đŠđđ˘đŤđ˘đ§đ : steve harrington x reader
đ°đ¨đŤđ đđ¨đŽđ§đ: 9.4k
đŹđŽđŚđŚđđŤđ˛: your boyfriend throws himself off a 200-foot tower to save you. and you've finally had enough.
đ°đđŤđ§đ˘đ§đ đŹ: established relationship, heavy angst, character analysis, switch!steve, hurt/comfort, pain kink, breeding kink, minor blood kink, choking (m!receiving), bondage (?), hate-sex adjacent, sex as coping, descriptions of blood/injury, fantasies about marriage/children, scars, ptsd, aftercare, fluff, bathing together, palm reading, happy ending
đ/đ§: out of everything I love about steve harrington, this is the thing that breaks my heart the most.
⌠¡ ¡ ¡ ⌠¡ ¡ ¡ âŚ
âYouâre such a fuckingâidiotâassholeââ
How do you love a man who would die for you, but wonât live for you?
ââselfish dick!â Â
You slam back into him before the sentence can finish breathing. Words shredded by teeth and tongue, by kisses hard enough to bruise. Bite hard enough, and maybe you can tear the martyrdom out from under his skin. Rip the halo off and snap it between your teeth.
You sink your cuspids into his bottom lip, right over a split that had barely scabbed over on the drive home.
You feel it tear back open. Feel the plush give of it, the hot burst of copper that blooms across your tongue. Metallic and thick, his life slides down your chin in a slow ribbon of red. It smears between your mouths when you grind closer, staining your skin, marking you both.
He makes a sound.
And itâs not anything born out of painâyouâd know.Â
Deep and guttural, dragged up from somewhere starved. His hands clamp around your waist, fingers digging into your ass as he hauls you flush against him. Denim rasps against the inside of your thighs when he rolls his hips up, grinding into you.
That thick, heavy bulge makes itself known, humiliatingly honest.
Blood in his mouth. Dirt under his nails and the sour, rotten tang of that other place still caked in his hair.Â
And heâs hard.
Something in him is broken that way.
Years of surviving by the skin of his teethâbeaten and concussed and tortured and choked and drowned and devouredâitâs fucked up the wiring in Steve Harringtonâs brain.
Pain tolerance shot to hell. Fear braided with dopamine until his nervous system canât tell the difference anymore.
Getting hurt no longer scares him.
Now, agony comes hardwired with clarity. That split second before impact, when adrenaline screams through his veins and heâs teetering on that razor-sharp edge of death, thatâs when he feels most alive.
Your thumb presses into the fresh cut on his lip, smearing his blood back into it. His lashes flutter. His hips jerk up, rutting against you like youâre fucking him.
You grab his jaw, fingers digging into the sharp hinge to force his gaze down to yours. His pupils are blown impossibly wide; barely any color left, drowned beneath an endless wash of black.
âYeah?â you whisper, venom-sweet. You drag your thumb down his throat, feel the jut of his Adamâs apple jump under your touch. âDoes that feel good?â
He nods.
Doesnât even have the decency to look ashamed. Whatever scrap of self-preservation heâd once possessed hollowed out by hungerâby that sick, reckless void inside him that only ever seems to ignite after heâs survived something that should have killed him.
A cruel cosmic coin toss that keeps landing in his favorâand instead of gratitude, it leaves him burning for more.
You lift your knee and press your thigh into the seam of his pants. He sucks in a sharp breath through blood-slick lips, head tipping back, throat bared.
You despise it.
You despise that this is the language his body understands. That he can shove you out of the way without a second thoughtâdangle over two hundred feet of empty air because he decided your life was worth more than hisâand still get hard when you hurt him for it.
You drag your bloody thumb to your mouth and suck it clean, eyes never leaving his.
He watches you do it, watches your lips wrap around the pad of your finger to taste, to swallowâswallow his blood like itâs yours, like heâs yours, like the world could never take him from you. Â
Like he hasnât already tried to give himself away.
Only this time... it was for you, wasnât it?
Hurled himself into the abyss without hesitation, fingers scraping at metal while the yawning darkness waited below.
One second slower. One fraction of a heartbeat, andâ
Your palms slam into his shoulders.
Just like his had slammed into yours.
Bile surges up your throat as you claw at muscle and bone, shoving and shoving until his balance falters.
He stumbles back, heel catching on the edge of the bed. Momentum betrays him for a second time and he falls back onto the mattress with a startled grunt. Â
Your stomach falls with him. Phantom vertigo clawing up your spine, even now.
And the moment you close your eyesâ
Youâre standing on top of that tower.
You remember the look on his face.
That awful, quiet resolve of someone who had already made peace with his fate.
You remember his hands on your shoulders. The firm press of his fingers, the way he held on just long enough to make sure you were steady, to make sure you were far enough away.
Far enough that you couldnât reach him.
Far enough that you would live.
And then he let go.
You remember the force of it careening you backward, your boots scraping against the metal platform as you fought for balance. You remember the cold bite of the railing against your back. You remember watching him move in the opposite direction, his own momentum carrying him toward the open edge.
You remember his hand shooting out on instinct, searching for anything that would keep him there. His palm scraping against rusted steel, leaving streaks of red behind as his fingers curled desperately around the railing.
The same hands that had pushed you away.
The same hands that had held yours on the way up, guiding you over every rung of that ladder when the height made your stomach twist.
You remember his mouth opening like he might say somethingâyour name, maybeâa goodbye, something he needed you to knowâbut all that came out was a broken, ragged breath.
You remember the color draining from his face as he looked down, the terrible understanding settling in his eyes.
You remember lunging for him without thought.
You remember Robinâs arms locking around your waist, holding you back so tightly it bruised, her grip the only thing keeping you from following him over the edge.
And then his fingers slipped.
You stalk toward him now, trying to outrun the memory, fists clenched so tight your nails carve crescents into your palms.
Heâs sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving, arms flung wide in surrender.
âWhy?â you demand, climbing over him, straddling him with an anger so raw it shakes your whole body. âWhy the fuck would you do that?â
He lets out a quick breath through his nose, incredulous. Raises his brows like youâre the insane one.
âSeriously? Youâre seriously asking me that.â
Heâs smiling.
A crooked, boyish thing, manic brightness behind the eyes, adrenaline still lighting him up from the inside out. Â
It detonates something in you.
You slam your weight down on him, knees digging hard into his sides. The mattress groans, the air punching out of his lungs in a sharp grunt.
You fist the hem of his shirt and yank it up.
The sight underneath steals your air right back.
It never gets easier to see.
Bruises bloom fresh and vicious across his ribs, inky purples bleeding into sick reds. New hurt swallowed by old hurt, skin that never gets the chance to heal clean before something tears it open again.
Jagged crescents from teeth, ropes of pale, warped ridges that split the tan of his skin like fault lines, ready to crack him open. That chunk of puckered flesh on his right side that never healed rightâand it never will. Â
Your fingers drag down the center of his chest, shaking.
âWhat was the plan this time, hm?â you spit, nails scraping over the soft plane of his stomach, catching on one of the scars. âWhat was the fucking plan, Steve?â
You hook your fingers into his belt buckle and rip it loose, hard enough that the metal clangs against itself.
âAnswer me. What would you have done ifâif Jonathan didnât catch you? If you slipped?â
His head falls back, exposing the flushed column of his throat, pulse hammering wild and alive under skin youâve kissed a hundred times.
âWhat the hell was I supposed to do?â he pants. âLet you fall?â
âYou didnât know I was gonna fall!â
âWell I wasnât gonna fucking wait to find out, alright?â Â
The mattress groans when he pushes himself upright too fast, pain flashing across his face before he buries it immediately, one hand flying to his ribs on instinct.
âI canât... Iâm not gonna just stand there and wait for something to happen to you.â
Your body goes still. Â
The bright sting behind your eyes arrives right on cue, the fury choking off in your throat until all thatâs left is grief.
âYou know,â you whisper, quieter now. âYou know Iâm not just talking about the tower.â
Thereâs a moment of recognition in his eyes as the words sink in, a flash of something that might be guilt if he ever let it sit long enough.
He knows exactly what you mean.
Then, just as fast, he shutters himself. Lets the feeling die before it can root.
His gaze slides away toward the ceiling.
