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oh, hey there…. it’s me again…..

you already know the typa shit i’m on. running rampant in your messages about age gap!steve has lead me here.

a prompt for steve-morial day weekend; reader’s a bartender, perhaps a meet cute with ~coach steve~ at the bar she works at. i’ll let you handle the dirty shit cos it’s what you do best. thanks in advance for making all of my dreams come true

love ya buddy :* <3 !!!!!!

- djob00bies, on main 🫶

your wish, my command 🩵

MDNI//SMUT/tags/tw- age gap (steve is 30, reader is 23), coach steve, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex

&&

It’s half past 7 on a Friday when he walks in. The bar’s busy, busy enough that you don’t have the time to really pay attention to the patrons you’re serving, but you do clock that you recognize him. Your nephew is on his baseball team—you’re pretty sure. That’s Coach Steve.

He orders a bottle of Bud and when you uncap it for him, sliding it over the burnished wood, he picks it up and tips it toward you before taking a sip.

But you’re already on to the next customer, pulling liquor bottles and salting rims and dropping garnishes into glasses without even a second to register that Coach Steve? He looks both expectant and lonely where he’s sat at the end of the bar. He hasn’t even taken his jacket off.

It’s just about 8 by the time you stride back over, checking on him, ignoring the other customers clamoring for your attention for a second. In the dim orange-yellow light of the bar, Steve’s eyes look like black circles, the 5’o’clock shadow more like an 8’o’clock nightfall by now, and he rubs at his jaw as you approach.

“‘Nother Bud?” you ask, already reaching for a bottle.

“No, I’m… good for now,” he says, drumming his fingers along the mostly-empty bottle.

“All right,” you chirp, “give a holler if you change your mind!” And then you return to the fray, back to pouring shots and muddling fruit and wiping down spills. You close tabs, open tabs, and pocket tips, all while Steve is still at the end of the bar, alone, nursing his beer and glancing at the door every time someone walks in, and every time when you see his shoulders slump, you start to feel a little bad.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen someone get stood up, but from what you know of Steve—which isn’t much, other than how your brother’s kid Nicky is constantly talking about how cool his baseball coach is—it seems kinda shitty that it happened to him.

Nicolette—the bar manager—pops out around 8:30 to give you your mandated 15 minute break, and instead of heading into the back, you head over to Steve.

“Hey, Coach,” you say, leaning on the bar near him, and he glances up at you, clearly thrown by what you’ve called him.

“I—do I know you?” he asks, trying to place you.

You reach below the bar to grab another Bud for him, plunking it down and uncapping it. He takes it without question as you answer, giving him your name. “I’m Nicky’s aunt. He’s on your baseball team.”

“Oh! Nicky, yeah,” Steve says, smiling. “He’s a good kid.”

“He loves you,” you say, and Steve gives you a smile.

“He might be the only one,” he jokes, and swigs the beer.

You bite your lip, because that just about confirms what you already know, but you can’t help yourself.

“Stood up?”

He huffs a laugh. “Looks like it.”

“What time was the date?”

“8,” he replies, holding out his arm to let his sleeve pull up over his wrist, then crooking his elbow to read the face of his watch. “She’s a little late.”

“Maybe she forgot about daylight saving time,” you say, and to your credit, he does crack a smile.

“So you think maybe she’ll walk in at 9?”

You shrug, taking him in. He’s handsome, for sure; you can’t imagine why anyone would not show up for a date with him. He seems nice, normal—and he was even early for the date. Pretty good first impression, as far as you were concerned.

“Well, if she doesn’t show, that second beer’s on me, ok?” you say, and Steve shakes his head.

“No, I couldn’t—”

“I gave it to you without asking,” you insist. “Don’t worry about it, those frat guys tipped me enough that I won’t even miss the couple bucks. Promise.” You hold out your pinky on a whim, and Steve looks from your face down to your hand.

“You want to pinky promise?”

“Why not?” you ask, grinning, but you are starting to feel a little stupid. “Come on, don’t stand me up too.”

And maybe it’s too soon to joke with him like that, maybe you overstepped, but he links his pinky with yours and gives your hand a shake.

“Thanks,” he says. “For the beer.”

