doesn’t hold back.
he’s not just loud now, he’s theatrical. with every thrust, there’s a corresponding grunt or groan or a string of filth whispered right against your ear.
“fuck, just like that. you’re so tight, baby. taking me so well.”
“god, you feel incredible. i could do this all night.”
“you like that, huh? you like hearing how good you make me feel?”
and you do. you really, really do. it’s like a feedback loop of pleasure. the louder he gets, the more turned on you get, the tighter you clench around him, which in turn makes him louder. it’s a beautiful, messy, perfect cycle.
the knot in your stomach tightens, faster than usual, spurred on by his constant stream of praise and profanity. you can feel yourself getting close, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“that’s it, baby, come for me,” he pants, his rhythm becoming erratic. “wanna hear you. wanna feel you. come on.”
and you do. you shatter, a loud cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. it’s intense, all-consuming, and it’s all because of him.
he follows you over the edge a second later with a guttural, positively pornographic groan that you’re sure would give your dad an aneurysm. he collapses on top of you, his whole body limp and sweaty.
for a moment, the only sound is your combined, heavy breathing. then, you feel his chest start to shake with silent laughter.
“okay,” he says, his voice muffled by your pillow. “maybe you’re right. that was… way better.”
you run your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, a lazy, satisfied smile on your face. “told you so.”
he lifts his head, his eyes sparkling. “just… maybe try to keep it down a little next time? pretty sure your dad owns a shotgun.”
you laugh, pulling him down for another kiss. “no promises.”
𑣲 warnings : smut, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), mild angst/anxiety about dating but not really, praise kink (if you squint), marking/hickeys.
𑣲 from the author : gosh i loveeee best friend!steve i cannot get enough.. send steve smut asks plspls
“god, you’re brooding.”
steve’s voice cuts through the quiet of his room. you’re sprawled out on his bed, staring at the water stain on his ceiling that looks a little like a distorted bunny. you’d come over to vent after another spectacularly bad date, and he’d listened, nodding along with all the appropriate sympathetic expressions.
“i’m not brooding,” you mumble, not taking your eyes off the ceiling. “i’m… processing.”
“processing what, exactly? the fact that the guy from the record store thought ‘the beatles’ was spelled with an ‘e’?”
“he also tried to hold my hand and got my thumb,” you say, the memory still making you cringe. “it was just… the whole thing. it’s always the whole thing. it’s either too much tongue or no tongue at all. it’s like they skipped kissing day in middle school or something.”
he chuckles, a low, warm sound from his desk chair where he’s tossing a tennis ball against the wall. “you’ve just had a bad run. doesn’t mean you’re gonna die alone, you know.”
“it feels like it,” you whine, finally turning to look at him. he’s got his legs kicked out, wearing a faded band t-shirt and basketball shorts, looking completely at ease. it’s annoying. “it’s like i forgot how to do it. or maybe i never knew. maybe i’m just… objectively bad at it.”
he stops throwing the ball, catching it with a soft thud. he looks at you, really looks at you, and his expression shifts from amused to something more thoughtful. “you’re not bad at it.”
“you don’t know that. you haven’t kissed me.”
the words hang in the air between you, heavier than you intended. his eyes widen, just a fraction, before a slow, calculating smile spreads across his face. it’s the king steve smile, the one that says he’s about to win a game you didn’t know you were playing.
“okay,” he says, standing up. the bed dips as he sits on the edge, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. “let’s test that theory.”
your heart does a stupid little flip. “what?”
“let’s kiss,” he says, like he’s suggesting you order a pizza. “right now. you and me. we’ll be the judge. a scientific experiment.”
you stare at him. this is a terrible idea. this is the kind of idea that gets your feelings hurt and complicates the best friendship you’ve ever had. but the thought of another date like tonight, another clumsy, unsatisfying kiss, makes you feel exhausted. and steve is… steve. he’s safe. he’s your best friend.
“okay,” you whisper, the word barely leaving your lips.
he leans in, and you instinctively close your eyes. his first touch is impossibly gentle, just the soft press of his lips against yours. it’s nice. it’s… fine. it’s not earth-shattering. he pulls back, and you open your eyes to see him looking at you with a raised eyebrow.
“see?” he says, his voice a low murmur. “not bad. but that’s not what you’re looking for, is it?”
you shake your head, unable to speak.
“didn’t think so,” he says, and then he leans in again.
this time is different. his hand comes up to cup the side of your neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below your ear. he angles his head, deepening the kiss, and his lips part against yours. it’s a question, an invitation. you respond, your own lips parting, and his tongue slides against yours. it’s not forceful, not sloppy. it’s slow and deliberate, a slow, sweet exploration that makes your toes curl.
you’ve been kissed before, but never like this. never with this kind of focused intent. he’s not trying to get to the next base; he’s just… kissing you. he’s paying attention. his other hand finds your waist, pulling you a little closer, and you gasp into his mouth as his thumb traces circles on your hip bone.
he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss further, his tongue tangling with yours in a way that makes your head spin. it’s a slow, dirty slide that sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in the warmth of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the low hum he makes in the back of his throat when you kiss him back with equal fervor.
your own hands, which have been limp at your sides, come up to rest on his chest. you can feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm, the firm muscle of his chest. his t-shirt is soft, worn thin from a hundred washes. you fist the fabric, holding on.
he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. you’re both breathing a little harder now.
“still think you’re bad at it?” he asks, his voice husky.
you can only shake your head, your brain feeling like it’s been scrambled.
“good,” he murmurs, and then he’s kissing you again. this time, there’s no hesitation. it’s hungry, desperate. his hand slides from your waist to your back, pressing you against him. you can feel the hard line of his erection through his shorts, and the realization that you did this to him, that you’re the one making him hard, sends a fresh wave of arousal through you.
his mouth leaves yours, trailing a hot, wet path down your jaw to your neck. he nips at the sensitive skin there, and you whimper, tilting your head to give him better access. he sucks a mark into your skin, a possessive bruise that you know you’ll have to hide tomorrow, but right now, you don’t care. all you care about is the feeling of his mouth on you, his hands on you.
“steve,” you breathe, your voice shaky.
“yeah, honey?” he murmurs against your skin, the nickname sending a shiver down your spine.
“more.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and blown wide with lust. he searches your face, like he’s looking for any sign of doubt, but he won’t find any. you’ve never been more sure of anything in your life.
“okay,” he says, his voice rough. “okay.”
his hands find the hem of your shirt, and he looks at you one last time, a silent question. you nod, lifting your arms so he can pull it over your head. he tosses it aside, his eyes raking over your exposed skin. it’s not a leering look; it’s one of pure, unadulterated appreciation.
“god, you’re beautiful,” he says, and it sounds so genuine, so sincere, that it makes your chest ache.
he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your breast. his hands are on your hips, his thumbs stroking the skin just above your jeans. his mouth is a brand, a trail of fire that’s burning away every bad date, every clumsy kiss, every insecurity you’ve ever had.
he reaches back and unclasps your bra with an ease that should be illegal. he slides the straps down your arms, his eyes never leaving yours. he tosses it with your shirt, and then he’s just looking at you, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch.
“you’re so perfect,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on your breast, his tongue circling your nipple before he takes it into his mouth and sucks.
a sharp cry escapes your lips, your back arching off the bed. it’s a direct line of pleasure, white-hot and electric. he lavishes attention on you, switching to the other side, giving it the same treatment. his hands are roaming your body, exploring every curve and dip like he’s trying to memorize you.
you’re a mess of writhing limbs and desperate gasps. you can feel the slick heat pooling between your thighs, your panties already soaked. you need more. you need him.
“steve, please,” you beg, your hands tangling in his hair.
he pulls back, his lips swollen and red. “what do you need, honey? tell me.”
“you,” you gasp. “i need you.”
he doesn’t need to be told twice. he stands up, pulling his own shirt over his head, revealing the toned expanse of his chest and stomach. you’ve seen him shirtless before, at the pool, at the lake, but this is different. this is for you.
he kneels on the bed, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your jeans. he unbuttons them slowly, his eyes locked on yours. he pulls them down, along with your panties, in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare to his gaze.
he spreads your legs with his hands, settling between them. he looks at you, at the most intimate part of you, with a hunger that makes your entire body flush. he leans down, and you think he’s going to kiss you again, but he doesn’t.
he presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, then another, higher up. he’s teasing you, torturing you. you’re squirming, desperate for his touch where you need it most.
“steve,” you whimper. “please don’t tease.”
he looks up at you from between your legs, a wicked glint in his eyes. “who’s teasing?”
he grins against your skin, and the vibration of it makes you shudder. “patience, honey. s’not a race.”
but then he finally, finally gives you what you want. he flattens his tongue and licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, and your entire body jolts. it’s not a tentative flick; it’s a confident, knowing swipe that has you seeing stars behind your closed eyes.
“oh, god,” you choke out, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands.
he hums in response, the sound a low, pleased rumble against your most sensitive flesh. he does it again, slower this time, savoring you. his hands grip your thighs, holding you open for him, and you’re completely at his mercy. he explores you with his mouth, his tongue tracing every inch of you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you whine, what makes your hips buck up off the bed.
he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, light, teasing touches that have you squirming, desperate for more pressure. “steve, please,” you beg, your voice barely a whisper. “please, i need—”
he cuts you off by sucking your clit into his mouth, a hard, perfect pressure that sends a bolt of pleasure so intense through you that you cry out. he doesn’t let up, alternating between sucking and flicking his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves. one of his hands lets go of your thigh, and you feel his fingers teasing your entrance, gathering your slickness.
“so fuckin’ wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by your flesh. “all this for me, honey?”
you can only whimper in response, your mind too foggy with pleasure to form words. he slowly pushes one finger inside you, and it’s a welcome, delicious stretch. he curls it just so, finding that spongy spot inside you that makes your toes curl. he adds a second finger, scissoring them inside you, stretching you, preparing you.
the dual stimulation of his mouth on your clit and his fingers inside you is overwhelming. it’s a slow, steady build, a coil of heat tightening in your stomach, getting tighter and tighter with every flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. you can feel the pressure mounting, the pleasure cresting, and you know you’re close.