âNo, donât... donât do that,â he mutters. âDonât make this into some... suicidal thing. It wasnât.â
âWasnât it?â
âNo.â
âYou couldâve died tonight.â
âBut I didnât.â
âThatâs not the fucking point!â
âWell what do you want me to say?â he fires back suddenly, frustration cracking his voice. âThat Iâm sorry I stopped you from falling?â
âI want you to stop acting like your life means less than mine!â
He clamps his mouth shut, an audible click of his molars as he frowns, incredulity settling behind his wide eyes. His brows pulling together as he stares at you like he canât understand why you could possibly be saying this.
Steve doesnât consciously believe his life matters less.
He would never say that.
But somewhere deep downâin the ugly marrow of him, in the abandoned, lonely places built inside him when he was a kidâhe believes it instinctively.
Youâve known that for a long time now.
Steve grew up starving.
Not for food.
For affection. Â Â
A reason to believe he mattered even when there was nothing he could offer except himself.
Love, in the Harrington house, was conditional.
And at Hawkins High, he traded one kind of emptiness for another.
Built himself a throne out of borrowed attention and hollow praise.
Then the world ended, and suddenly everybody needed him.
Needed his fists, his strength. Needed the frightening way he could take hit after hit after hit and still stand back up bleeding.
Steve latched onto that feeling with both hands.
And his body became a type of offering.
A thing to spend.
Youâve lost count of how many nights ended exactly like this.
Both of you stumbling back home, adrenaline clawing through your veins, slick with sweat and bloodâyours or his, it doesnât matter anymore. Shaking so hard your teeth chatter while you scream at him, fists slamming into his chest.
Screaming and shoving and crying and kissing and beggingâbegging him to please, please stop being so fucking careless with your life. Whatâs the point of any of this shit if youâre dead, Steve?    Â
It always ends the same way. Your anger dissolving into something wetter as Steve reaches for your waist with bruised hands, dragging you against him, mouthing apologies into your throat heâll never say aloud. Fucking you on top of bloodstained sheets while the smell of iron hangs thick in the room, face buried in your neck, every thrust a word he won't say.
Sorry.
Iâm sorry.
Iâm sorry.
You stare at him now, chest heaving, lungs scraping for air that wonât come.
Then you reach down and pull his wrists together.
The leather creaks when you thread his belt around them.
Loop, thread, pull, cinch.
Survival knots perfected in the dead of night, in basements and back rooms, hands slick with sweat while you practiced until it stuck. So when the time came, you could hold down something thrashing and dangerous.
Because hesitation is what gets people killed.
It makes sickness crawl up your throat, how naturally your body remembers.
How this world has taught you to restrain someone you loveâand taught you well.
You yank his arms above his head, the strap biting into his skin, pulling tight until the leather creaks and his skin pales underneath.
Steve doesnât fight it, doesnât even try. Just lets his head fall back against the pillows, wrists falling limp over dark linens.
Has the fucking audacity to smile.
âWhat,â he breathes, wrecked in an entirely different way now. âYou gonna punish me?â
You yank the belt tighter.
He hisses softly through his teeth, brows creasing in a fake show of pain, hips stirring in anticipation.
âOkay, easy, easy,â he mutters breathlessly, grin crooked. âJesusâeasy, honey.â
âOh, so now Iâm honey?â
You shove his wrists harder into the pillow, then drop your hands to his pants, fingers rough and impatient. The button fights you before snapping loose, his zipper dragged down with a harsh metallic rasp. He sucks in a breath, back arching as the pressure eases off his swollen cock.
âBaby...â he tries, a soft laugh in his voice. âCâmon, you donât have to, justââ
âShut up.â
You shove him back into the mattress, gaze burning furiously through him.
He just stares back, that reckless, adrenaline-drunk smile still clinging to him like he hasnât learned a single fucking thing.
So you wrap your hand around his throat.
Four fingers digging into warm, sweat-slick skin. Your thumb presses into the hollow beside his windpipe until you can feel it.
The frantic thump-thump-thump of life.
Life he throws around like loose change.
âS-shit, babe...â he chokes softly, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back, the fucked-up wires in his brain firing off all at once. He uses what little leverage he has to lift his hips, grinding against your ass until you tighten your grip, a crease of real strain forming between his brows as his breath snags under your palm.
But even then, he doesnât push you away. His bound hands strain downward, fingers grasping uselessly at your wrist, tugging you forward so he can get you closer, grind up harder.
You hate him.
You love him so much it makes you violent.
And heâs still fucking bleeding.
Face covered all over in fresh cuts and bruises, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the dinosaur nightlight in the cornerâsame one heâs had since he was five.
This bed once held your first kiss.
Your first time.
Steve laughing breathlessly into your mouth at sixteen years old because he kept fumbling the condom wrapper with nervous hands.
Whispered promises under blankets about senior year and college.
A hundred different somedays and maybes.
About a future that didnât look like thisâdidnât include gates or monsters or watching the boy you love come within inches of disappearing, over and over again.
Now youâre choking him in it. Â
Straddling him with your hand around his throat because you donât know how else to make him understand that you cannot survive loving somebody who keeps choosing death.
It wonât leave you alone, the image of his face on top of that tower.
Not an inch of hesitation.
Like it wouldnât have mattered, either way.
Your other hand comes up, circling his throat fully now, pressing in.Â
Your eyes sting as you narrow them, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.
Barely a whisper, the words cut you on their way out.
âFuck you.â
Some days you think about killing him yourself.
Ending it before the world gets to.
Precipitate the inevitable doom that is loving a man who would bleed for you, break for you, die for youâ
But wonât live for you.   Â
At least it would be quick, then.
At least you wouldnât spend the rest of your life waiting for the inevitable moment where his luck finally runs out.
Itâs unbearable.
Loving someone who would move mountains to keep you alive, but cannot understand why youâd want the same for him.
Calm in the face of oblivion, martyrdom fits him like a second skin.Â
Thatâs what terrifies you most.
Because somewhere deep down, you know he doesnât fear death the way he should. The way a normal person would.
Sometimes, you think a part of him finds peace in the idea of going out useful.
And itâs all so completely, irreparably fucked, because you donât love him despite it.
You love him because of it.
Loving Steve Harrington feels like standing on a fault line, waiting for the ground to split wide and swallow you whole.
Itâs a special, exquisite kind of torture, to be so in love with a man who throws himself at death like itâs a dare. Â
And it is love, undeniably and irrevocably so.
You love him.
By god, you love him. Â
Because his martyr complex is just a twisted language for devotion. When he throws himself into danger, you know it isnât bravadoâitâs instinct. A reflex burned into his bones, older than logic, older than fear.
Love is the only language Steve Harrington has ever been fluent in, and he speaks it with his whole body. Â
It turns his skin into armor, his heart into a blade. Sharp enough to carve permanent lines inside youâwounds that might close, someday, but never fade.
And he really does believe it.
That this is what it looks like, loving somebody.
But what good is devotion if it buries you?
What good is love from someone six feet under?
Your hand loosens around his throat, just enough for him to drag in a ragged breath. His chest heaves under you, pulse still racing against your palm.
His Adamâs apple bobs, sending ripples of light over the pale rings circling his neck, thin and white against his flushed skin. Scars that still have him jerking awake some nights, clawing at his own throat, gasping like heâs still back there.
Nightmares that leave him staring at the ceiling until four in the morning because every time he closes his eyes, he sees vines threading around broken bodies. Migraines that get so bad after trips to the Upside Down he has to sit alone in dark bathrooms, forehead pressed against cool tile, breathing through the nausea until the room stops tilting.
His hands still reach for a nail bat when the house creaks at night, before he's even fully awake.
Fear has never made him run. It only ever taught him to step forward.
And the tear you've been holding back all night finally slips free, landing on his bare stomach with a soft, awful plop.
Steve flinches like itâs acid, muscles clenching underneath you.
âBaby...â
You let go of his neck fully as you sink back onto his thighs, fingers gone numb, teeth digging into your lip until copper floods your mouth.
âYou didnât even hesitate.â
You watch as his expression immediately sobers, brows drawing together, eyes flicking between yours.