“Any time,” you say, drawing your hand back, and then slipping away, behind Nicolette to head into the back room, taking the last 10 minutes of your break to actually sit down.

&&

When you emerge from the staffroom, Steve is gone from the bar. His second beer bottle is still there, mostly full, and when you tap back in with Nicolette, the first thing you do is go to clean up his spot. There’s a lull at the bar—the frat guys are by the pool table, the group of business men getting way too drunk with no consequences since tomorrow is the weekend are at their table with full pints, and the women over by the jukebox who are dressed way younger than they actually are (and killing it, you think), are mostly all leaving you alone. Nicolette really took care of business while you were resting your feet, though she’s still covering the bar, since your shift is over in less than an hour.

You pick up Steve’s half-empty beer and toss it, picking up the cardboard beer mat wiping his spot down, cleaning it for the next patron who wants to occupy the corner seat at the bar. And just as you toss the rag over your shoulder, you see Steve stepping out of the men’s room. You freeze—you technically just threw a patron’s drink away, but also, he didn’t pay for it, so it was sort of your drink. Kinda.

You catch him as he starts to walk back over to the bar.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he says. “Yes, I’m still very much stood up.” He laughs.

You laugh too, but shake your head a little. “I thought you left. Sorry. I tossed your beer.”

“What?” Steve says, putting on a little too much distress for it to be entirely genuine. “Not my free drink that I didn’t really even want. How could you?”

“Ok, shut up,” you say, glancing back at the bar, but Nicolette is shaking a martini, about to pour it, and there’s only one of the frat guys waiting, so you figure you can just let her handle it while you chat with Steve for a minute. It’s not that you pity him—it’s just that you had to see such a fine specimen go home alone on such a nice evening.

“I was about to head out anyway, actually,” Steve says, though when you shift a little to the side to block him, he hesitates. He doesn’t speak, he just waits for you to say something.

“Well, I get off around 9:30,” you say, glancing up at him. His eyebrows lift just a little, almost disappearing beneath his fringe. “If you wanted to maybe… actually get to have a drink with someone.”

“With you?” he asks, very clearly shocked, and you let yourself smirk, just a little.

“No, with the other blind date I have for you in the back. Yes, with me,” you say, laughing a little, and he looks around the room like maybe someone is pranking him, like he can’t believe a cute, obviously younger woman is hitting on him. Which maybe, in this moment, is a little unbelievable to him, since he did just get blown off by someone.

“Are you—is this like a pity thing? Because I’ve been in this position before,” he says, and then cringes like maybe he shouldn’t have divulged that. “I just mean, I’ll get over it.”

“But you look so put together right now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at Nicolette, who’s got a line of shot glasses set out, ready for the frat guys, which means she isn’t paying attention to you and can’t get on you for flirting with a customer. You reach out for the sides of his jacket, tugging them down and flattening them over his chest. “Would just hate to see all your effort go to waste.”

Steve gives you a faint smile and opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“It’s not a pity thing,” you say, stepping a little closer, so you can talk a little quieter but he can still hear you, and when you speak your voice is a little husky, laced with obvious interest in him. “It’s me reaping the benefits of someone else’s fuck up.”

Steve barks a quiet laugh, like he can’t believe his luck, and then covers your hands with his and gently prises them off his jacket. “Well, I guess when you put it like that…”

“Stick around,” you say, pointing to a table off in the corner, by the jukebox and the payphone. “I’ll come find you once I clock out.”

“Done deal,” Steve says, and you grin at him, give him a wink, and then take your place back behind the bar with Nicolette, who definitely side eyes you but says nothing. And when 9:35 rolls around and you finish wiping the bar, stacking used glasses, and carrying the tub of empties down to the basement, you re-emerge no longer on the clock and free to engage with Coach Steve as you see fit.

You slip behind the bar again, grab a bottle of Bud for Steve (in case he wants this one), mix up a lemon drop for yourself, pouring it into a martini glass while Nicolette rolls her eyes at you, and then thread through the throngs of people to find Steve flipping through the records in the jukebox, the table you’d specified for him abandoned.

“Hey, Coach,” you call to him, and he turns toward you, clearly amused that you keep calling him by his job title.

“What if I called you bar girl?” he replies, as he slides into the seat opposite you, picking up the beer that you place in front of him.