“steve, ‘m gonna—” you gasp, your hips grinding against his face.
he doesn’t stop. if anything, he goes faster, his tongue working your clit in frantic circles as his fingers pump into you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. the coil snaps, and your orgasm crashes over you like a wave. you cry out his name, your body shaking, your thighs clamping around his head as the pleasure washes over you in intense, pulsing waves.
he works you through it, his movements slowing as you come down from your high, his tongue lapping gently at your over-sensitive clit. you’re a boneless, panting mess by the time he’s done, your limbs feeling like jelly.
he presses a soft, final kiss to your clit before pulling away. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a smug, proud look on his face. his lips are swollen, his chin glistening with your arousal.
“so,” he says, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. “still think you’re bad at it?”
you let out a weak, breathless laugh. “shut up.”
he grins, crawling up your body to hover over you. he’s still wearing his shorts, and you can feel his hard, clothed erection pressing against your thigh. you want more. you need all of him.
he kisses you again, his hand tangling in your hair. you can feel his need, his desperation, in the way he kisses you. he breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours.
“i don’t have a—” he starts, but you cut him off.
“i’m on the pill,” you say. “s’fine. just… please, steve.”
he nods, his jaw tight with restraint. he stands up, his movements a little clumsy as he shoves his shorts and boxers down. his cock springs free, hard and thick and leaking at the tip. your mouth goes dry. he’s bigger than you expected, and a fresh wave of arousal, sharp and potent, floods through you.
he settles back between your legs, his body covering yours. he’s warm and solid and real, his weight a comforting pressure. he lines himself up at your entrance, his eyes locked on yours.
“ready?” he asks, his voice rough.
you nod, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
he pushes into you slowly, inch by inch. it’s a slow, delicious burn, a stretch that’s almost too much but not quite. he fills you completely, and for a moment, you just lie there, adjusting to the feeling of him inside you. it’s overwhelming, the way he’s stretching you, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world.
“fuck,” he groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “you feel so good. so fuckin’ tight.”
“move,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders. “please, steve, move.”
he starts to move, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again. it’s slow at first, a deep, steady rhythm that has you gasping. he’s hitting deep inside you, stroking that sensitive spot with every thrust. it’s not like the frantic, messy fumbling you’re used to. it’s deliberate, purposeful. he’s making love to you, and the thought is both terrifying and exhilarating.
the pace quickens, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your breathless moans and his low groans. his mouth finds yours again, a desperate, messy kiss that’s all teeth and tongue.
“you feel so good,” he pants against your mouth. “so perfect, takin’ me so well.”
his words send a fresh jolt of pleasure through you. you can feel another orgasm building, this one deeper, more intense than the last. the coil in your stomach is tightening again, and you’re right on the edge.
“i’m close,” you gasp. “steve, ‘m so close.”
“come for me, honey,” he growls, his hand snaking down between your bodies to rub circles on your clit. “wanna feel you come on my cock.”
that’s all it takes. his thumb on your clit, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you, his voice in your ear—it’s too much. the coil snaps, and you’re coming again, your body convulsing around him, a silent scream tearing from your throat as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.
he follows you over the edge a moment later, his thrusts becoming erratic as he buries himself deep inside you with a final, guttural groan. you can feel him pulse inside you, the warmth of his release filling you.
he collapses on top of you, his body a dead weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck. you’re both panting, slick with sweat, the room quiet except for the sound of your heartbeats gradually slowing down.
after a long moment, he rolls off of you, pulling you into his side. he tucks you against his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. you’re sticky and sweaty and thoroughly fucked, and you’ve never felt more content in your life.
you trace patterns on his chest, your mind racing. what happens now? do you go back to being just friends? is that even possible?
“so,” he says, his voice a sleepy murmur. “how was that for a trial run?”
you laugh, a real, genuine laugh this time. you tilt your head back to look at him, a small smile playing on your lips.
“i think,” you say, your voice soft. “i might need some more practice. lots more.”
𑣲 synopsis : mike was a creep, always watching you from his window, his nights a pathetic ritual of shame and want. you were his god damn wet dream, a fantasy he’d never touch. then you show up on his doorstep, all sweet smiles and borrowed flour, and suddenly his dream isn't a dream anymore. it's real, and it's right there, asking to be ruined.
𑣲 warnings : aged up!mike, sunshine!reader, voyeurism, sexual content, smut, oral sex (both receiving), making out, obsessive behavior, shame kink if you squint, fingering, overstimulation.
𑣲 from the author : i think you can tell this is my first time writing smut.. anyway i hope you enjoy! (also im working on my reqs rn! i love reading them, keep the asks coming!)
✶♫⋆ every breath you take by the police
mike's summer has become a study in you. every night, it's the same ritual. lights off, blinds open just enough to see through, chair positioned for the perfect view into your bedroom. he's a creature of habit, a pathetic little voyeur fueled by desperation and a libido that's been in overdrive since he hit sixteen. he's mapped every mole, every curve, every lazy stretch you make before bed. he knows the exact shade of your nipples, the way your ass looks in those tiny cotton underwear he's mentally cataloged by color. he's a sick fuck, and he knows it. he comes to the thought of you every single night, his hand sticky and his chest tight with a potent mix of shame and longing.
by day, he's a ghost around the neighborhood. if he sees you leaving for work, he literally hides behind a bush. if you're getting the mail, he pretends to be intensely fascinated by a crack in the pavement. he can't look you in the eye. how could he? he's seen the face you make when you're about to cum. he's seen your fingers buried inside yourself. he's a fraud, a dirty secret in his own head.
when the doorbell rings one tuesday afternoon, he answers it without thinking, still chewing on a stale pop-tart. and there you are. on his doorstep. smiling. in a little sundress with your hair in a ponytail.
"hi, mike!" you say, and your voice is even sweeter than he imagined. you're holding a ceramic bowl. "so sorry to bother you, but my mom's baking and she just realized we're out of flour. do you think you guys have any we could borrow?"
his brain short-circuits. you're here. you're talking to him. you're wearing a dress. he can smell your perfume—something light and floral, like laundry and flowers. his mouth goes dry. he's wearing a stained hellfire club shirt and his jeans have a hole in the knee. he feels like a greasy stain in your perfect, sun-drenched world.
"uh," he manages to eloquently articulate. "flour. yeah. probably."
he turns and practically flees into the kitchen, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. he can hear you follow him, your little sandals tapping on the linoleum. he's frantically throwing cabinet doors open, knocking over boxes of pasta and cereal. where the fuck is the flour? does his mom even bake?
"are you okay?" you ask, and you're right behind him. he can feel the warmth radiating off your body. he freezes, his hand on a bag of sugar.
"yeah! fine! just... looking," he stammers, refusing to turn around. he can't look at you. if he looks at you, he'll see your face and his brain will immediately supply the image of it contorted in pleasure, and he'll probably pass out or get a hard-on, or both.
finally, in the very back of the pantry, he finds it. a half-full bag of all-purpose flour. he yanks it out and thrusts it at you, still not looking at your face.
"here."
"oh, wonderful! thank you so much, you're a lifesaver," you say, taking the bag. your fingers brush his, and he flinches like he's been electrocuted. you don't seem to notice. you're just... nice. so painfully, devastatingly nice. "i'll bring it back tomorrow!"
"s'fine," he mumbles to the pantry door.
he expects you to leave. you don't. you linger.
"so, what have you been up to this summer?" you ask, your voice light and conversational. "besides, you know, saving damsels in distress from a cakeless fate."
he risks a glance over his shoulder. you're leaning against the counter, smiling at him. you're so pretty it makes his teeth hurt. his mind is a complete blank. what has he been up to? jerking off to the thought of you? spiraling in a pit of his own depravity?
"nothin'," he says. "d&d. stuff."
"that's cool. i always wanted to learn how to play," you say, and his stomach does a painful little flip. "it seems fun."
"it's... yeah."
another silence. you're still looking at him with those big, innocent eyes, and he's standing there like a complete moron, clutching the doorframe like it's the only thing keeping him upright. he needs you to leave. he needs you to leave before he does something stupid, like confess that he knows what your orgasm face looks like.
"well, i should let you get back to... whatever," you say, gesturing vaguely. "thanks again for the flour, mike."
"yeah," he says. "no problem."
the knock on the door is so out of place it might as well have been a thunderclap. mike, in the middle of a critical d&d character sheet rework, just stares at the ceiling from his spot on the basement floor, willing it to be a delivery for his mom or a lost kid scout. he is not prepared for human interaction.
but then his mom calls down, "mike! it's for you!" and his blood runs cold. he trudges up the stairs, ready to tell dustin he's busy, but he freezes on the last step.
it's you. standing in his foyer. smiling.
"hi, mike," you say, and your voice is like honey, thick and sweet and sticking to his insides. "sorry to just show up. i was talking to dustin and he mentioned you were running a new campaign soon, and i've just... always wondered what all the fuss was about."
his brain is a blue screen of death. you. here. in his house. because of him. well, because of his nerdy hobby, but it's close enough.
"uh," he manages, his throat suddenly tight. "yeah. d&d."
"can you... show me?" you ask, tilting your head, your ponytail swaying. "just for a minute? i'm so curious."
he can't say no. he physically can't form the word. he just nods jerkily and leads the way down to the basement, feeling your eyes on his back the whole way down.
"wow," you say softly, taking in the chaos. the fortress of pillows, the hand-drawn maps taped to the walls, the stacks of manuals and comics. "it's... cozy."
"it's a basement," he mumbles, his face burning with embarrassment. he feels like he's letting you into his brain, into the part of him he keeps hidden from the world, or as well as he can, at least.
"no, it's cool," you insist, and you sound so sincere it makes his stomach hurt. "it's like your own little world."
you sit down on the edge of his beat-up armchair, looking perfectly at home. he remains on the floor, a safe distance away, crossing his legs to hide the sudden, inconvenient twitch in his jeans. he starts explaining the basics, his voice shaky. he talks about character classes—fighters, wizards, clerics. he shows you his meticulously painted miniatures, his fingers trembling slightly as he picks one up.
you listen. you actually listen. you ask questions. you lean forward to look at a map, and the scent of your shampoo—something like vanilla and peaches—wafts over him. he has to physically stop himself from leaning in to get a better sniff.
"so, what's your character like?" you ask, your eyes wide and genuine. "the one you play?"
"oh, i don't play," he says, a little too quickly. "i'm the dungeon master. i'm... god."
a small smile plays on your lips. "god, huh? that's a lot of pressure."
"it's fine," he shrugs, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "i like telling the story."