âY-you never do. You never fucking hesitate,â your breath starts coming in tight hitches, catching in your chest. âAnd itâs likeâitâs likeââ
The rest of the words slip free, torn loose now that everythingâs exposed, out there in the open, your handprint around his throat and his wrists bound in leather.  Â
â...Itâs like you donât even care if you leave me here.â
Steve goes silent for a moment, shoulders slumping with a quiet breath.   Â
You watchâeyes burning, body tremblingâas he slowly reaches for you. The leather belt creaks as his wrists slide down until his fingers brush yours. Â
You feel the metal burns on his palms against the back of your handâhis skin split from gripping the railing so hard he tore himself open just to keep from falling. Â Â
He whispers your name on a soft breath.
âBaby, if I ever lost you?â He shakes his head faintly. âThatâd be it for me.â
You sniff hard, refusing to blink.
âI mean it.â Light pools in his eyes, trembling along the lower lashes until they glimmer like wet glass. âIâd never⌠Iâd never leave you behind. How could I?â
He closes his fingers gently around your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse.
âI love you. More than... more than anything. You know that.â
You lift your gaze slowly to meet his.
âDo I?â
Two words, but itâs the ugliest thing youâve said all night.
It's suffocating, the silence that follows.
âDo you ever think about us? About me?â
Because thatâs what this is really about, isnât it?
For all the names youâve thrown at him in your worst momentsâreckless, stubborn, idiot, a selfish asshole with a death wishâ
Itâs you who feel selfish.
For wanting him to stay.
For wanting to keep him in a world that seems determined to take him first.
For wanting him to choose you over the next disaster that crawls out of the dark.
Because youâre terrified that when the moment comes, when itâs you or the world, he wonât have to think about it. That the world will always reach for him firstâand that one day, itâll win.
Or worse, that heâll choose you instead.
That heâll stop running toward danger because of you. That loving you will make him hesitate.
And youâll be the reason he changes. Â
The reason the world breaks.
Steveâs expression changes in a flash.
The belt creaks as he tries to sit up, a real wince cutting across his brow when his bruised ribs take the pressure. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, dragging himself upright.
âLook at me.â
You turn your head instinctively, but he follows.
âHey. Câmon. Look at me.â
Hazel burns molten in the dim light, the shine in them trembling.
âOf course I think about you,â he whispers, breathless. âYou donât think I think about you? Hey, hey, look at meâyouâre all I think about. Youâre in my head, all the time. Every fucking second.â
Your tears spill harder, falling freely now, dripping from your chin onto the dark brown fabric of his cargo pants, leaving small damp spots that bloom between you.
âEvery time something goes wrong, orâor Iâm thinking about doing something stupid, youâre there. First thing. Your face, your voice. Telling me to stop being an idiot, telling me to thinkâ"
You shake your head, a broken sound catching in your throat.
âAnd if I just stood there tonight,â he presses on, eyes locked on yours, brimming with tears but never flinching, âIf there was even a chance you could fall, and I didnât do anything?â
He swallows.
âI couldnât live with that. I mean it, honey. I couldnât.â Â Â Â
A tear slips loose and slides down his own cheek. He doesnât wipe it away.
âBaby, I... I wasnât trying to die. I was trying to end this. All of it. So we donât have to keep doing this forever.â
His mouth twitches faintly.
âYou remember what we talked about? About college? That stupid road trip idea I had with the camper van?â He shakes his head, letting out a quiet laugh. âSix kids, right? Or... whatever insane number I said.â
His hands come up as much as the belt allows, clumsy from the strain in his shoulders, and cradle your face. His thumbs drag across the wet heat beneath your eyes, catching tears as fast as they fall, rubbing salt into flushed skin.Â
âThatâs the goal. Thatâs always been the goal.â
He leans forward until his forehead presses against yours.
For a long moment, he says nothing. His hands stay on your face, thumbs brushing softly over your skin, his breathing uneven in the small space between you.
Then, almost too quietly to hear:
âI wouldâve jumped with you.â
You recoil immediately, shaking your head hard, eyes squeezing shut.
âDonât. Donât fucking say that.â
Steve pushes on, voice low and terrifyingly calm.
âIf youâd fallen off that tower tonight, I wouldâve followed you.â
His thumb brushes under your eye again, catching another tear before it reaches your jaw.
âWouldnât even think about it. Iâd just go.â
âSteveââ
âIâd go.â
Your eyes snap open.
Those big, stupid hazel eyes bore into yours.
That stupid nose. Those stupid thick lashes and those stupid moles and those stupid lips.
And underneath all of it, that huge, catastrophic, stupid heart crammed inside a body that keeps throwing itself into danger like it doesnât belong to him.
Your chest aches just looking at him.
Youâve spent countless nights staring at Steve Harrington while he slept beside you, wondering if loving him would always feel like standing barefoot on train tracks.
Waiting.
Feeling the vibrations underneath your feet before the impact ever comes. Knowing that something massive and merciless will come racing toward you and there wonât be a damn thing you can do to stop it.Â
Sometimes youâd trace the slope of his nose with the back of your finger. Follow the shape of his eyebrows. The tiny scar under his chin from a T-ball game when he was six.
Youâd study the dip of his cupidâs bow, the soft curve of his lips as he breathed into his pillow, completely unaware of how thoroughly heâd ruined your life for anyone else.
And youâd torture yourself with the same impossible question.
If someone had stopped you before all of this, taken your face in both hands and said:
Here, this boy is going to become the center of your entire world.
He's going to make you laugh so hard your ribs hurt.
Heâs going to kiss you like youâre the last person on earth, and he's going to love you so completely you'll forget there was ever a version of yourself that existed before him.
He's going to look at you like you're the only thing worth finding at the end of the world.
Then one day, heâll start throwing himself in front of monsters and nightmares beyond comprehension.Â
He's going to throw himself off a tower without hesitating if it means you get to live.
Would you still choose him?
Would you still let him in, knowing one day he might not make it back?
Would you willingly hand your heart to someone who would protect it with his lifeâ
But never his own?
And even in the quiet space of that hypothetical, the answer had never changed.
You would.
Every fucking time.Â
âI love you,â the boy in front of you whispers.
The words slice straight through you, scraping against everything frayed raw inside your chest.
âShut up,â you breathe, eyes squeezing shut.
Because if he loved you, wouldnât he try?
Wouldnât he try?
âI love you.â
âSteve, s-stop.â
âI love you. Thereâs nothingânothingâthat matters to me more than you.â
âSteve, I swear to godââ
âYouâre it for me. And if it came down to it againââ
âPlease, stopââ
ââIâd choose to jump. Every time.â
It feels like a seam is splitting inside your chest.
Your breath caves firstâa sharp, stuttering inhale that catches in your lungs hard enough to hurtâbefore your body moves on instinct.
You surge forward, the mattress groaning beneath the force of it as you crash into him, fists tangling in the front of his shirt.
âFuck you,â you sob.
Steve sucks in a breath as you pound weakly at his chest, his restrained hands jerking uselessly between your bodies.
He canât hold you properly. Canât wrap his arms around you the way he wants to.
Still, he tries. Â
He shifts forward on the mattress, pulling you between his thighs. The leather around his wrists creaks when he strains to hook his arms around your waist.
You bury your face against his neck.
His entire body folds around yours, chest pressed flush against you so tightly you can feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat through his sternum, the uneven rise and fall of his lungs where your bodies are crushed together. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing hard through his nose.
âI know,â he murmurs hoarsely into your hair. âI know, baby. I know.â
âN-no, y-you donât,â you choke out.
Your hands claw at his shoulders hard enough to bunch the fabric beneath your fists. You need him closer. Closer than skin, closer than bone. If you could unzip his ribs and crawl inside his chest just to keep his heart beating yourself, you would.
âYou donât know,â you sob against his throat. âYou d-donât know what it f-feels likeââ
âHey,â Steve whispers shakily. âHey, câmon. Breathe for me, baby. Please.â
You curl tighter against him, fists twisting in the soft cotton of his shirt until your knuckles throb from the effort. The tears don't stop. They soak into the warm skin at the base of his neck, your breath catching against him in broken, uneven pulls until your throat burns and your ribs ache with every desperate inhale.
Steve gathers you as close as his battered body will allow. Every so often, he presses another lingering kiss into your hairline, your temple, the crown of your head, each one quiet enough to say what words can't.
âIâve got you, baby,â he murmurs into your hair. âM'right here, I got you. Not going anywhere.â Â
You let his words settle over you, one shaky breath at a time. The sobs begin to lose their violence, splintering into uneven hiccups that leave your chest sore and hollow.