“Better than beer wench,” you quip, and he laughs, lowering the bottle from his lips because if he’d drunk any sooner, he’d have absolutely done a spit take on you.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Beer wench has such a nice ring to it.”

“Coach Steve and beer wench,” you say, sipping your cocktail, then sighing at the bright pop of citrus, the cool drink and the zing from the lemon cutting through the thick air of the bar, the tension of working a weekend shift melting away. “Sounds like the world’s shittiest superhero duo.”

“Yeah,” he says, “they sort of contradict, don’t they?”

“Well, they say opposites attract,” you reply, meeting his eyes over the rim of your glass, and he holds your gaze.

“They do say that,” Steve says.

The conversation ends for a few moments, both of you sipping your drinks in silence while Steve picks up one of the cardboard coasters and reads the names of the beer brands off of it in silence. Then, he looks up at you, and the conversation actually picks up again.

He asks you about working here, if you went to school. If you’re older or younger than Nicky’s mom—oh, his dad, you’re his dad’s sister. You ask how he got the job coaching baseball, since you remember seeing his name on swim trophies in Hawkins High and saw him in the basketball team photo in your brother’s yearbook. You laugh when he tells you horror stories of teaching sex ed, and then almost spill your drink when he repeats some of the questions he gets from the kids.

“I mean, my brother told me stories about King Steve,” you say, not noticing that his demeanor dampens slightly when you say that, because you’re still laughing a little too much, “but I didn’t know that qualified you to teach sex education.”

Steve huffs an unamused laugh, like he was having a good time and now, maybe, less so. “It’s—kind of just part of the gig. And really—there’s a whole book to follow, you know, for the curriculum. I’m just kind of there to answer questions. Help them make informed decisions.” He clears his throat. “Explain the menstrual cycle.”

“Oh,” you say, leaning over the table toward him, pulling out that same sultry voice you’d hit him with before but very obviously joking with him. “Please, talk to me about ovulation.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s amused, you can tell. “Well, that’s when an egg—” he starts to say, but you shriek with laughter and cut him off, and he laughs too, mostly at your reaction.

“To be honest,” you admit, elbows on the table, your fingers toying with the stem of your martini glass, “that’s kind of hot.”

Steve blinks. “Ov…ulation?”

“No!” you half-shout, laughing again, amused. “No. I mean—you knowing about that stuff. Like, generally. Most guys hear the word ‘period’ and have to leave the room.”

Steve shrugs. “I, you know. Kids have questions. If they like Coach Steve enough to ask questions, I need to know what to tell them.”

“So Coach Steve has dethroned King Steve,” you say, reaching across the table to play with his jacket again, and that’s the moment Steve decides: Fuck it.

“King Steve’s still around sometimes,” he says.

“Oh, is he?” you ask, leaving your hand on his chest, lifting your eyes up to his again. You’re not quite out of your seat to get nearer to him, but you’re close to it. “Like when?”

“Like now,” he says, a cocky smile curving his mouth up at one corner. “But I think—” He leans back from you, dislodging your hand from his front. “Don’t you think I’m a little too old for you?”

Your eyes narrow. “No,” you say, indignantly. “I’m just as much an adult as you are.”

“I know,” Steve says, “but—”

“I work in a bar. I went to college—I don’t appreciate being condescended to.”

“I’m not—”

“Aren’t you?”

Steve pauses, actually considering it. “I didn’t think so, no.”

You study him; he looks apologetic, sheepish. “Bring back Coach Steve,” you say. “I liked him better.”

He laughs, almost like he’s relieved you didn’t throw the remaining lemon drop cocktail into his face and stomp away. “Ok. Done.”

“Do you want another beer?” you ask, draining the rest of your drink and putting the glass to the side.

“No,” Steve says. “I have to drive home.”

“Right,” you say. “Now?”

Another smile twitches at his lips, but he suppresses it. “No. I’d rather keep talking.”

“We can talk in your car,” you say, and maybe it’s a little forward, but Steve doesn’t even flinch.

“Talking in my car,” he says, nodding like he’s thinking about it. “Novel concept. Can’t say I’ve ever done much of that when I have a woman with me.”