"tell me a part of it," you say, shifting in your seat. the movement is subtle, but it's enough to make your skirt ride up an inch. one single, devastating inch of bare thigh is now visible. his eyes are glued to it. he can see the little mole just above your knee. he's never seen it before. it's new information. it's sacred.
"uh," he stammers, forcing his eyes back up to your face. "well, right now, the party is in this forest, and they're trying to find this lost temple..."
he talks for what feels like an eternity. he's rambling, he knows it, but he can't stop. the words just keep spilling out, punctuated by your soft nods and "uh-huhs." and every time you shift, every time you cross and uncross your legs, his brain short-circuits. he's hyper-aware of everything. the way you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. the little sigh you let out when you're thinking. the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips.
he's in agony. it's the best kind of torture he's ever experienced.
"...and so the ranger, he hears this sound, like, a twig snapping, but it's too heavy to be a rabbit, you know?" he's saying, his voice hoarse. he's leaning forward now, completely lost in the story, in the bubble the two of you have created in this dim, cluttered basement.
"what do you think it is?" you whisper, leaning in too, your elbows on your knees. your faces are just inches apart. he can see the individual flecks of gold in your eyes. he can feel the warmth coming off your skin.
and in that moment, he forgets all about the ranger and the forest and the lost temple. the only thing he can think about is the fact that your lips are right there. they look so soft. so kissable.
he doesn't even realize he's leaning in until it's too late.
he closes the last bit of distance and presses his lips against yours.
it's a mess. it's clumsy and desperate and he's pretty sure he just smashed his nose into your cheek. it's the kiss of a hormonal teenage boy who has spent more time thinking about this moment than he has spent on any school assignment. he expects you to recoil, to laugh, to push him away and call him the weird creep he knows he is.
but you don't.
you freeze for a second, shocked, and then you melt. your lips part under his, and you kiss him back. it's hesitant at first, a soft question, and then it deepens. you bring a hand up to cup his jaw, your thumb stroking his cheek. a low groan rumbles in his chest. he's been dreaming of this, but the reality is so much better. you taste like cherry lip gloss and pure, unadulterated heaven.
he breaks the kiss, panting, his forehead resting against yours. "i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice ragged. "i shouldn't have—"
"shut up, mike," you murmur, and then you're pulling him back in.
this time, the kiss is all teeth and tongue and desperation. his hands are shaking as they find your waist, pulling you from the armchair onto his lap on the floor. you straddle him, your knees bracketing his hips, and the friction is immediate and electrifying. he's hard, so hard it's almost painful, and he knows you can feel it pressed against you.
he doesn't care anymore.
his hands are everywhere, roaming up your back, tangling in your hair, sliding down to grip your ass through the thin fabric of your skirt. you're grinding down on him, a slow, deliberate rhythm that's driving him insane. soft, breathy little moans are escaping your lips, and it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.
"one thing leads to another" doesn't even begin to cover it. it's more like a dam breaking, a tidal wave of months of pent-up lust and longing crashing over them both.
he fumbles with the hem of your skirt, his clumsy fingers finally finding the zipper and yanking it down. you lift your hips to help him, and he tugs it down your legs, tossing it somewhere into the pile of laundry in the corner. you're left in just your t-shirt and a pair of simple cotton panties, and the sight of you on his lap, your chest heaving, your eyes dark with desire, is almost enough to make him come right then and there.
he needs more. he needs to taste you.
he gently lifts you off his lap and lays you back on the worn-out rug, his body following yours down. he kisses a trail down your neck, your collarbone, your stomach. his hands push your t-shirt up, exposing the soft skin of your belly. he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and looks up at you, his eyes asking a question.
you answer by raising your hips and letting him pull them down.
and then he's settling between your thighs, and the world outside this basement ceases to exist. he's not thinking, he's just feeling. he's dreaming. he leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your core, and you gasp, your hands flying to his hair.
he takes his time, exploring you with his tongue, learning what makes you shiver, what makes you whimper. he's clumsy but he's enthusiastic, and your soft moans of encouragement are all the direction he needs. he finds your clit and focuses on it, sucking and flicking it until your thighs are trembling around his head.
"oh my god, mike," you whimper, your hips rocking against his face. "please... don't stop."
he has no intention of stopping. he could die a happy man right here, buried between your legs. he slides a finger inside you, then another, and you're so wet and so tight, it takes everything in him not to lose his mind. he curls his fingers, searching for that spot he's read about, and when he finds it, you cry out, your back arching off the floor.
he doubles his efforts, his tongue working your clit in a relentless rhythm while his fingers curl and stroke that perfect, spongy spot deep inside you. your grip in his hair tightens, almost painful, but he welcomes it. he wants you to use him, to ground yourself on him as you fall apart. your breath is coming in ragged pants, interspersed with little cries of his name that sound like a prayer.
"mike, i'm... i'm close," you gasp, your thighs starting to shake uncontrollably.
that's all the encouragement he needs. he sucks your clit into his mouth, giving it a gentle, firm flick with his tongue, and that's it. you shatter. a long, broken moan tears from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, your whole body convulsing with the force of it. he doesn't stop, lapping up your release as you ride out the waves of pleasure, his fingers still pumping slowly inside you, drawing out every last drop.
finally, you go limp, your body pliant and boneless against the scratchy wool of the rug. he presses one last, soft kiss to your oversensitive clit before gently pulling his fingers out. he looks up at you from between your legs, his face slick and glistening, and the sight of you—your chest heaving, your face flushed, a dazed, blissed-out smile on your lips—is the single most erotic thing he has ever seen in his entire life. his dick is so hard it feels like it's made of steel, straining against the zipper of his jeans.
you push yourself up onto your elbows, your eyes hazy as they find his. "holy shit, wheeler," you breathe, a lazy, satisfied grin spreading across your face. "where did you learn to do that?"
he just shrugs, a wave of hot, proprietary pride washing over him. "i'm a fast learner," he says, his voice rough.
"well, get up here," you command, your voice husky. "your turn."
he scrambles to his knees, wiping his face on the back of his hand. you sit up, meeting him, and your hands are immediately on the hem of his t-shirt. you pull it over his head, your fingers grazing his chest, and he shivers. you look at him, really look at him, all pale skin and jutting ribs, and you don't look disappointed. you look hungry.
your hands trail down his stomach, making his muscles clench, until they reach the button of his jeans. your fingers are shaking with urgency, and you fumble with it for a second before finally getting it open. you pull down the zipper, and his dick is finally free, straining against the thin fabric of his boxers.
but you don't pull them down.
instead, you flatten your palm against the hard ridge of his cock, pressing down. a choked-off groan escapes his lips, his hips bucking involuntarily into your touch. you just smile, a slow, wicked smile he's never seen on you before. it's the smile of the girl from his fantasies, the one who knows exactly what she's doing to him.
you start to stroke him through his boxers, your grip firm, your movements torturously slow. the fabric is rough, creating an unbearable friction that has him seeing stars. he's panting, his head thrown back, his hands fisted at his sides. he's completely at your mercy.
"please," he chokes out, the word ripped from his throat. he doesn't even know what he's begging for.
"please what, mike?" you whisper, your thumb rubbing circles over the head of his dick, where a dark spot of pre-cum is already spreading. "tell me what you want."
"i... i want you," he stammers, his vision blurry. "i want... your mouth."
"yeah?" you murmur, your other hand coming up to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. "you want me to put my mouth on you? right here?"
you lean in and press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the wet spot on his boxers, right over the tip of his dick. his entire body jerks, a strangled gasp tearing from his lips. it's the most exquisite torture he's ever felt.
"you're so sensitive," you murmur, looking up at him from under your lashes. "i wonder what would happen if i just..."
you hook your fingers in his waistband and finally, finally pull both his jeans and his boxers down in one fluid motion. his cock springs out, hard and leaking, slapping against his stomach. the cool air of the basement is a shock against his overheated skin.
you look at it, then back up at him, and your eyes are dark with a hunger that mirrors his own. "so this is what you've been hiding," you say, your voice a low purr. you reach out, but instead of wrapping your hand around him like he expects, you just trace a single, teasing finger from the base to the tip. he whimpers, his hips thrusting forward, searching for more friction.
you chuckle, a low, throaty sound.
you lean in, but you don't take him into your mouth. you press a soft, wet kiss to his hip, then to the inside of his thigh. you're nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there, leaving little red marks in your wake. he's shaking, trembling with a need so profound it's painful. he's never felt so exposed, so utterly out of control.
"please," he begs again, his voice cracking. "please, i can't..."
"can't what?" you tease, your breath ghosting over his aching dick. "can't take it?"
"no," he whines. it's pathetic, he knows, but he doesn't care.
finally, you take pity on him. you stick out your tongue and give a long, slow lick from his balls all the way to the tip. his eyes roll back in his head. you swirl your tongue around the head, lapping up the pre-cum, before finally, finally taking him into your mouth.
the wet, velvety heat is overwhelming. it's so much better than his own hand, so much better than his fevered imagination. you start to move, your head bobbing, your tongue swirling around him in a way that makes his toes curl. one of your hands comes up to grip what your mouth can't take, stroking him in time with your movements.
he's trying to be good, trying to last, but he's a teenage boy on the edge of oblivion. he's been on edge for hours, for months. he can feel the orgasm building already, a tight, hot coil in his gut. he doesn't want to finish like this. not in your mouth. not the first time.
"wait," he chokes out, gently placing a hand on your shoulder. "stop."
you pull back, looking up at him with a confused expression. "what's wrong? did i do something—"
"no," he says quickly. "god, no. it was... perfect. too perfect. i just... i don't want to... yet."
understanding dawns in your eyes, and you smile. you lie back down on the rug, pulling him with you, settling him between your legs. his dick is nestled against your wet folds, and the friction is electric.
"then what do you want, mike?" you whisper, your lips brushing against his.
"this," he says, and he kisses you, deep and slow. he reaches down between them, lining himself up with your entrance. he looks at you one last time, asking for permission, and you nod, your eyes wide and trusting.
he pushes forward, sinking into you inch by inch. the feeling is indescribable. you're so tight, so wet, so perfect. it feels like coming home. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, trying to control his breathing, trying to savor the feeling of being inside you, of you wrapped around him.