When you finally pull back, it's only far enough to see him.Â
Your hand trembles when you lift it to his face.
Steve goes still as your fingertips ghost over the scrape on his cheek, tracing down the line of his jaw. He doesnât so much as flinch when your thumb brushes over the split in his lip, featherlight over the broken skin there.
The first kiss is soft.
Nothing like the frantic, bruising collision from earlier. Â
But itâs worse like this, somehow.
Wet with tears, with blood, salt and iron passed between soft, shaking kisses. Steve sighs into it, a trembling sound that vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head and follows you deeper. His nose nudges against your cheek, his kisses careful, almost hesitant in how tender heâs being with you.
And itâs funny, really.
How grief can change shape in the span of a heartbeat.
One moment it's lodged beneath your ribs like broken glass, your body still trapped on that radio tower, watching Steve disappear over the edge.
The next, it's here.
In the careful way he kisses you, the warmth of his breath against your mouth.
In the slow, wet drag of his tongue against yours, your fingers hooking into the open button of his pants. The zipper presses cold against the side of your hand before you push deeper, slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs.
Heâs already half-hard. Heavy and thick and burning hot against your palm, velvety-soft skin twitching when you wrap your fingers around him. The soft curl of hair at his base brushes against your knuckles when you adjust your grip.
He pants openly into your mouth as you slide your other hand into his hair, gripping tight, yanking his head back at the angle you want it. Â
Nose to nose, lips brushing even as youâre not kissingâonly sharing air and spit, slick between swollen mouths.
And your eyes stay open, watching him.
Darkened hazels and helplessly fluttering lashes, his is a face that will haunt every version of your future. The one you almost lost, the one youâre still begging the universe to let you keep.
âShow me.â
He blinks at your words, lips parted in soft pants.
âShow me how much you love me.â
He swears under his breath, eyes clenching shut. Â
âFuckâŚâ he groans, shaking his head slowly, side to side, grunting when you drag your thumb across the sensitive tip. âBaby, please... just untie me,â he pleads, straining against his binds again. âPleaseâfuckâlet me touch youââ
âNo.â
âPlease, babyââ
âNo,â you repeat, wrist rolling as you start to stroke him harder, feeling him swell fully in your grip.
He grunts, brows creased in pleasure as you continue to squeeze and glide your palm up and down his length, lips parted to keep kissing you in this obscene way, tongues sliding together in slow, wet strokes.
âGod, youâre so... so pretty when youâre mad, you know that?â He huffs against your mouth, almost a laugh, throat gone hoarse and dry from how hard heâs been panting.
âYou get this look like youâreâah, fuckâlike you might actually kill me.â
You squeeze your grip around his cock, dangerously tight.
âMaybe I should.â
Something catches in those soft hazel eyes, then.
Pinning you in place with nothing but their unblinking stare, almost unnervingly steady.
You watch, helpless, as he lifts his own hands up toward his mouth. He spits lewdly into the hollow of his right palm, shoving his waistband down just enough to free his cock, replacing your hand with his own. Â
Wrists still bound, he slicks himself in slow, wet strokes, eyes never leaving yours.
"Yeah?" he asks quietly. "You gonna punish me?"
He tips his chin up toward you, lashes nearly brushing your skin when he blinks.
âYou gonna use this cock, baby? Take it out on me?â
He uses what little range of motion he has to rub his tip up and down your glistening slit, obscene schlicks that fill the space between your breaths, spurred by the impatient grinds of your hips.
And the moment he pushes inside you, he breathes the words against your skin.
âI love you.â
His mouth swallowing your whimpers at the stretch of taking him this wayâno prep, no lube, just spitâyours, his, it doesnât matter anymore.
âI love you. I love you. Weâre... weâre gonna be okay, baby, I promise. Weâre gonna be okay.â
Your hands shake as you reach for the belt around his wrists, the buckle catching under your fingertips before releasing with a muted clink. He cups your cheeks as soon as it does, cradling your face, pressing his lips against yours.Â
âI love you,â he repeats against your mouth, over and over. âI love you. I love you.â
Grief really is a funny thing. Â Â
It burns until there's nothing left to consume
And the anger that had kept you upright for hoursâthe frantic, desperate need to make him understand how terrified you'd beenâbegins to crumble beneath the weight of what you almost lost.
Your strength gives out in increments. Your fingers slowly uncurl from his biceps, the crescents your nails pressed into his skin easing away. Your forehead finds the warm slope of his shoulder instead, eyes slipping shut as the last of the fight drains from your body.
You sag forward, soft whimpers and low groans exchanged between your lips as you rock back and forth on his cock, letting it fill up the hollowed-out places inside you.
And when you get too tired to do even thatâwhen your strength gives out, thighs trembling with the effort of lifting yourself up and sinking back downâheâs there to catch you.
One arm sliding securely around you as he eases you onto your back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under your fingertips as you wind your arms around his neck. You cling to him as he kisses you hard and deep, exchanging punched-out breaths as he starts up his thrusts with newfound fervor.
"Gonna marry you," he pants suddenly, stealing what little breath you have left.
You gasp against his mouth, caught between a disbelieving laugh and another sob. âSteveââ
âI mean it,â he insists, hips snapping into the mattress, barely pulling out before burying himself back in. âI-I want all of it. That house with the... the porch. That trip we keep talking about, in the camper van, andââ
His face screws up and he has to stop moving for a second, drawing in a shuddering breath.
âIâm gonna marry you andâfuckâgonna give you a baby.â Â Â
You choke on the words, a helpless sound catching in your throat as you cling to him, bruisingly tight.
âYeah?â He strokes your hair back, cupping the crown of your head with his palm. Smoothing the sweat-slick strands away from your face, thumb lingering at your temple as his eyes search yours. âYou want me to give you a baby?â Â
You nod into him, unable to find the words.
âHow many?â
His pace is unrelentingâthrusts hard enough that the bedframe is thudding repeatedly against the wall, hard enough that you know the wallpaperâs going to show it tomorrow. Â
âTell me,â he grunts, voice rough with emotion, like he needs to hear you say it out loud. âHow many?â
Sweat shining along his skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead, but he never once looks away.
âF-fuck, I donât...â you break on another sob, eyes clenching shut. âTwo. Maybe... maybe three.â
âThree,â he repeats to himself, and his hips snap a little sharper. âWhat about... what about four? Make it aâmm, fuckâmake it an even number.â
And itâs hardly newâthe kind of bullshit he spouts when youâre both this far gone, when adrenaline has burned through every last nerve and neither of you are thinking straight anymore. Heâs always been prone to making wild promises in the heat of the momentâspinning out impossible futures and reckless dreams, building an entire lifetime in the space of a few breathless minutesâjust to get you both off.   Â
But tonight, they donât feel like a fantasy at all.Â
âYouâd look so... so fucking pretty,â he pants, voice breaking. âPregnant with my kid. Jesus.â
âMm, close...â you whisper weakly, face scrunched at the unbearably mounting pressure in your lower stomach. Â
âYeah? Youâre close? You gonna come for me?â
You nod, burying yourself closer, clinging to him harder. âT-tell me again.â
âTell you what, baby?â
âThat you... that you love me.â
âFuck,â he groans, thrusts turning sloppy as he buries a loud groan against your lips. âI love you. Love you so fucking much. I donât even know what Iâd do without you. Iâshit, a-are you coming? Oh, fuck, thatâsâthatâs it. Thatâs my girl.â
Your orgasm hits hard and blinding. A broken groan ripping out of you as you clamp your thighs around his waist, mewling into his skin. You blink your eyes open just in time to see his gaze fixed on youâexpression reverent, chest heaving as he watches you shake underneath him.
And as you go to kiss him, feeling the labored grunts of his mounting pleasure against your lips, the weight of his breaths and the slick drag of his cock against your heatâ
When you press your lips to his and whisper for him to come inside you, make me yours Steve, get me pregnant, keep me, love me, stay with me, stay, stay, please fucking stayâ
When he presses inside all the way to the hilt and lets his own pleasure overtake himâ
You finally whisper the words back.
Three syllables against the enormity of what lives inside your chest.
Three syllables trying to hold every sleepless night and every quiet morning, every time you pressed your lips to the places on his body that hurt and wished that love alone could take his pain away.
They cannot carry it all.
They never could.