“King Steve not a conversationalist?”

“Not so much,” he says, then bites the inside of his cheek. You watch him, wondering what he wants to say, because it has to be something good if he’s waffling about saying it. “He’s—no, nevermind.” He laughs to himself.

“No, what?” you press him. “You have to say it now, come on.”

“No, no,” he says, waving it away and lifting the beer bottle to his mouth to take a short sip. “It’s a bad joke.”

“I love bad jokes.”

Steve levels you with a look, but you stare straight back. You hold his eyes, not blinking, and finally, you win out. “Jesus Chr—fine. I was going to say—” He heaves a small sigh. “I’m not really a conversationalist, but I’m something of a cunning linguist.”

You laugh again, loud, drawing even Nicolette’s attention, and she’s long since learned to drown out raucous laughter from bar patrons. “That’s filthy,” you comment, but you’re laughing. “I almost want to make you prove it.”

“No you don’t,” Steve says, looking down, away from you.

“I do,” you say, leaning over the table again, and this time, you are out of your seat. “I want Coach Steve to treat me the way King Steve would.” Your face is awfully close to his now, the lemon lingering on your tongue mixing with the cloying scent of the beer left in his bottle.

“I don’t know if either of us are ready for that,” Steve says. “Mostly me.”

You don’t pull back. “I think you can handle it.” A smirk plays at your lips.

He tips back a little in his chair, looking up at you, and finally—his smirk matches yours.

&&

He wants to go back to your apartment—so you’ll feel more comfortable, he says, in your own space—and the only reason you allow it is that your roommate is away for the weekend, her cousin’s wedding in Indianapolis with her parents. The second the door closes behind you both, you’re on him, your hands on his arms, holding him close, and he just laughs a little at how eager you are, at how a potentially shitty evening turned into one that’s not half bad.

You don’t lean up to kiss him, not until he wraps his arms around you, hands settling on your lower back, and then you’re rising up onto your tiptoes to close the distance between your mouths, and his lips are soft while the stubble around them is just a little scratchy, in the best possible way. You let him lick into your mouth, his hands remaining respectfully on your lower back, until you tug at his jacket, pushing it down and off of him, letting it fall to the floor as you tug him forward by his button-down shirt, back against you, back into you.

“Where do you want me?” you ask, and Steve has half a mind to tell you to slow down, take a breath, go easy—but then he startles a little as your hand moves to cup him through his jeans and he remembers the way his hook ups used to go, back when he was your age, when everyone was uninhibited and unrestrained and wanton and needy. And so he rolls his hips into your hand, presses his lips against yours and lets himself go.

“Bed too old fashioned for you, bar girl?” he asks, breaking the kiss to do so.

Giggling against his lips, you kiss him back before replying. “Not really.”

He takes a step forward, not moving you but so he can brace himself as he lifts you up with strong arms, letting you wrap your legs around his waist as he moves toward the hall where he hopes—god, imagine if he walked the wrong way through your apartment?—your bedroom is.

You reach out about halfway down the hall, gesturing to one of the doors, and Steve enters your room, crossing to the bed and laying you down gently on it. He’s about to push you back, cover your body with his, when you just sit up and start stripping, tugging off your sleeveless blouse and unbuttoning your jeans, undressing to your underwear before he can even suggest he wanted to be the one to take your clothes off. But—his eyes are roving over you, your impatience a little bit of a compliment, a boost to his ego, that you want him so badly you can’t wait any longer.

Steve unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it off and then reaches out to you, taking hold of your elbow as you stretch your arms back behind you to unclasp your bra.

“Let me,” he says, and you stop, leaning back on your hands instead, watching him as he undresses to his underwear too—and then just goes all the way, pushing down his briefs and baring himself to you. He’s not as slender as he was in high school on his athletic teams—he’s got little love handles now, thick thighs, a little pudge at the navel, and, god, ok—he’s long even soft. You stare, unable to help yourself, and as you do, you watch as his cock twitches once, then twice, under your scrutinization.

“Yeah?” he asks, and the way it comes back to him is like muscle memory, the showboating for a girl, the cocky attitude, the way he’d act all proud and smug because he knew exactly what he was offering—and he knew that he could back it up, too. One of his hands lowers to his cock, stroking it a little, watching you watch as he does, thumb curling over the head.