"you can move," you whisper, your hands stroking his back.
he starts to move, slowly at first, finding a rhythm. it's clumsy and awkward and a little desperate, but it's perfect. it's them. the basement is filled with the sounds of their ragged breathing, the soft slap of skin on skin, the quiet moans and whimpers they can't hold back. he looks down at you, at the way your face is contorted in pleasure, and he feels a surge of something so powerful it almost scares him. he's not just fucking you; he's worshipping you.
"i'm not gonna last," he warns, his voice strained.
"it's okay," you gasp, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper. "me neither."
a few more deep, hard thrusts, and he's gone. he comes with a hoarse cry, his whole body tensing as he spills himself inside you. the feeling of you pulsing around him, your own orgasm hitting you at the same time, is the most intense, mind-blowing thing he has ever experienced.
he collapses on top of you, his body boneless and spent. for a long time, they just lie there, a tangled mess of limbs in the dim light of the basement, the only sound their heavy breathing slowing down.
finally, he lifts his head, his heart still pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. he looks at you, at your messy hair and your swollen lips and your sated, sleepy smile, and he knows with a certainty that terrifies him that nothing will ever be the same again.
"so," you say, your voice a sleepy murmur. "think you could teach me how to play d&d sometime?"
he lets out a breathless laugh, burying his face in your hair. "yeah," he says. "yeah, i think i can do that."
𑣲 warnings : explicit sexual content, sub!mike, orgasm denial, edging, voyeurism, exhibitionism, praise kink, degradation, overstimulation, friends to lovers
𑣲 from the author : ok this is INSANELY freaked out but seeing finn on snl did something to me....
✶♫⋆. lost in the fire by gesaffelstein, the weeknd
the basement is dim, lit only by the glow of the tv and the blinking christmas lights strung up in the corner. mike’s sitting on the floor, back pressed against the edge of the couch, controller in hand. he’s wearing that oversized navy sweater, the one that swallows his hands and makes him look softer than usual. his dark hair is a mess, curls falling over his forehead.
he’s losing. badly.
"and that’s game," you say, tossing your controller onto the cushion beside you.
mike groans, letting his head fall back against the couch. "you’re cheating. you have to be."
"i’m just better than you," you tease, shifting so you’re straddling his legs. he goes still instantly, his hands freezing where they’re resting on his knees. he looks up at you, eyes wide and wary, like a startled animal.
"what are you doing?" he asks, voice tight.
"winning my prize," you murmur, leaning in close. his breath hitches, and he presses himself back against the couch, trying to create distance, but there’s nowhere to go.
"i... i didn't agree to a prize," he stammers, his hands coming up to hover awkwardly near your waist, like he wants to touch but doesn't dare.
"it's implied, mike. loser’s fee." you brace your hands on his shoulders, pushing him back harder against the upholstery. he’s solid under the thick wool of his sweater, all sharp angles and tension. "relax. i'm not going to bite."
"could've fooled me," he mutters, but he doesn't push you away. he just watches you with those intense, dark eyes, his pupils blowing wide.
you lean forward, brushing your lips against the side of his neck, right over the frantic pulse point. he shudders, a full-body tremor that you feel through the denim of your jeans. his hands twitch against your waist, his fingers digging in slightly.
"you're so jumpy," you whisper, placing an open-mouthed kiss just below his ear. "touchy."
"it's weird," he breathes, his head tipping to the side to give you better access despite his protest. "we're just... friends."
"are we?" you nip at the skin there, hard enough to make him gasp. "friends don't look at each other the way you look at me."
mike lets out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering shut. "how do i look at you?"
"like you're starving," you say simply. you grind your hips down against his, just a little, just enough to make him aware of the friction.
he gasps, his hips bucking up involuntarily. "fuck," he hisses, his hands flying to your hips to stop you, but instead of pushing you off, he just holds on. "don't. i can't... if you keep doing that..."
"if i keep doing what?" you tease, rolling your hips again, slower this time. you can feel him getting hard through the layers of clothing, the thick fabric of his jeans doing nothing to hide his reaction. "this?"
"you're killing me," he groans, his head falling back against the couch. he looks completely wrecked already, his face flushed, his lips parted. "please."
"please what?" you grab the collar of his sweater, tugging him up so he’s sitting straighter. "use your words, mike."
"please stop... or don't stop," he babbles, his eyes squeezing shut. "i don't know. i'm so confused."
"shhh," you soothe, running a hand through his messy hair. "you don't have to think. just let me take care of it."
you capture his lips in a kiss, swallowing his needy whimper. he kisses back desperately, his hands sliding up your back to pull you closer. he’s clumsy and eager, his teeth knocking against yours, but you don't mind. you like the desperation.
you pull back to look at him. his lips are wet and swollen, his eyes glassy. he looks dazed. "you okay?"
"yeah," he breathes, licking his lips. "just... yeah."
"good." you reach between your bodies, palming him through his jeans. he jolts, his breath catching in his throat.
"oh god," he whines, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "that's... that's really..."
"yeah?" you stroke him firmly through the denim, feeling him twitch and harden under your hand. "you like that?"
"you know i do," he grits out, his hips rocking up into your touch. "you're doing it on purpose."
"doing what?" you squeeze him, just a little too tight, just a little too rough. he gasps, his fingers digging into your shoulders. "making you feel good?"
"teasing me," he corrects, his voice strained. "you're being mean."
"and you love it," you counter, undoing the button of his jeans with practiced ease. the sound of the zipper lowering in the quiet room is obscene. he freezes, his breath catching in his throat.
you don't pull his jeans down, though. that would be too easy. instead, you slip your hand inside, past the waistband of his boxers, wrapping your hand around his bare cock. he’s hot and hard, leaking pre-cum already.
mike lets out a ragged moan, burying his face in your neck. "jesus, fuck," he swears.
"language, wheeler," you chide gently, but your tone is teasing. you stroke him slowly, torturously, dragging your thumb over the head to smear the wetness there. "look at you. already falling apart."
"i hate you," he gasps, but there’s no heat in it. he sounds wrecked, his voice cracking on the words.
"no, you don't," you murmur, kissing his temple. "you love this. you love that i'm the one touching you. that i'm the one making you feel this way."
"i do," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "i really do."
you speed up your hand slightly, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. he’s panting now, his hips bucking up into your fist. he’s trying to be quiet, you can tell, holding back his noises, but you want to hear him.
"don't hold back," you command, biting down on his earlobe. "i want to hear you."
he lets out a choked sob, his control shattering. "oh god, please... faster. i'm gonna..."
"not yet," you say, releasing him abruptly.
he cries out at the loss of contact, his hips bucking into empty air. "no! why? i was so close!"
you laugh softly, wiping your hand on the inside of his sweater. he looks at you with genuine betrayal, his face flushed a dark red. "because i said so."
"you're the worst," he groans, letting his head fall back against the couch. he looks debauched—sweat-slicked hair, kiss-swollen lips, unbuttoned jeans, cock hard and twitching against his stomach. and you haven't even taken his clothes off yet.
"but you're still hard," you point out, trailing a finger up the length of his cock, teasing the slit with your fingernail. he shudders, his whole body tense. "so you must not hate it that much."
"it's torture," he whines, his hands coming up to cover his face. "absolute torture."
"but you're a glutton for punishment, aren't you, mike?" you lean in close, your breath hot against his ear. "that's why you let me win. that's why you're sitting here letting me do whatever i want to you."
he peeks at you through his fingers, his eyes dark and hungry. "maybe," he mumbles, dropping his hands to grab your waist again. "maybe i just like the way you look when you think you've won."
you grin, feeling a spark of challenge ignite in your chest. "oh, i think i have won."
"we'll see," he murmurs, but he leans in, kissing you again, messy and desperate. he tastes like desperation and want, and you know you've got him exactly where you want him. you pull back just enough to look him in the eye.
"so, what's the verdict?" you ask, your hand drifting back down to tease him through the open fly of his jeans. "you gonna be a good boy and let me keep playing?"
he lets out a ragged breath, his hips stuttering up into your touch. "yes," he breathes. "god, yes. do whatever you want."
"that's what i thought," you purr, squeezing him tight. "good boy."
you can practically feel the heat radiating off him. he’s staring at your hand like it’s a foreign object, like he can’t quite believe you have the audacity to just... stop.
"you're joking," he breathes, his voice cracking. he tries to move his hips, to chase the friction, but you just shift your weight, pinning his legs more effectively to the floor. "you can't just leave me like this."
"watch me," you say, climbing off his lap.
the loss of your body heat makes him shiver. he looks genuinely distressed, his hands reaching out for you instinctively before he catches himself and pulls them back. "where are you going?"
"sit back against the couch," you order, moving to sit on the coffee table directly in front of him. "hands on your knees. don't move them."
mike stares at you for a second, his chest heaving, before he slowly shuffles backward until his spine hits the cushions. he spreads his legs slightly, planting his hands on his knees. he looks like he’s waiting for a sentence to be handed down.
you lean back on the table, resting your weight on your hands, and let your knees fall open. mike’s eyes snap to your legs immediately, his throat bobbing. you’re wearing a skirt, short enough that when you spread your legs, he gets a perfect view of your underwear.
his eyes darken, fixating on the fabric between your thighs. "oh," he whispers.
"like what you see?" you tease, trailing your fingers up the inside of your thigh, pulling the skirt up a little higher.
"you know i do," he says, his voice strangled. "you're killing me."
"good." you slip your hand under the waistband of your panties, moaning softly as your fingers make contact with your clit. it’s wet, slick from the anticipation of teasing him.
mike’s breath hitches audibly. his hands grip his knees tight enough to turn his knuckles white. "are you... are you touching yourself?"
"i am," you murmur, keeping your eyes locked on his. "i got so wet watching you fall apart earlier. i need a little relief."
"fuck," he groans, his head falling back. he looks tortured, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "let me help. please. i'm good at it, i swear."
"i bet you are," you say, circling your clit slowly. "but you lost, mike. losers don't get to touch. they only get to watch."
he watches, mesmerized, as you pull your panties to the side, exposing yourself to him fully. his eyes are glued to your fingers, his mouth slightly open. he’s panting, his chest heaving under that thick sweater.
"does it feel good?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
"it feels amazing," you sigh, sliding a finger inside yourself. "but it'd feel better if it was you."
"please," he begs, his hips bucking up slightly. he’s still hard, the outline of his cock visible against his jeans. "i'll do anything. just let me taste you. let me touch you."
"not yet," you say, adding a second finger. you start to move them in and out, curving them just right. "you have to wait."