But when he closes his eyes and tips his forehead to yoursâhis weight melting against you as he presses an exhausted, dazed smile against your lipsâyou realize maybe the words donât have to hold it all.
Maybe he can feel the rest.
¡ ¡ ¡
The seal breaks with a sharp snap, the plastic ring splitting loose and skittering across the bathroom floor.
You turn the bottle over in your hand, staring at it for a moment.
Itâs the good kindâthe expensive kind stored in heavy glass, the label still clean. You havenât touched it since the day Steve brought it home months ago, back when you could still ask for things like Epsom salt and a box of chocolates at the general store without anyone looking at you like youâd lost your mind.
Heâd shown up at your door that afternoon grinning like an idiot, grocery store roses tucked under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand that clinked when he lifted it.
âThought we deserved something nice,â heâd said, holding up the bag with that stupid, proud little grin. âWe havenât done a proper date night in a while, right?â
But you hadn't used the bottle then.
You'd saved it.
For a night that felt right.
For a night where you werenât just surviving long enough to see morning.
Your hands shake a little as you tip the bottle now.
Pouring more than you should, watching the pale liquid ribbon into the rushing stream of water, swallowed by the force of it before slowly blooming back to the surface in soft, frothy bubbles.
The smell hits a second later. Sweet, heavy lavender that clings to the back of your throat, swirling with the clean heat of the water.
For a moment, you let yourself go back.
Back to the day Steve bought this because he wanted to take care of you. Because he wanted one normal night where you could both pretend the world hadnât changed.
A night where the biggest problem was what movie to put on.
Then, the sink creaks behind you.
You turn immediately, heart jumping. Â
Steveâs reflection is blurred in the mirrorâshoulders slumped, chin dipping toward his chest. Heâs got one hand braced against the counter, knuckles pale from how tightly heâs holding on. The other fumbles with an orange pill bottle.
âYou okay? You need help?â
He shakes his head. âNah, I got it.â
The words are automatic. Steveâs favorite answer to anything that worries you.
He tips a couple pills into his palm, fills the glass beside the sink, and swallows them down.
You watch his face tighten afterward, eyes squeezing shut as he waits for it to pass. His throat works hard, his whole body briefly tensing, muscles bracing against something that should have been painless.
You step closer, hands settling carefully on his arms as you turn him toward you.Â
He doesnât argue when you crouch in front of him.
You start with his shoes.
Fingers working at the laces, easing them loose before pulling them off one at a time. They hit the tile with a quiet thud. His socks peel off next. Then his pants, the buttons still undone. His briefs.
He stays silent through all of it, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder.
Itâs not much pressure, but you feel the way his weight leans into you, the slight sway when you shift back, like heâs having to constantly correct himself just to stay upright.
Helping him into the tub takes time. You stay close while he steps over the edge, one hand gripping your arm, the other braced against the wall.
Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself into the water.
The second it reaches his ribs, he hisses.
âShitââ
His head falls back against the tile, eyes squeezing shut as a sharp breath slips between his teeth. His hand tightens reflexively around your wrist.
Foamy water laps against his chest, darkening the hair across his sternum, rising and falling with each careful breath.
âToo hot?â you ask quickly, already reaching for the faucet.
He cracks his eyes open, shaking his head.
ââS perfect.â
You keep watching him, searching his face for the slightest sign that he's only saying it to spare you.
Then, little by little, the strain begins to loosen its grip.
The hard line of his jaw softens first, his fingers easing around your wrist. His shoulders sink another inch beneath the warm water, the tension slowly melting out of them as the heat works its way into his muscles.
His next breath comes easier. Then another.
After a long moment, his eyes drift open again.
They're hazy with fatigue, heavy-lidded and unfocused, but they find you where you're perched beside the tub, knees tucked against your chest.
He squints, mouth twisting into a petulant frown.
âWhat?â he murmurs. âYouâre not getting in?âÂ
A smile tugs at your lips. âYou want me to?â
He gives you a slow, incredulous lookâthe classic Steve Harrington stare.
âUh, yeah,â he mumbles, like itâs obvious. âHow else am I supposed to feel better?â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling as you stand.
Your hands arenât as steady as youâd like; you notice it more now, with nothing else to focus on.
You pull your shirt over your head, and immediately hear the quiet shift of water beside you, a soft slosh.
By the time you glance up, heâs already looking at you.
Sitting a little straighter than he was a moment ago, chin lifted despite the exhaustion pulling at him. Steam curls between you, softening the edges of his face, but his eyes never leave yours. They follow every movement with boyish concentration, fixed on you in a way thatâs not even pretending to be subtle.
You huff a quiet breath through your nose, fighting a smile as you tug the rest of your clothes off. Â
âSeriously?â
The corner of his mouth quirks, all innocence.
âWhat? Sue me.â Â
He shifts deeper into the tub, water rolling around him as he eases back, making room between his legs before patting the space in front of him.
You step in carefully, goosebumps prickling as the heat climbs slowly over your ankles, your calves, your thighs. The water embraces you inch by inch until you're lowering yourself fully beneath the surface, warmth wrapping around you like a heavy blanket scented with lavender.
The moment your back brushes his chest, his arms find you.
They slide around your waist with familiar certainty, one settling securely across your middle to draw you closer. Â Your hand rises on instinct, covering his forearm where it rests across your stomach. His skin is warm and damp beneath your fingertips, the fine hairs catching against your palm as your thumb strokes absent circles over his wrist.
His chin grazes your shoulder as he nestles closer, his next breath warming the side of your neck.
âThis is nice,â he hums, body growing heavier where it rests against yours.
You let out a slow breath. âYeah.â
You let your weight settle back into him completely. He answers by tightening his arm around your waist, one hand gliding up to squeeze your side as he draws you a fraction closer.
You take the other one for you to keep.
Turning it over slowly, relearning it by touch. The familiar roughness of his skin, the broad span of his palm, completely swallowing yours whenever he laces your fingers together. Your thumb glides over the callus at the base of his index finger, the thickened patch of skin from years of gripping weapons he never should have had to hold.
You rub over it absentmindedly, once, twice, then again.
âHow do you know?â
The words come so quietly you're not even sure you've said them aloud.
âHm? Know what?â
âHow do you know...â You swallow, unable to lift your eyes from where the water laps gently over your joined hands, pale violet opalescence that ripples around you both. âHow do you know this is real?â Â
He goes still at that, the only sound between you the soft ripple of water and the rush of your own thoughts filling the space.
âWe could still be down there,â you whisper, the words gathering speed the longer you speak.
âMaybe... maybe we never got out. Maybe Vecna just made us think we won by giving us...â You gesture around the room. â...this.â
The lavender.
The warm water.
Him.
âWhat if none of it's real? What if he justâwhat if he made us think we were safe because it'd hurt more when he took it away? I mean, how would we even know?â Â Â Â
Your chest feels tighter with every word.
âWhat if we're stillâ"
âHey.â
Steve's voice is so soft that you almost miss it.
âHey. Look at me.â
His face is drawn with exhaustion, pain lingering in the tightness around his eyes, in the careful way he holds himself, like every breath reminds him of another bruise.
But theyâre still his.
Still that same warm hazel you've spent so many nights memorizing, never daring to believe you'd get a lifetime of looking into them.
âYou know how I know?â
Your throat goes tight. âHow?â
âBecause youâre scared.â
Your brows pull together, fingers tightening around his. He squeezes your hand back, gentle but certain.
âThatâs how I know. Because youâre sitting here trying to figure out if this is real instead of just being happy that weâre okay.â
Steve watches you for a moment before looking down between you, at the lavender bubbles drifting around your joined hands.
A bead of water clings to his lashes before he blinks it away.
âI meanâŚâ He draws out a slow breath. âI donât know if I can prove it. How could anyone, right? After everything that happened? I donât think any of us are supposed to just wake up the next day and be like, âCool. Guess thatâs over.ââ
He pauses, a small smile pulling at his mouth.
âBut then I look at you and⌠and I just see you doing that thing.â
You blink. âWhat thing?â
He lifts your joined hands from the water, droplets sliding down your wrists as the surface ripples around you.
âThis.â
He gives your hand a little squeeze, lacing your fingers together more securely.Â
âYou always start messing with my hand when youâre freaking out.â
Your brows pull together. âWhat?â
He lets out a soft laugh, reaching up with his free hand to gently tuck a damp strand of hair away from your face.