“Yeah,” you echo, absently, and then Steve’s closing the distance between the two of you, reaching for your hands, taking them and pulling you to stand, front flush with his, cock poking the front of your thigh as he kisses you again, hungry, desperate, sated, hands skimming over your back as he undoes your bra and slides it down over your arms. He drops it to the carpet and cups your tits in his hands, rubbing over your nipples with his thumbs, feeling them perk up beneath his touch as he kisses you. Your arms come to rest around his neck, tongues sliding together as you deepen the kiss and press yourself tight against him.

Steve lets his hands move down to your waist, feeling your body as he lowers them over your sides, tracing your hips, the waistband of your panties where it rests, and then he pushes those down too, sliding them over your hips and thighs, letting them drop to the floor too.

He breaks the kiss—pulls back—and you feel yourself clench up as he looks first at your face, then lets his gaze roam down, over your body, your tits and your bellybutton and your hips, settling on the sweet spot between your legs, before rising right back to your face.

“You’re really,” Steve says. “You’re so—beautiful.” It’s not a line, it’s not just flattery—he means it. You can tell.

“Not so bad yourself, Coach,” you say, and he chuckles quietly, stepping close to you again, taking your waist with one hand and your face in the other, licking at the seam of your lips before he moves you backward, easing the backs of your legs against the side of your mattress, and then without any further words, he guides you back down to sit on the bed, and lowers himself to his knees in between your legs.

You spread your thighs for him, as wide as you can, letting him fit his broad shoulders between them as he hooks his hands beneath your legs, tugging you closer to the edge of the mattress, letting you hang off, just a little, just enough that he can rest your thighs on his shoulders and nose in between them.

Pushing yourself up so you can watch, you card your fingers through his hair as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, just so you know to expect him.

And then, his mouth is on your folds and your head falls back, because—yeah. He’s good.

His tongue moves against you, impish almost, teasing, finding your clit with ease and just as quickly abandoning it, leaving you whining for more even though he’s just barely started and you can’t possibly be that worked up yet. Except you are, and you tell him so; not with words, but with your body, flexing your thighs on his shoulders to push cunt up into his face. And Steve doesn’t pull back, doesn’t shy away—he just doubles down, pressing his face more firmly into you, letting his tongue delve into your wet slit as he laps at you from the inside, sucking at your folds as he pulls away and licks your arousal from his face.

“More?” he asks, and you whimper, because this feels so fucking incredibly good, but you saw him—all of him—and part of you wants that more than you want to come twice. You want to feel him filling you, want to feel him fucking into you deep and stretching you around him.

“No,” you say, then, “yes, just—”

He pulls away, looking up at you, waiting for you to instruct him.

“Fuck me,” you finally decide, and he leans in for one more taste—he sucks your clit into his mouth, rubbing it with the tip of his tongue—before extricating himself from your legs and pushing himself up, hands on either side of your hips, leaning over you. His cock is half-hard, bobbing a little as he moves, and you look down your body at him.

Your breath catches and, without thinking, you reach down a shaky hand, sliding it between your legs, and spread your folds apart for him. “Fuck me,” you say again, and Steve does look down at you for a moment, the way you’re wet and waiting for him, the way your fingers are framing your slit, an open invitation.

“Not without a condom, bar girl,” he says, and you whine but use your free hand to gesture at your nightstand, rubbing your palm flat over your pussy as Steve leaves you to go look where you indicated.

He finds one—rolls it on—and is back between your legs before you can even start wanting friction back on your clit. You pull your legs up as you shimmy back a little on the bed, giving him room to situate one knee on the edge, propping your thigh up over his hip, as he holds his cock steady, palm landing onto the mattress beside you. You still your hand, using your index and ring fingers to pull your lips apart again, letting your middle finger tease your slit before he angles the head of his cock against it, and you sigh at the feeling of it, the weight of him against your cunt before he’s even moved inside.

And when he does—you inhale sharply. The stretch is good—you feel it so acutely—and then he’s pushing in further, past the head, his fingers against yours as he feeds it into you, slow and steady, feeling your walls flutter all around him as he takes you, one long, gradual movement.