"i can't wait," he whines. "it's agony. watching you and not being able to do anything... it's worse than you stopping."
"poor baby," you coo, pumping your fingers faster. your breathing is getting heavier, your hips rolling slightly to meet your own hand. "you look so desperate. it’s really cute."
"i am desperate," he admits freely now, his eyes glued to your hand moving between your legs. "i need you so bad. i feel like i'm going to explode if i don't get to touch you soon."
"exploding sounds messy," you tease, though your voice is breathless. "try to hold it together for me."
he lets out a frustrated sound, halfway between a groan and a laugh. "you're impossible."
"and you're loving it," you counter, arching your back as you hit a particularly sensitive spot. a moan slips past your lips, loud and unbidden.
mike reacts like he’s been struck. his whole body jerks, his hands clenching on his knees. "god, hearing you make that noise..."
"what about it?" you ask, gasping slightly as you speed up your thumb on your clit.
"it drives me crazy," he says, his voice low and rough. "i want to be the one making you make that noise. i want to be the one fingering you open until you're screaming."
"maybe if you ask nicely," you say, your walls fluttering around your fingers. you’re getting close, the coil of heat in your belly winding tight.
"please," he says immediately, his eyes wide and pleading. "please let me make you feel good. let me fuck you with my fingers. let me use my mouth. i'll be so good. i'll do whatever you want."
"keep talking," you breathe, your head falling back as the pleasure builds. "tell me what you'd do to me."
"i'd start by kissing your thighs," he rushes out, like he’s been thinking about this for a long time. "slow, wet kisses. i'd mark you up, leave bruises so everyone knows you're mine."
"yeah?" you gasp, your fingers moving frantically now. "then what?"
"then i'd spread you open," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "i'd look at you. really look at you. admire you. and then i'd lean in and i'd lick you. just a flat drag of my tongue to see how you taste."
"mike," you moan, your hips bucking off the table.
"i’d make you cum on my tongue," he continues, relentless now. "i wouldn't stop until you were shaking, until you were pulling my hair and screaming my name. i'd lap up every drop. i wouldn't waste a bit."
it’s too much. the visual of him between your legs, the sound of his wrecked voice describing exactly how he’d wreck you—it pushes you over the edge.
"i'm gonna cum," you warn him, your back arching off the table.
"look at me," he commands, surprisingly authoritative for a guy who’s currently being denied. "look at me when you cum."
you force your eyes open, locking onto his. his face is flushed, his eyes dark and intent, filled with a hunger that makes your stomach flip. you cry out as your orgasm washes over you, your whole body shaking. you keep moving your fingers, drawing it out, riding the waves of pleasure while he watches every second of it.
when you finally come down, slumping back against the wood of the table, you’re panting heavily. you pull your hand out of your skirt, your fingers slick and wet.
mike is staring at your hand, his chest heaving. he looks like he’s in pain, his jaw clenched tight, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.
"that was..." he starts, then stops, swallowing hard. "that was the hottest thing i've ever seen."
you bring your fingers up to your mouth, cleaning them off with your tongue, tasting yourself. mike groans, his eyes fluttering shut.
"you're a menace," he says, but there’s awe in his voice. "a complete and total menace."
"and you're still hard," you note, gesturing to the very obvious tent in his jeans.
he lets out a dry laugh, looking down at himself. "yeah. well. looking at you will do that to a guy."
you stand up, your legs slightly wobbly, and step between his spread legs. "want me to help you with that?"
"yes," he says immediately, his hands coming up to grip your hips. "god, yes. please."
"beg for it," you say, hovering just out of his reach.
"i'm begging," he says without hesitation. "i'm on my knees, metaphorically speaking. please touch me. please suck me. please ride me. i don't care. i just need you."
"good boy," you murmur, reaching down to palm him through his jeans again. he gasps, his head falling back against the couch, his hips bucking up into your touch. "since you asked so nicely."
you don't give him the satisfaction of taking his clothes off right away. instead, you drop to your knees between his legs. the change in perspective makes you feel powerful, looking up at him while he stares down at you, all messy hair and desperate eyes.
"lift your hips," you command, hooking your fingers into the belt loops of his jeans.
mike scrambles to obey, lifting his ass off the floor so you can tug his jeans and boxers down in one go. his cock springs free, slapping against his stomach with a dull sound. he hisses at the exposure, the cool air hitting the heated skin.
he looks painful. he’s thick and flushed dark red, the head glistening with pre-cum that’s smeared across his abs. the vein running along the underside is pulsing.
"poor thing," you coo, wrapping a hand around the base. he jumps, a choked-off moan escaping his throat. "you're so swollen. does it hurt?"
"yes," he grits out, his hands tangling in your hair—not pulling, just holding on, anchoring himself. "it hurts so much. please do something."
"i am doing something," you say, leaning forward to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.
his hips buck sharply, his grip tightening in your hair. "oh fuck," he breathes.
you stick your tongue out, licking a stripe from the base to the tip, collecting the mess he’s made. he tastes salty and heady. you swirl your tongue around the head, dipping into the slit, and his whole body trembles.
"you're teasing," he accuses, though his voice is wrecked, breathless.
"i know," you smirk, taking just the head into your mouth and sucking hard.
he cries out, his head falling back against the couch cushions. "jesus... that’s... oh my god."
you bob your head slowly, taking him a little deeper with each pass, but keeping it lazy. you want to drive him insane. you want him to feel every inch of your mouth, every drag of your tongue, without giving him the rhythm he needs to get off.
"please," he whines, looking down at you. his glasses are askew, his eyes wet. "faster. take it deeper. i need... i need more."
you pull off with a pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his cock. "what's the magic word?"
"please!" he practically shouts. "please, please, please. i'll do anything. just let me fuck your mouth. let me cum."
"good answer," you murmur, diving back down. this time, you take him as deep as you can, relaxing your throat until he hits the back of it.
mike shouts, his hips snapping up involuntarily. "oh fuck, i'm sorry! i didn't mean to—"
you hum around him, the vibration making his legs shake. you grab his hips, pinning them to the floor so he can't thrust, and start to move your head in earnest. you hollow your cheeks, sucking him hard, using your tongue to massage the underside of his shaft.
he’s a mess above you. he’s chanting your name like a prayer, mixed with curses and broken pleas. "so good... you're so good... feels like heaven... holy shit..."
you can feel him getting closer. his balls are drawing up tight against his body, his cock twitching in your mouth. he’s trying to be still, trying not to thrust into your mouth, but his muscles are jumping with the effort.
"i'm close," he gasps out, warning you. "i'm gonna cum. i can't... i can't hold it."
you pull off immediately.
mike lets out a sound that’s half-sob, half-growl, his head falling back. "no! no, no, no. why do you keep doing that?"
you wipe your mouth, grinning up at him. "because it’s fun."
"it’s not fun! it’s torture!" he groans, covering his face with his hands. "you're actually evil. i've decided."
"and yet you're still sitting here with your pants around your ankles," you point out, standing up. "if i'm so evil, you could leave."
he glares at you, though it lacks any real heat. mostly he just looks sexually frustrated and desperate. "i can't leave. you've ruined me. nobody else is going to compare to this."
"damn right," you say, stepping out of your skirt and letting it pool on the floor. "now, are you going to sit there and whine, or are you going to fuck me?"
mike’s eyes widen as he takes in the sight of you standing there in just your panties and sweater. he stares like he’s forgotten how to blink.
"i... yeah," he breathes. "yeah, i want to fuck you."
"then get up here," you say, climbing onto the couch and straddling his lap again.
this time, there’s no clothing between you except your underwear and his sweater. you grind down against him, the friction of his cock against your wet panties making both of you gasp.
"take these off," he says, tugging at the waistband of your panties. "please."
"since you asked so nicely," you say, lifting your hips slightly so he can pull them down.
he fumbles with the fabric, his hands clumsy and eager, finally managing to get them down your legs. he tosses them aside without looking, his eyes fixed on your exposed center.
"you're so wet," he murmurs, reaching out to touch you. he runs a finger through your folds, gathering the wetness. "is this all for me?"
"all for you," you confirm, grabbing his wrist and guiding his fingers to your clit. "touch me. make me cum again before you fuck me."
"yeah," he breathes, his eyes darkening. "i can do that."
he starts to rub circles on your clit, his touch surprisingly confident for someone who was just begging for mercy. he finds a rhythm that has you gasping, your head falling back.
"just like that," you moan, rocking your hips against his hand. "you learn fast."
"i'm a fast learner," he says, leaning forward to capture one of your nipples through the fabric of your sweater between his teeth. he bites down gently, and you moan louder, your walls fluttering.
he keeps working you with his fingers, his other hand coming up to squeeze your breast. it’s overwhelming, the dual stimulation, and you can feel the pleasure building quickly again.
"mike," you gasp, tugging at his hair. "i'm close."
"cum for me," he commands, his voice vibrating against your chest. "let me feel it."
you tumble over the edge with a cry, your body seizing up as the orgasm washes over you. mike doesn't stop, working you through it until you're shaking and pushing his hand away.
"too much," you pant, collapsing against his chest.
he holds you, his hand stroking your back. "you okay?"
"yeah," you breathe, nuzzling into his neck. "more than okay."
"good," he says, his hand sliding down to grip your ass. "because i really, really need to be inside you now."
you sit up, straddling his hips. his cock is resting against his stomach, hard and ready. "do you have a condom?"
"wallet," he says, gesturing vaguely to his discarded jeans on the floor.
you lean over and grab his wallet, fishing the foil packet out. he watches you with hungry eyes as you rip it open and roll the condom down his length.
"ready?" you ask, positioning him at your entrance.
"ready," he breathes, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise.
you sink down on him slowly, taking him inch by inch. he groans low in his throat, his head falling back against the couch. he stretches you perfectly, the burn mixing with the pleasure until you're full.
"fuck," you breathe, pausing once he’s fully seated. "you feel huge."
he lets out a strained laugh. "you feel... incredible. so tight. so wet."
you start to move, lifting your hips and sliding back down. he meets your thrusts, his hips snapping up to meet yours. the room fills with the sounds of skin slapping against skin and broken moans.
mike is mesmerizing like this. usually he’s so contained, so thoughtful, but now he’s letting go. he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, fucking up into you with a desperation that matches your own.
"you're doing so good," you murmur, kissing him deeply. "taking me so well."