âYeah, you grab my hand and then you start doing this weird little... I donât know. Thing. Like youâre inspecting it or something.â
Only then do you realize your thumb has been moving back and forth over the same callus on his palm, tracing the same small patch of rough skin.
â...Oh.â
âYeah.â
Thereâs something teasing about his voice now, his smile.
The same Steve whoâd make an absolute idiot of himself just to get you to roll your eyes. Who could make you laugh in the middle of the worst days of your life.
His smile softens as he looks down at the water, where your fingers are still tangled together.
His thumb brushes slowly over the back of your hand.
âI guess⌠I guess thatâs how I know.â
The steam curls around you both, blurring the edges of the room until thereâs nothing left but this.
His hand in yours.
His heartbeat steady against your back and his voice low and certain beside your ear.
âBecause I know you.â
He tightens his fingers around yours.
âI know you.â
¡ ¡ ¡
Eventually, the warmth of the bath starts to fade.
The water isnât quite as hot as it was when you first climbed in, the lavender bubbles breaking apart into a faint, delicate layer.
Youâre still holding his hand.
Neither of you has let go.
âHey,â he murmurs after a while, giving your fingers a small tug.
âHm?â
He lifts your joined hands out of the water, turning his palm toward himself.
Then he starts tracing something, slow and awkward, brow furrowed as he studies the lines crossing his palm.
You can tell heâs searching for somethingâsquinting at the grooves in his hand, trying to remember a detail youâve explained to him once or twice before, maybe more.
You watch him for a second, then mumble:
âYouâre doing it wrong.â
âIâm doing it wrong?â
âYes.â
He turns to look at you, eyebrows raised, genuinely offended in that exaggerated way he does when he knows heâs being teased.
âHow can I be doing it wrong? Itâs my hand.â
You give him a look.
âBecause you donât know what youâre looking for.â
He glances back down at his palm, then back at you.
âOkay, fine, genius,â he huffs, holding his hand out toward you. âWhatâs this one mean?â
You smile faintly.
âYou donât remember?â Â
âNo, I do. Just... tell me again? I remember you said mine was good.â
You did. Sitting cross-legged on the couch years ago, his hand stretched across your lap while you traced the lines in his palm. Youâd laughed the whole time because you didnât actually believe in any of it. But Steve had listened like it mattered, eyes serious, hanging onto every word.
You adjust your grip now, turning his hand so you can see it properly. Then you take his index finger between yours and guide it slowly along the deepest line on his palm.
âHere,â you murmur.
His finger follows where you lead it, brushing over the groove that starts just beneath his pinky and curves upward across his hand.
âThis is your heart line.â
Steve doesnât look at his hand.
He looks at you.
âItâs deep, and it doesnât break. That means you feel things deeply. You lead with your heart.â
He hums softly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the top of your shoulder.
You keep tracing, guiding his finger toward the end of the line where it curves upward.
âAnd here, it turns up.â
You press lightly into the space beneath his index finger.
âSee that spot?â
âMm.â
âThatâs called the Mount of Jupiter. And when your heart line curves up like that, it kinda means youâre... a hopeless romantic.â
You donât even have to see his face to know heâs smiling. You feel it in the small twitch of his fingers around yours, in the quiet huff of amusement against your shoulder.
âSeriously?â
âSeriously.â
You follow the line with your own thumb, pretending to study the grooves of his skin like they might reveal something you donât already know.
But the truth is, you're not really reading his hand.
âIt also says you donât know how to love halfway.â Your thumb follows the line one last time. âWhen you care about someone⌠you give them every part of yourself.â
When you glance back over your shoulder, he's already watching you.
Something achingly fragile settled over his expression, a quiet wonder in his eyes as though he's seeing himself the way you always have.
âYeah?â he whispers.
You nod.
âYeah.â
You lean in to close the small space between you, brushing your lips against the uninjured corner of his mouth.
Itâs a delicate thing, more of a press than a kiss. Â
His fingers tighten around yours beneath the water.
âTell me what else.â
You smile, looking back down at his palm.
âYou want me to read everything?â
âYeah. Obviously.â
You turn his hand back toward you, guiding his finger to another line.
âOkay. This one is your head line.â
Steve settles back against the tub, his arm tightening around you as you continue tracing the little grooves and curves in his palm, explaining what theyâre supposed to mean.
The truth is, none of this is anything you donât already know.
You donât need the lines in his hand to tell you who he is.Â
Youâve known for a long time.
So you tell him what you've been carrying in your heart for longer than you can remember.
That heâs stubborn.
That heâs brave.
That he loves harder than he knows what to do with.
That heâs always seen himself as ordinary when heâs anything but.
And Steve listens.
¡ ¡ ¡
You stay there together until the water goes cold around you.
And though the lavender fades from the bath, the scent still clings to your skin, lingering long after the warmth has left.
Outside this room, there will still be reminders.
Things neither of you can outrun.
Memories that return without warning, scars that ache long after the wounds have closed.
Maybe some things never fully leave.
Maybe they donât have to.
Because the bad things are not the only things that get to stay.
And when the first light of dawn slips through the bedroom window the next morning, washing everything in soft gold, Steve is still there.
words cannot express how truly beautiful this fic was. From the hot, fast paced angry sex that melted into this feeling of loving grief and fear. To the devotion that reader and Steve have for eachother. Steveâs hands are literally bound and he still finds away to touch you, to comfort you in his restraint. How intimately beautiful,raw and real the confessions/conversations are.
Steve has literally been hungry all his life for affection and the way you connected each parts of his life on how he fought to give or receive that affection was so spot on.
The intimate bath sceneâUGHHH! It was so cute and domestically mundane despite the reason why they have to take a bath in the first place. And when reader is reading his palm and heâs only looking at you?!??? Swooning to the max.
Youâll be in the office, talking to him about this article or that, and the entire time he's just remembering the way you felt under him last night, how your eyes rolled back, how your nails scratched his shoulder blades raw.
His eyes move to your lips, and he can almost hear how you'd moaned his name, the way your labored breath had fanned right into his ear, and the way youâd gasped as he angled his hips so his cock pressed against your g-spot.
Your voice becomes background noise as he remembers how good you'd felt around him. Your warm, tight walls wet as they squeezed his cock, sucking him in, trying to keep him deep in you. And the sounds of it. The wet, obscene squelching combined with the rhythmic slapping of his hips meeting yours...
He's hard before he knows it.
âClark, are you listening to me?â
Your voice snaps him back to the present moment, back to the bullpen, back to you with your arms crossed and a frown between your eyebrows.
He turns red when he realizes he'd zoned out. âUh,â he says stupidly, blinking at you. âSorry. Just...â
âYouâre not paying attention,â you accuse, pouting.
âIâm sorry,â he says again, cheeks turning pink. âI justâŚitâs ââ hard. No, letâs not use that word. ââ itâs difficult for me to pay attention sometimes. My mind just sort ofâŚgoes away.â
âAway where?â you ask, the furrow between your eyebrows deepening.
Clark exhales thickly and glances around to make sure no one is close enough to hear what heâs about to say. âI just canât stop thinking aboutâŚlast night.â
He hears the tiny hitch in your breath. âYou - youâre really thinking about us having sex right now? Iâm talking about something extremely important to my career and youâre just ignoring me, thinking about â?â
Clark gently grabs your upper arms and pulls you a little closer to calm you. âBaby, baby. Iâm not ignoring you. Itâs not that Iâm ignoring you. You just look so beautiful when youâre inspired and determined, and itâsâŚwell, I am just a man.â
You huff, arms still tightly crossed over your chest. âYouâre not just a man,â you mumble.
âI am just a man with needs and desires,â he insists. âIâm just Clark Kent in love with you. And everything about youâŚAnd, yes, that includes your perfect body.â
That earns him a little reluctant smile from you that you try to hide. âClark.â Your voice is quiet and firm, an obvious warning, but he can tell heâs getting to you.
âItâs not my fault youâre gorgeous,â he says lowly, leaning a little closer, the warm desire in his lower abdomen starting to build. âNot my fault you have such a beautiful face, and a perfect shape, and the sweetest pussy,â he whispers into your ear.
He feels you shiver and God, now he has to drag you into the office bathroom to fuck you if he wants to be able to focus for the rest of the day.