You loose the breath you were holding as he enters you fully, and then he meets your eyes, waiting for the go-ahead before he starts to move. Before he starts to fuck you.

“Fuck me,” you implore him for the third time, and so he does, obeying you as he pulls back and then fucks back in—you moan, loudly, uncontrollably loudly as he starts to move in earnest, feeling you wrapped tight and hot around him, his cock pistoning in and out of you, your pussy sucking him back in, the sound of him entering you again and again making you shiver. Your hand is still down between your legs, so you move it up to rub at your clit, already swollen and throbbing, pressing hard up against your fingers as Steve moves into you below it.

“Feel good?” Steve asks, and you get the impression that it’s for you as much as for him, that he needs to know if you think so, that he needs the validation, and you wonder if that’s how he always was or if it’s a new development. If it’s because he cares, or because he got stood up, or some combination of all of those options.

“Feels so good,’ you mewl, and that makes him pick up the pace, his hips slapping into yours, hard and harsh and you need him to know you weren’t just saying that. It feels—he feels—fucking incredible.

“Steve,” you groan out, and that only seems to spur him on faster.

“That’s—right,” he stammers, lowering his mouth to your neck, kissing you there, licking over your pulse point and down to your collarbone. “Say—my name, come on—”

“Steve,” you moan, your free hand moving to his shoulder, his neck, rubbing over his chest and the thick patch of hair there. “Oh, god, Steve…”

Steve moves his mouth to yours, slowing his thrusts for a moment to pull his other leg up onto the bed, both knees on either side of your hips, your legs wrapping around him tight, thighs squeezing his waist, as he covers your body fully with his, practically folding you in half and you feel him even deeper when he starts fucking you again, his cock reaching every single inch of you; you’re so keenly aware of him inside of you, above you, around you, that you feel yourself already about to finish. You open your mouth against his, ready to speak right into the kiss, but he already knows, reading your body, picking up all of the tells you have.

“Close, baby?” he asks, and the pet name thrills you even more than you’re already feeling.

“Y-Yeah,” you manage.

“Good,” he half growls, his voice low. He’s so hard inside you—so fucking stiff, his pace brutal, satisfying, overwhelming. “Come for me, baby, that’s a good girl, go on.”

“Steve,” you cry, his name a choked-out sob; your fingers are moving over your clit, no semblance of a rhythm to be found, the back of your hand tickling his abdomen; you feel him clench up against it, feel him move into you and stop, feel his cock kicking inside you as he’s coming, filling the condom, and that—that is what pushes you over, too.

His name mixed with guttural whines and moans fall from your lips, the hand on his chest moving to the nape of his neck, pulling him down against you as you arch your chest up against him, breasts rubbing against his chest, feeling his chest hair on you, the soft press of his stomach on yours, and you come on Steve’s cock, hard, your walls tightening up around him, your cunt fucking spasming on his dick as your clit throbs against your fingertips, and Steve’s lips move over yours, not a kiss, not even really meaning for them to—and it takes you a moment to realize he’s speaking.

“—off you?”

“What?” you ask, tuning back in and meeting his eyes.

“I asked if you wanted me to get off you,” he says, just this side of amused.

“Oh,” you respond, though his question hasn’t really sunk in yet. After a moment, it does. “Yeah.”

Steve chuckles, giving the corner of your lips a kiss before he straightens up and pulls out of you, slowly, easing his cock free. You squirm a little as you feel his absence grow, and once you’re empty of him, you feel yourself gaping just a little before you close your legs. Even now, spent and tired, you want to feel him again. He rubs your thighs, helps you sit up.

“Need a hand?” he asks. “To the bathroom?”

You pause, then nod, and let him lead you across the hall with your hand in his. He leaves you in the middle of the room, stepping toward the door and closing it as he returns to the hall.

“Wait,” you say, and he pokes his head back in. “I usually shower after work.”

He smiles a little, nods. “Ok. Do you want me to wait…or head out?”

You shake your head.

Steve shakes his in return. “Then…”

“My legs are still all shaky,” you say. “You should probably…come make sure I don’t slip and fall.”

Steve opens his mouth to reply. Then, thinking better of it, he shuts it, steps into the bathroom, and closes the door behind both of you.

#steve weekend

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