"i'm trying," he gasps against your lips. "i'm trying so hard not to cum."
"don't hold back," you say, picking up the pace. "let go. i want you to fill me up."
that’s all it takes. with a guttural groan, he buries his face in your neck and cums. his hips stutter, his whole body shaking as he spills into the condom. you follow him a moment later, triggered by the feeling of him pulsing inside you.
you stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the couch, the only sound your ragged breathing. mike presses lazy kisses to your shoulder, his hand tracing patterns on your back.
"wow," he breathes eventually, lifting his head to look at you. "just... wow."
"yeah," you agree, kissing him softly. "you're definitely not the sub i thought you were."
he grins, a lazy, satisfied thing that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "i have my moments," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "besides, you brought it out in me. you're a corrupting influence."
"i'll take that as a compliment," you say, shifting slightly. the movement makes you both gasp; he’s still inside you, softening but still present.
"sensitive," he hisses, his hands tightening on your hips to stop you from moving. "don't... don't move yet. just give me a minute."
you laugh softly, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. he smells like sex and sweat and that distinct woodsy smell of his cologne. it’s intoxicating. "you okay?"
"more than okay," he breathes, stroking your hair. "that was... intense. i feel like i ran a marathon."
you stay there for a while, just holding each other as your breathing returns to normal. the basement is quiet, the hum of the heater the only sound. it’s peaceful in a way you haven't felt in a long time.
eventually, though, reality starts to creep back in. you’re sticky, the condom is becoming uncomfortable, and your legs are starting to cramp from the position.
"we should clean up," you murmur, reluctant to move. "before someone comes home."
mike sighs, but he nods. "yeah. nancy’s out with jonathan, and my parents are away, but... better safe than sorry."
you lift your hips, letting him slide out of you. he groans at the loss, his hands lingering on your waist as you climb off his lap. you tie off the condom and toss it into the small trash can near the tv, feeling oddly domestic.
mike is struggling to pull his jeans back up, his movements sluggish. he looks wrecked—hair standing up in every direction, sweater rumpled, eyes glazed. he looks thoroughly fucked out, and it’s a good look on him.
"need some help?" you tease, grabbing your panties from the floor and stepping into them.
"maybe," he admits, flushing slightly. "my hands aren't working properly."
you laugh, going over to help him button his jeans. "poor baby. did i wear you out?"
"completely," he says, leaning his forehead against yours. "i don't think i can move from this couch for at least an hour. maybe two."
"that’s fine by me," you say, sitting down next to him and curling into his side. he immediately wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.
you sit there in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the post-coital haze. but then, you feel him shift, his fingers trailing up and down your arm. it’s a nervous gesture, fidgety.
"what?" you ask, looking up at him.
he looks down at you, his expression unreadable. "nothing. just... thinking."
"about?"
"about how i almost messed this up," he says softly. "with the whole 'just friends' thing. i was so scared to ruin what we had."
you reach up, cupping his cheek. "you didn't mess it up. we just... upgraded."
"yeah," he smiles, leaning into your touch. "definitely an upgrade."
"besides," you tease, poking his chest. "if you hadn't been so chickenshit, i wouldn't have had to take matters into my own hands. and look how well that turned out."
he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "true. you were... pretty incredible. scary, but incredible."
"i try," you preen.
"so," he starts, hesitating slightly. "does this mean we're... you know? a couple?"
"if you want to be," you say, trying to sound nonchalant but feeling your heart rate pick up. "i mean, i don't usually do that whole 'friends with benefits' thing. i get attached."
"i want to be," he says quickly, earnestly. "i really want to be. i've wanted to be for a long time."
"good," you say, leaning up to kiss him. "then it's settled. we're dating."
"cool," he breathes, like he can't quite believe it. "cool. i have a girlfriend."
you laugh at his awe. "you're such a dork."
"your dork," he corrects, squeezing your side.
"yeah, yeah," you say, settling back against him. "don't push your luck."
you sit there for a while longer, until the cold starts to seep in through the basement windows. you’re content, but you know you can't stay here forever.
"i should probably get going," you say reluctantly. "it's getting late."
mike frowns. "stay? please? my parents won't be back until sunday. we could order pizza, watch a movie... sleep in my bed."
the offer is tempting. incredibly tempting. the thought of waking up next to him, of having him all to yourself for the whole weekend... it’s enough to make you consider ditching your plans for the next two days.
"i don't have any clothes," you point out weakly.
"wear mine," he says immediately. "you'll look better in them anyway."
you roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "fine. twist my arm. but only if we get pepperoni."
"deal," he grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. "pepperoni it is."
you stand up, holding out a hand to pull him up from the couch. he groans as he stands, his knees popping slightly.
"old man," you tease.
"shut up," he grumbles, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in for a hug. "you did this to me."
"and i'd do it again," you murmur, kissing him softly. "in a heartbeat."
he pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes soft. "yeah?
"yeah," you confirm. "now, feed me, wheeler. i'm starving."
"yes ma'am," he says, saluting playfully. "pizza and movie coming right up."
you watch him walk over to the phone in the corner, dialing the number for the pizza place with a familiarity that speaks to how much time he spends down here. he looks happy. really, truly happy. and you realize that you are too.
you curl up on the end of the couch, pulling the blanket draped over the back around your shoulders. mike finishes the order and comes back over, flopping down beside you and immediately pulling you into his lap.
"did you order extra cheese?" you ask, resting your head on his shoulder.
"always," he says, pressing a kiss to your hair.
"good," you mumble, closing your eyes. "because you're going to need your energy for round two."
mike freezes for a second, then lets out a low laugh. "you're trying to kill me."
"maybe a little," you admit. "but what a way to go."
"i love you," he says suddenly, the words slipping out like he didn't mean to say them, but once they were out there, he didn't take them back.
you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. you look up at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt. his eyes are wide, a little panicked, but mostly just full of affection.
"what?" you ask softly.
"i said... i love you," he repeats, his voice steadier this time. "i've been wanting to say it for a while. i just... i didn't know how. and then tonight happened, and it just felt right."
you feel a warmth spread through your chest, blooming outward until your fingertips are tingling. it’s not scary anymore. it’s just... right.
"i love you too," you say, meaning it with every fiber of your being. "you nerdy, submissive idiot."
he grins, ducking his head. "i'll take it."
you pull him in for a kiss, slow and sweet, pouring everything you feel into it. when you finally pull away, you’re both breathless again.
"so," he says, resting his forehead against yours. "round two?"
"after pizza," you compromise. "i need sustenance if i'm going to ruin you again."
"deal," he laughs, squeezing you tight. "pizza first. then you can have your way with me."
"i plan to," you murmur, settling back against his chest. "i absolutely plan to."
𑣲 warnings : explicit sexual content, phone sex, masturbation, mention of sexual fantasies, established relationship
𑣲 from the author : its been a minute so i thought i'd post this steve drabble thats been sitting in my drafts for a whileeee. working on my asks as quickly as i can!!! && thank you so much for all the love on my last post mwah mwah
the house is too quiet. your parents are out for the night, some dinner party with the hendersons, and you’re left alone with the hum of the refrigerator and the fuzzy drone of the tv. you’re sprawled on your floral bedspread, tracing the patterns on the ceiling with your eyes, feeling that specific kind of boredom that only a friday night in hawkins can bring. it’s a boredom that feels a lot like missing him.
steve.
the thought of him makes your stomach do a little flip. his stupid hair, his easy smile, the way he smells like cheap cologne and something that’s just… steve. you miss his hands on you, the weight of him in your bed. you miss him so much it aches.
on a whim, you roll over and grab the heavy rotary phone from your nightstand. your fingers tremble just a little as you dial his number, the clicks and whirs of the phone filling the silent room. it rings three times before he picks up.
“hello?”
his voice is a low rumble, and you can practically hear him slouching against his kitchen counter, probably still in his work polo from family video.
“steve,” you breathe, a smile already spreading across your face.
“well, hey there, sweetheart,” he says, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “what’s up? bored without me?”
“you have no idea,” you sigh, sinking back into your pillows. “my house is a ghost town. i think i saw a tumbleweed roll through the living room earlier.”
he chuckles, a warm, familiar sound that settles deep in your bones. “a tragedy, truly. we should declare a state of emergency.”
“we should,” you agree, your voice dropping a little. “or you could come over and… help me pass the time.”
there’s a pause, and you hear the faint sound of him shifting. “i wish i could, honey. really. my parents are home and they’re in one of their ‘let’s be a family’ moods. it’s a whole thing. i’m basically on house arrest until my dad passes out.”
your heart sinks a little. “oh. okay.”
“hey, no, don’t sound like that,” he says softly. “doesn’t mean we can’t… still have some fun. i’m a resourceful guy, you know.”
your breath catches. “what do you mean?”
another pause, longer this time. when he speaks again, his voice is lower, huskier. it sends a jolt straight between your legs.
“i mean… what are you wearing?”
heat floods your cheeks. you bite your lip, a thrill running through you. “just an old nightgown. the pink one.”
“hmm,” he hums, and you can hear the creak of what must be his leather jacket as he moves. “the thin one? the one that’s a little see-through in the right light?”
“maybe,” you say, your voice barely a whisper.
“i like that one,” he says. “i’m thinking about it right now. thinking about how it looks on you. how it barely covers your ass. drives me crazy.”
your hand instinctively goes to the hem of the nightgown, your fingers brushing against your thigh. “steve…”
“yeah?” his voice is like gravel. “are you in bed?”
“mhm.”
“good. i want you to close your eyes. can you do that for me?”
you nod, even though he can’t see you. “yeah.”
“okay. just listen to my voice. i’m there with you, okay? i’m climbing through your window, just like always. i’d probably trip over your dumb collection of stuffed animals, but i’d make it look cool.”
you let out a small laugh, the tension breaking just enough to make this feel real. “you would.”
“damn right i would,” he continues, his voice a hypnotic caress. “and i’m leaning over you, and i’m pushing your hair out of your face. you look so pretty like this, all sleepy. makes me wanna mess you up.”
a soft whimper escapes your lips. your hand is still on your thigh, but now it’s moving higher, tracing the edge of your panties.
“are you touching yourself, sweetheart?” he asks, his voice knowing.
“yeah,” you admit, your voice shaky.
“good. that’s my girl. tell me what you’re doing.”
“i’m… i’m touching myself over my panties,” you breathe. “they’re lacy. the white ones you like.”