⥠please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
Clark Kent masterlist
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đđđđđđđ - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
summary: When your ex-friends-with-benefits proves he's incapable of keeping his mouth shut even while jerking off alone in his tent, you're forced to intervene. God, do you have to do everything yourself?
tags: MDNI, [SMUT] [ex-friends-with-benefits to lovers] [camp counselors][summer rivalry] [heavy mutual pining] [angst] [steve & reader are both college age] [fourth of july] [semi-public sex] [handjob] [tent sex] [trying to be quiet and failing miserably] [discussions of canon stranger things events] [oral sex f receiving] [talking about trauma/therapy] [fingering] [steve calls reader sweetheart, brat, bitch (once) and baby] [one thigh spank] [unprotected creampie] 5k words
a/n: saw this post from @s3xytosomeone and got inspired. letâs all just pretend i actually posted this on the 4th, okay? okay thanks!!!!
There are noises coming from Steveâs tent. Â
You lie completely still under your own tentâs ceiling, breath caught in your chest.Â
There it is again. Another soft grunt, but this one is deeper, almost desperate.
Youâve heard these sounds before. Your mouth goes dry as the reality of what heâs doing settles in your gut, a sharp ache building low between your hips.Â
Thank God youâre all the way out instead of back at camp where your middle school-age campers are tucked away, sleeping in their cabins on the hill.
At Camp Woodwick, the last night of their month-long summer session always ends on the Fourth of July. Which is tonight. And on the last night, the counselors donât have a curfew, so the whole lot of you can pitch tents down by the lake and watch the fireworks show.Â
It was fun for awhile, but after a handful of lackluster campfire stories and couple burnt marshmallows, Steve announced he was going to bed. The guys complained, begging him to light some fireworks with them, but he said he was going to turn in anyway.Â
Right after his eyes caught yours.Â
You excused yourself shortly after him, not even really sure why. And as you changed into your sleep shorts and a t-shirt, and settled into your sleeping bag, you blamed your sour mood on the heat and the bugs.
Assuring yourself that it had nothing to do with the fact that you and Steve Harrington have been at each otherâs throats for weeks.
Tonight is is counselorâs night out! Itâs supposed to be a fun end-of-the-summer bash for all the adults who were paid a few grand to babysit. Itâs the night everyone looks forward to the most.Â
You should be having funâbeing young. Whatever that means.Â
At some point between the whole saving-the-world-and-barely-escaping-with-your-life-thing, you became somewhat of a stranger to that idea. Your life had been, for lack of a better term, flipped upside down.Â
Steve groans again. Hot embers flare to life in your core, stirred up by the sound of his thready voice. So low and breathless.Â
He has to shut up. What is he thinking, jerking off like this with people nearby?
Granted, your tents are the furthest away from everyone elseâs, and no one has really gone to bed yet. It shouldnât be that big of a deal. But between the sticky humid air clinging to your skin, and the sharp whistles from exploding fireworks, when Steve moans softly again you finally justâŚsnap.Â
Ripping the blankets off yourself, you rustle around your tent for your flashlight, grumbling and muttering in the dark.
God, you have to do everything yourself, donât you?Â
You wince as your tent opens with a loud zip that punctuates the darkness surrounding you. Peeking over your shoulder, you can see the smoke from the campfire in the distance, curling up towards the stars. A few of your fellow counselors are still lounging around the fire, but most of them are small shadows dotting the lakeâs edge.Â
Steve pitched his orange tent under a tree.Â
Stupid.Â
Doesnât he know that the roots will mess the tent stakes up? Youâre surprised he could even get them in the ground. Honestly, it will probably fall down on him tonight.Â
You hope it does.Â
His tent is dark and quiet, but you march over anyway, flashlight raised so the beam falls straight on him when you turn it on.Â
You yank on his tentâs zipper. It gives easily. A muffled curse comes from inside, and you click on the flashlight to reveal Steve lying on his side, bare chest rising and falling as he squints into the bright beam.
âGod, you never could stay quiet, could you?â You say, bullying your way through the tent flap and zipping it back up behind you.Â
Steve scrambles to throw his sleeping bag over himself, but it does practically nothing to hide his raging boner underneath.Â
âWhat the fuck do you want?â He snaps, glaring up at you.Â
Despite yourself, your eyes catch on a delicious bicep, and his muscled shoulder in the shine of your flashlight. That chest hair has taunted you all summer long. Itâs been torturous pretending you didnât know what it felt like against your bare breasts, against your back...
You clear your throat. âI just thought Iâd let you know the whole camp can hear you jerking off.â
âWhat? Iâm notâJesus.â His big hand drags down his face, even as he pulls the sleeping bag up higher. âGet out.â
Whoops, there you go again, getting distracted by his hands.Â
Maybe you should close your eyes, or turn aroundâsomethingâbecause looking at him stretched out in the dark like this is making you think wicked things.
Your lips twist in a mocking smirk, and you gesture down to the sleeping bag. âOh, câmon, Steve. Why are you so embarrassed? Itâs not like I havenât seen it before.âÂ
Lots of times, actually.Â
Through the years, youâd been there for everythingâwatched him get captured, tortured, and sacrificed for others. But after it was all over, and the dust settled, you fell into each other a different way.Â
Because it wasnât the days plagued with Demogorgons, evil Russians, or even Vecna that were the worst.
It was the days that followed.
The hollow darkness you experienced as the world kept moving on, oblivious to the memories that plagued you both. You had to learn how to live normally again, and something about that was both relieving and excruciatingly lonely at the same time.
The nightmares had a way of sticking to you like blood you couldnât get off no matter how many times you scrubbed yourself raw in the shower.Â
It was in those shaky, sweaty, middle-of-the-night fever dreams that you and Steve found solace in each other. Because when it all became a bit too much, you could dig your nails into someone elseâs skin, feel a slick, hot mouth against yoursâground yourself in something intrinsically human just to prove that after everything, you still are.
But all that came to a screeching halt last summer.Â
âOkay,â Steve sighs, shifting a little and squinting up at you. âLetâs say that I was. You wanted to come over andâŚcockblock me? From myself? And turn that thing off unless you want everyone to see two silhouettes in here.â
You click the flashlight off immediately, plunging you both into darkness.Â
Maybe you should rescind your previous statement. Because now, without being able to see him, his proximity is somehow affecting you even more.Â
You can hear his soft breaths, smell the lake water on his skin. And underneath it all, the familiar sounds and scents of him that opens a gaping hole of nostalgia in the pit of your stomach.Â
You try to laugh, but it comes out cold. âYou think I give a fuck if youâre rubbing one out, Harrington? No. I came over here because youâre fucking whimpering and moaningââ
ââI was not whimpering.âÂ
ââand youâre incapable of keeping quietâyes, you were, and I was getting sick of hearing it. So, either do it quieter, or find someone to cover your fucking mouth.â
As you were talking, your vision adjusted to the darkness. Which is a very bad thing, because now you can see him again. Specifically the outline of his mussed hair as he lifts his chin to meet your gaze.Â
âYou offering?â
Your breath catches.
You should say no. You should tell him to go fuck himselfâliterallyâ and leave right now. He can let the whole camp hear him for all you care.Â
But instead, you hesitate.Â
Now, Steve is smart. Smarter than he gives himself credit for, thatâs for sure. And there are certain patterns heâs picked up on with you over the years. Like, when you pause like that, the answer is almost always a yes.Â
Which is why the second you go quiet, and the distant laughter of the other counselors fills the space between you, heâs already batting the sleeping bag off his lap.Â
âI knew it,â he says. The fabric slips off him just as a firework bursts overhead, and your eyes drag over his body. The lean, tan muscle from all his time outside this summer, down to his long, hard cock jerking against his happy trail. âYouâre so busy acting like you hate me, wanting to play this game where we bitch at each other all summer, and now youâre making up excuses to come into my tentââ
âOh, trust me,â you scoff, tearing your eyes away to meet his again. âItâs not an excuse.â
âNo?â he says softly, leaning back on one arm and gesturing at his body with the other. âThen, prove it.â
âFine, but Iâm only staying to keep you quiet,â you warn him, pinning him with a harsh look.Â
âSure. Whatever,â Steve rasps, watching as you drop to your knees beside him.Â
Your fingers curl into his sleeping bag beside his shoulder, but youâre careful not to touch him.Â
He wishes you would.Â
You gesture impatiently at him, your hand a shadowy blur in the dark. âGo ahead and get it over with. Iâm not sitting here all night. God.â
Steve rushes to obey, and when wraps his hand around his cock again, the rush is so intense itâs almost painful. The way youâre sitting there just watching him is making his head feel fuzzy, and his dick swell.