“fuck,” he groans, and the sound is so raw, so real, it makes you clench. “i wish i could see. i wish i could rip them off you with my teeth.”
“god, steve,” you gasp, slipping your fingers under the lace to find the slick heat of your folds. you’re already so wet.
“i’m thinking about how you taste,” he says, his voice strained. “so sweet. i could spend hours between your legs, just making you fall apart on my tongue. remember that time in my car? after the movies? i swear i was tasting you on my tongue for days after.”
you remember. you remember it so vividly. the fogged-up windows, the cramped space of the front seat, his head buried between your thighs as you tugged on his hair.
“i remember,” you whine, your circling your clit with a shaky finger.
“i’m thinking about that right now. thinking about you grinding against my face. thinking about how you sound when you’re about to come for me. that little gasp you do right before you scream my name.”
it’s too much. his words, the memory, the friction of your own fingers. you’re already so close.
“steve, i—”
“no, not yet,” he cuts you off, his voice firm but gentle. “not until i say so. you’re being such a good girl for me, aren’t you? you can wait a little longer. make it last.”
you let out a frustrated groan, but you slow your hand, your whole body trembling with the effort.
“that’s it,” he praises. “good girl. now… i’m thinking about being inside you. i’m thinking about how tight you are, how you grip me when i first push in. it’s the best feeling in the world, you know that? better than winning a basketball game, and that’s saying something.”
you can hear the sound of his own breathing getting heavier, faster. you picture him leaning against the wall in his kitchen, his eyes squeezed shut, his hand palming himself through his jeans.
“i’m thinking about fucking you slow,” he says, his voice a low growl. “really deep. so you can feel every inch. i wanna watch your face while i do it. watch you lose your mind because of me.”
“please, steve,” you beg, your fingers resuming their frantic pace. “please let me come. i need to.”
“me too, honey,” he groans. “fuck, me too. okay. okay. come for me. right now. let me hear you.”
that’s all it takes. your orgasm crashes over you, a blinding, overwhelming wave of pleasure. you cry out his name, your back arching off the bed as you pulse around your own fingers. it’s intense, almost painful in its intensity, and it leaves you breathless and boneless.
through the haze, you can hear him on the other end of the line, his own release coming in a series of ragged groans and choked-out curses. the sound of him falling apart is almost as good as your own orgasm.
for a long moment, the only sound is your combined breathing, ragged and uneven, crackling through the phone line.
“holy shit,” he finally says, his voice hoarse.
“yeah,” you agree, a lazy, satisfied smile on your face. “holy shit.”
you both lie there for another minute, just listening to each other breathe. then, the reality of the situation starts to sink in. your nightgown is pushed up to your stomach, your panties are soaked, and there’s a definite sticky mess on your hand and the inside of your thighs.
“ugh,” you groan, sitting up slightly. “i gotta… you know. clean up.”
he laughs, a real, genuine steve harrington laugh that makes your chest feel warm. “yeah, i feel that. i think i need a new pair of jeans.”
“ew, steve,” you say, but you’re smiling.
“what? i’m being honest!” he says, defending himself. “you’re the one who made me do it.”
“oh, it’s my fault?” you tease, swinging your legs off the bed and padding towards the adjoining bathroom. you grab a washcloth from the cabinet.
“absolutely,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice again. “so, tomorrow. you free? i was thinking we could actually, you know, be in the same room for this.”
“i’d like that,” you say, running the warm washcloth between your legs. “a lot.”
“good. it’s a date. i’ll even bring the pizza. my treat.”
“you’re a gentleman.”
“damn right i am,” he says. “now go get some sleep. you sound wrecked.”
“i miss you,” you say, your voice soft again.
“i miss you too, sweetheart. more than you know. i’ll see you tomorrow.”
you hang up the phone, the click echoing in the quiet.
ur last post was sooo good !! it reminds me of maybe bf steve with a more inexperiencedshy!reader ir maybe insecure ? like, the thought of her stripping her underwear off and just laying wide for someone as special as steve could make her sick! but he's so understand with it, because well. he's never had anything quite like this before, an actual good relationship that wasn't just based off of sex, he's vv gentle and patient especially when she slides on his knee and is mumbling all close to him about wanting something:( he's just doing whatever with her that's not completely crossing her boundaries?? he's just so perfect uhg.
𑣲 from the author : oh my gosh anon thank you SO much for this request i love it so much, i could seriously write about this all day! alsoooo tysm for 600 that's absolutely insane
the movie is still just a blur of light and sound, a forgotten backdrop to the universe that exists right here on this couch, in the circle of his arms. the kiss slows, becoming a series of soft, lingering presses, and you’re the one to pull away this time, but not far.
your forehead rests against his, and you can feel the gentle puff of his breath against your lips. you’re still on his lap, one of his strong thighs nestled right between yours, and the pressure is a low, steady thrum that’s making your head feel fuzzy in the best way.
“steve?” you try again, your voice barely a whisper. it’s shaky, but determined this time.
“i’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through your entire body. his hands are back on your hips, a warm, grounding weight. “tell me what you need.”
you take a shaky breath, the words feeling thick and clumsy in your mouth. “i… i want something. i just… i don’t know what.”
it’s the most honest you’ve ever been. a raw, vulnerable admission that you feel this ache, this want, but you’re lost on how to navigate it.
his eyes soften, and he looks at you with so much tenderness it almost hurts. “okay,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “we can figure it out. together. yeah?”
you just nod, trusting him completely.
“how about this?” he suggests, his voice dropping even lower, husky and gentle. “how about you stay right here, and you just… move however feels good. no thinking, okay? just feel.”
he gives your hips the slightest bit of guidance, a soft nudge forward, and that’s all it takes. your body takes over, rolling your hips down against the solid muscle of his thigh. a soft gasp escapes you at the spark of friction right through your thin sleep shorts. it’s good. it’s so good.
“that’s it,” he encourages, his hands stroking up and down your sides, a slow, reassuring rhythm. “just like that, honey. you’re doing so good.”
emboldened, you do it again. a slow, deliberate rock. the fabric of your shorts and his jeans creates a perfect, delicious pressure against your clit, and you can’t stop the quiet moan that bubbles up. your hands find purchase on his shoulders, gripping the soft material of his sweater as you find a rhythm. it’s shy at first, experimental, but the pleasure is a slow-building tide, and you can feel your insecurity starting to wash away, replaced by a desperate need for more.
“look at you,” he breathes, his eyes dark and fixed on where you’re moving against him. “so pretty like this. all flushed and wanting for me.”
his praise sends a fresh wave of heat through you. one of his hands leaves your hip, sliding up your back and then around to your front, tracing the curve of your waist. his thumb brushes against the underside of your breast, and you arch into his touch, a silent plea for more.
“you feel so good,” he groans, his head tipping back against the couch cushions. his gaze is hungry, but it’s not scary. it’s worshipful. “you have no idea how good you feel.”
his hand moves higher, finally cupping your breast over your shirt. his thumb circles your nipple, and the sensation is sharp and immediate, pulling a whine from your throat. your movements become a little less coordinated, a little more frantic, chasing the building pressure.
“steve,” you whimper, his name a prayer on your lips.
“i know, sweet girl,” he coos, leaning in to press his lips to your temple. his other hand squeezes your hip, guiding you, helping you grind down with a little more force. “i know. let go for me. it’s okay. i’ve got you.”
and you do. the coil in your stomach snaps, and your orgasm washes over you in a slow, gentle wave. it’s not overwhelming, but it’s all-consuming. you bury your face in his neck as you tremble, your body twitching with the aftershocks. he holds you through it, his hands never stopping their soothing touch, murmuring soft praises into your hair.
“that’s my girl,” he whispers as you come back to yourself, your body limp and pliant against his. “so perfect. you did so good for me.”
you lift your head, and he’s looking at you with so much adoration it makes your chest feel tight. he gently pushes a stray piece of hair away from your sweaty forehead.
“see?” he says softly, a small, proud smile playing on his lips. “nothing to be scared of. we’ve got all the time in the world to figure everything else out. this was more than enough. it was perfect.”
and leaning in to kiss him, soft and slow, you believe him.
𑣲 from the author : loved this ask, pleaseee send more, thank u so much anon!!! <333333
you might start crying again, and you were determined not to give him the satisfaction.
you heard the soft thud of his keys hitting the bowl by the door, then the shuffle of his feet on the rug. he didn't come closer right away, and you were grateful for the small mercy. you just wanted to disappear, to melt into the couch cushions and pretend the last hour never happened.
but then the couch dipped beside you, his weight a familiar and unwelcome presence. you flinched, pulling your knees tighter to your chest, a silent wall going up.
"hey," he said, his voice quiet, stripped of all the anger from before. it was the soft voice, the one that always came after the storm, and it almost hurt worse. "look at me, please."
you shook your head, burying your face in your knees. you could feel the tears welling up again, hot and stupid.
"i'm sorry," he murmured, and you felt his hand hesitate before it landed gently on your back. his thumb started stroking slow circles over your shirt, a repetitive, soothing motion. "i was an asshole. i know i was. i wasn't mad at you, i was just… mad. and i took it out on you. that's not fair."
you stayed silent, but you could feel your resolve crumbling. the gentle pressure of his hand was chipping away at the wall you'd built.
"i'm so sorry, baby," he continued, leaning closer so his lips were near your hair. "you didn't deserve that. you never do. you're the best thing i have, and i act like a dick sometimes. i hate myself for it."
a small, choked sob escaped your throat before you could stop it. it was embarrassing.
"shh, no, don't cry," he said instantly, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. "come here. let me make it better."
you resisted for a second, but then you gave in, turning and tucking yourself into his chest. his arms came around you immediately, holding you tight, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. you breathed in his scent, the familiar smell of him that usually meant safety, and finally let the tears fall.
"i'm sorry," you whispered into his shirt, even though you hadn't done anything wrong.
"no, don't you dare apologize," he said, his voice firm but gentle. he pulled back just enough to tilt your chin up, wiping at your wet cheeks with his thumbs. his eyes were soft, full of a regret that looked genuine. "i'm the one who's sorry. i'll say it as many times as you need to hear it. i was mean, and i hurt you, and i'm so, so sorry."
he leaned in and kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then your lips, a soft, lingering kiss that tasted like salt and apology.
"let me take care of you," he whispered against your mouth. "okay? let me make it up to you."
you just nodded, too tired to do anything else. he shifted, laying you both down on the couch, maneuvering you until you were lying on top of him, your head tucked under his chin. he covered you with the throw blanket, his hands running up and down your back in long, calming strokes.
"i love you," he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "you know that, right? even when i'm being a bastard, i love you more than anything."
you sniffled, wrapping your arms around his middle. "i love you too."
he kissed the top of your head, holding you a little tighter. "good," he murmured. "now just rest. i've got you. i'm not going anywhere."
𑣲 synopsis : after a stupid fight drives mike away, you wait by the door in the suffocating silence, only to be rewarded when he returns soaked and sorry, ready to bridge the distance between you.
𑣲 from the author : 100 followers wowow!!! thank you soo much i am so so grateful! thank you for being fans of my little hobby <33
✶♫⋆ the other side of the door by taylor swift
the silence in your house is a different kind of loud. it’s the kind that presses in on your eardrums, a heavy blanket that smells like rain and regret. you’re curled up on the floor, back pressed against the solid wood of your front door, and you’re pretty sure you can still feel the ghost of his hand on the knob from when he left.
mike.
his name is a prayer on your lips and a punch to your gut all at once. you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to picture his face, but all you get is the flash of hurt in his eyes right before he walked out. it was a stupid fight. they’re always stupid fights. about d&d campaigns or forgetting to call back or just… the space between you that sometimes feels like a canyon and sometimes feels like nothing at all.
you miss him already. it’s pathetic, really. it’s only been, what, an hour? two? but it feels like a lifetime. you miss his stupid rambles about star wars and the way his hand finds yours automatically when you’re walking side-by-side. you miss the way he laughs, all crinkled eyes and loud, unapologetic noise that fills up every empty space.
your hand rests on the door, right over the spot where his was. you press your palm flat, as if you could absorb some of his leftover warmth, as if you could feel him on the other side.
is he out there? is he in his car, just down the street, staring at your house and regretting everything? or is he already at the byers’ house, letting el distract him, letting himself forget?
the thought makes your throat tight.
“i’m an idiot,” you whisper to the empty hallway. your voice is small, shaky. “please come back.”
you press your ear against the cool wood, straining to hear something, anything. the hum of the refrigerator. the drip of a faucet. the distant sound of a car driving by. but not his car. not his footsteps coming back up the porch steps.
even when you’re mad, even when you want to scream, he’s all you can think about. he’s woven into the fabric of your life, a constant presence you took for granted until the door was shut between you.
you close your eyes again, and you let yourself imagine it. you imagine the lock clicking back. you imagine the door creaking open, just a sliver at first, and then wider. you imagine his silhouette, tall and familiar in the frame. you imagine him looking at you with that soft, apologetic expression you know so well, the one that makes your heart do a stupid little flip.
“hey,” he’d say, his voice raspy.
and you wouldn’t even have to say anything back. you’d just get up, and he’d open his arms, and you’d fall into them. you’d breathe in his scent—pine and old t-shirts and the faint smell of his mom’s laundry detergent—and everything would be okay again. the canyon would shrink back to nothing.
but when you open your eyes, the hallway is still empty. the door is still closed. you’re still alone.
a single tear escapes and traces a path down your cheek. you don’t bother to wipe it away. you just keep your hand pressed to the door, your forehead resting against it, and you wait.
you wait for the other side of the door to open again.
you don't know how long you stay there, a statue of sadness on your own hallway floor. your legs have gone numb and your back aches, but you can't bring yourself to move. moving feels like giving up. it feels like admitting that he's not coming back, and you’re not ready to do that yet.
the rain starts, a soft pitter-patter against the windowpane at first, then a steady drumming against the roof. it’s the kind of rain that makes you want to curl up with a blanket and a hot chocolate, the kind of rain you’d usually love because it was a perfect excuse to cancel plans and just stay in with him. the irony isn’t lost on you.
and then you hear it.
a car. it’s not the familiar rumble of his mom’s station wagon, but it’s close. it slows down right in front of your house. your heart, which had been doing a slow, mournful beat, suddenly kicks into a frantic rhythm against your ribs. you sit up straight, straining your ears, every nerve ending on fire.
car door slams.
footsteps. they’re quick, determined, splashing through the puddles on the sidewalk. they’re on your lawn now, crunching through the wet grass. they’re on your porch.
your breath catches in your throat. you’re frozen, hand still pressed to the door, listening with an intensity you didn’t know you possessed.
the footsteps stop. right on the other side.
you can hear him breathing. you can actually hear the soft, slightly shaky exhale of his breath. he’s right there. he’s a few inches of solid wood away.
your hand trembles against the door. you want to say something, to call his name, but your voice is gone, stolen by the sudden, overwhelming hope that floods your chest.
and then, a soft knock. not loud, not demanding. just two gentle taps, full of hesitation. tap. tap.
it’s the sound of your name being whispered without a single word being spoken.
you scramble to your knees, your numb legs protesting, and your hand fumbles with the lock. your fingers are clumsy, shaking so badly you can’t get the key to turn. you take a deep, steadying breath, forcing yourself to calm down, and finally, the lock clicks open with a loud thunk that echoes in the silence.
you turn the knob and pull the door inward.
and there he is.
mike wheeler, standing on your front porch, soaked to the bone. his hair is plastered to his forehead, his face speckled with raindrops, and his jacket is dripping onto the welcome mat. he looks completely and utterly miserable, and he’s never looked more beautiful to you.
his eyes find yours, and they’re full of everything you were hoping for. regret, and worry, and so, so much love.
“i’m sorry,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “i was an idiot.”
you don’t answer. you just reach out, grab the front of his sopping wet jacket, and pull him inside. you kick the door shut behind him, the sound final and comforting. he stumbles forward, his hands coming up to steady himself on your waist, and you’re in his arms.
it’s not a graceful hug. it’s all sharp angles and wet clothes and desperate clutching. his face is buried in the crook of your neck, and you can feel the cold rain from his hair seeping into your skin, but you don’t care. you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him so tight you can barely breathe, burying your face in his shoulder.
he smells like mike. like rain and pine and home.
“i’m so, so sorry,” he mumbles against your skin. “i hate fighting with you. i drove around for like, twenty minutes and then i just sat in my car down the street like a total loser. i couldn’t stand it.”
you pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to cup his face. his cheeks are cold. you use your thumbs to wipe away a raindrop that’s trickling down, right by his eye.
“me neither,” you whisper, your voice finally working. “i was right here. the whole time. i was waiting.”
his gaze softens, and he leans into your touch. “i know. i was hoping you would be.”
he leans down then, and he kisses you. it’s not a passionate, fiery kiss. it’s slow and gentle and full of apology. it tastes like rain and relief and the promise that you’re going to be okay. it’s the kind of kiss that says i’m here and i’m not leaving again without either of you having to say a word.
when you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed. you can feel his shivering.
“you’re freezing,” you say softly. “come on. let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
you take his hand, your fingers lacing together perfectly, and lead him towards your bedroom. the canyon is gone. the space between you has vanished. he’s here, he’s on your side of the door, and everything is right with the world again.
you lead him by the hand, his fingers cold and limp in yours, but his grip is firm, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. the hallway feels different now, warmer, filled with the quiet sound of your footsteps and the drip-drip-drip of his jacket onto the hardwood floor.
in your room, you let go of his hand only to turn on your bedside lamp, casting a soft, golden glow over everything. it chases away the last of the shadows, the last of the cold, lonely feeling from before.
“okay, stand right there,” you say, pointing to a spot on your rug. you pull your comfiest, fluffiest sweatshirt from your dresser—it’s an old faded thing with a band logo on it, but it’s soft and warm and smells like you—and a pair of his sweatpants that you’d stolen ages ago and never given back. you hold them out to him. “get changed. i’ll be right back.”
you give him a small smile and slip out of the room, closing the door gently behind you to give him some privacy. in the bathroom, you grab the fluffiest towel you own and run it under the hot water for a second, just to warm it up. you also grab a dry towel for his hair.
when you come back, he’s changed, standing awkwardly in the middle of your room. he looks ridiculous and adorable. your sweatshirt is a little tight on his broad shoulders, and the stolen sweatpants are just a bit too short, showing his ankles. his hair is a mess of damp curls. he’s never looked more like home.
you walk over to him and gently start toweling his hair, your movements slow and careful. he closes his eyes, letting out a soft sigh, his whole body seeming to relax under your touch.
“i’m sorry i said your character was being a dumbass,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by the towel.
“i’m sorry i said you were being a controlling freak,” you reply softly, a small smile playing on your lips. you finish with his hair and drape the warm towel around his shoulders.
he opens his eyes and looks at you, really looks at you. his gaze is so full of adoration it makes your heart ache. “can we just… agree we were both dumbasses?”
you laugh, a real, genuine laugh this time. “deal. we’re both dumbasses.”
he takes a step closer, his hands finding your waist again, pulling you flush against him. he’s warm now, from your clothes and your presence. he rests his chin on top of your head, and you wrap your arms around his middle, tucking yourself into his chest.
“i hate it when we fight,” he whispers into your hair.
“me too,” you say, your voice muffled against his sweatshirt. “it’s the worst feeling in the world.”
you stand there for a long time, just holding each other, swaying slightly. the rain is still tapping against the window, but it’s not a lonely sound anymore. it’s a cozy sound. a background noise to this moment. you can feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your ear, a comforting reminder that he’s here, he’s real, he’s yours.
“hey,” he says after a while, pulling back just enough to look down at you. “can we just… go to bed? i’m so tired.”
you nod, reaching up to brush a stray curl from his forehead. “yeah. me too.”
you climb into bed first, holding up the blanket for him. he slides in beside you, and the bed feels complete again. he immediately wraps himself around you, pulling you into his chest so your back is flush against him. his arm drapes over your waist, his leg tangles with yours, and he tucks his face into the space behind your ear.
it’s your favorite way to fall asleep.
“i love you,” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. “even when i’m a dumbass.”
you smile into the darkness, your hand finding his and lacing your fingers together. “i love you too. even when you’re a dumbass.”
he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, and you can feel the last of the tension melt away. the silence in the house isn’t empty or loud anymore. it’s peaceful. it’s full of the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body, the weight of his arm around you.
the door is closed, but it doesn’t matter. he’s on the right side of it. he’s right here with you. and as you drift off to sleep, you know with absolute certainty that this is where you’re meant to be.