And look at youâpretending to not be affected in the slightest watching the flushed head poke out of his fist over and over as he jerks off in front of you. God, you turn him on so fucking much.Â
Steve heaves a stuttering breath, and his head drops back onto the ground as the pleasure pools in his gut. He thinks heâs doing a good job being quiet. But he canât smother the moan that escapes him the second your warm hand brushes his shoulder.
âSteve,â you hiss, warning lacing your voice.Â
âShut me up, then. Goddamn.â He groans, his cock twitching in his palm. âWhat are you even here for? I could do this myselfââ At that moment, your hand finds his chest and, well, your fingers might as well be a defibrillator. His hips jerk, mouth dropping open in pleasure. ââoh, fuck yeah.â
Your touch is heaven. His eyelids threaten to shut as your fingers brush through his chest hair, over his ribsâ so sure, and steady, soothing and warm. Like his flesh and bone is a map you know by heart.Â
Heâs panting, desperate not to make a sound and give you a reason to take your hand away while your palm trails lower.
He raises his chin to catch a glimpse of your profile as the fireworks crack in the sky, raining down in bright fizzling pops that he feels in his chest.Â
Honestly, he shouldâve known this is how the summer would end with you.Â
Heâs known it, and yet, heâs run from it.Â
Because the last time he had youâŚGod, heâs been such an idiot.Â
Last summer, when you came home from college for break, heâd been sitting on your doorstep. A silent understanding passed between you two, and then youâd grabbed his hand and taken him up to your room.
Afterwards, you were laying under him, sweaty and warm, eyes glowing withâŚwith something that made his heart tug painfully. And suddenly, it all got to be too much.Â
Heâd been craving you all semester. As if you were a long drag from a cigarette. And that gnawing ache didnât surface with anyone else. Only you.Â
His chest swelled up tight, and the bridge of his nose started to burn, and he realized⌠he was scared.Â
Terrified, actually.Â
Because what if the both of you reaching out for each other was nothing but a trained response, like Pavlovâs dogs or some shit? What if you had built this trauma bondâŚthing? He wasnât entirely sure what that even meant, but he knew that no one could know him so intrinsically, so deeply, so invasively and still want him anyway.Â
So, Steve proceeded to do the stupidest thing possible by dropping a kiss to your forehead, pulling his clothes back on, and walking out the door.Â
He told himself it was for the best. Months after, even though he thought of you constantly, and still woke up slicked in sweat, hands flying to his wounds in the dark, he never called you.Â
But when you showed up at Camp Woodwick, looking to earn some cash over the summer, same as him, all the walls heâd built up between him and his past came crashing down.Â
So, he pushed you away. For weeks. It was worse than he thought it would be, though. Because when he pushed, you pushed back harder.Â
His head swims with the knowledge that after a whole year without you, youâre here. Youâre the same. Familiar. The smell of your hair, down to the soft breaths escaping to ur lips.Â
Heâs still hard as a rock, but his hand isnât cutting it. Not when what he really wants is right here in front of him.
Steve curses under his breath. âYou wanna help me out, sweetheart? Give me that mouth?â
âW-what?â You snort. âYou can hardly be quiet with your own hand, Harrington. You think youâre going to survive that?â
âPlease? Just lick it. Just the tip.â
âStop begging. Also, be quââ
âRight. Right, Iâll be quiet,â Steve grumbles. âJustâif youâre gonna fucking march in here and tell me to do it faster, then the least you could do is help me out.â Another firework squeals, then pops, showering you in gold as you blink down at him.
Boisterous laughs drift over the water, and your eyes flick up instinctively to meet the tent wall before your bottom lip disappears between your teeth. His stomach flips in anticipation. He knows that look.Â
âCâmon,â he urges, fighting back a smirk. âYou know how I like it, baby.â
Shit.Â
Steve knows that pet name has always been your weakness. Youâre not sure exactly why. Maybe itâs because it reminded you that on the outside, you were just friends. But in bedâŚyou were his.
You shouldnât fall for a cheap trick like that. Look at him, biting the corner of his mouth like heâs trying not to smirk. Cocky bastard.Â
But, even so, you make the mistake of glancing down his body.
His hand slips away in a silent invitation, revealing his heavy cock jutting out from his soft tummy and you lose the war.
Rocks dig into your knees under the tent floor but you hardly pay them any mind, your clit already throbbing in anticipation of touching him.Â
âFine. But only because itâs faster.â You say.
Your hand curls around him, reveling in the hot, velvety feel of him in your palm. A sound slips from his throat, sudden and unbidden.Â
You jerk your head up, and he canât see your face clearly in the dark, but he knows your body language. The message is solidified when you bring your other hand up to rake through the hair on his chest, digging into his pec in warning.Â
Steveâs hand lands on yours, and the warmth seeping through his fingers doesnât just make your pussy clench, it also makes your nose burn.Â
You turn your attention back to stroking him, ignoring the tightness in your lungs. Ignoring the way youâre practically holding hands across his chest.
âGod, youâve been kind of a bitch to me all summer,â Steve grunts, thrusting up into your touch. âYou know that?â
You roll your eyes, even though he canât see you. âSteve, you canât call me a bitch at the same time youâre fucking my hand. Either weâre fighting or weâre fucking. Pick one. Jesus.â
âI donât know.â His head falls back against the ground with a heavy thud. âWeâre pretty good at both, apparently. God, your hand feel so gââ
âShut the fuck up,â you hiss.
âSorry! Sorry.â
Another firework shrieks into the sky, exploding in a loud pop, and showering you both in a flash of red. It lights up Steveâs body, illuminating the scars along his side. Long jagged things, carved deep under his ribs.
You canât help but remember the panic that seized you when the Demobats descended on him. Youâll never forget the sickening horror that coursed through your body when you looked over to see him pale and shaking, dripping in blood.Â
You swallow hard. Then, as if pulled by some invisible string, you lower your head and brush your mouth against his skin. His core muscles flex at the soft glide of your tongue on his belly, but he tenses as your lips trace his scar line.
âDonâtââ he rasps. Suddenly, his hand flies down and tugs your chin away.Â
âWhat?â You whisper against his skin, a little teasing. But when you flick your eyes up to his, he looks away, raking a hand through his hair. Your hand slows around his cock and you frown. A thread of anxiety coils in your gut.Â
âWhat?â you repeat. âI was there, too, remember?â
âYeah, I remember.â He lets out a short laugh, but the warmth is gone from his voice. âI justâreally donât want to be reminded of that right now.â
You pull back, hands falling away from him instantly.Â
Another bottle rocket screams, punctuating the heavy beat of silence that follows. Steve notices the shift in you, the way your body locks up in hesitation.Â
Sighing heavily, he raises his palms to his face and digs them into his eyes.Â
âSorry, Iâmâthat was fucked up. Iâm sorry.â
You sit back on your heels, suddenly unsure, and your eyes drop to the ground.Â
He combs through his hair again roughly. âIâm sorry, I didnât mean it. I was justâŚthereâs a kid here that reminds me of a little Eddie, and the scarsââ
You smile softly. âReed, right? Iâve been thinking the same thing all summer.â
âEvery time I see those scars, I think about the bats, and then I think about losing Eddie, and then with you hereââ He gestures towards you and he trails off.Â
You donât need him to finish the thought, though. You can see it in the way his chest heaves, and the slight crack in his voice.Â
With a sigh, you settle down onto the ground beside him. He shuffles wordlessly, giving you room to lay on the other half of his sleeping bag.Â
âItâs okay, Steve. This is how it always was for us. Justâtwo people trying to get through it, you know? To feel something again.âÂ
âOh yeah? Is that all were?â His voice is deeper now. Huskier. It makes a lump build in your throat. âWas that all it was for you?â
You watch the light show fall across the tent ceiling together, muted little orbs glowing through the fabric.Â
âNo,â you say softly. âBut everything hits me at once sometimes, too, you know. And when that happens...fuck, I just need you. And that feelingâŚâ The words fizzle out and fall like the embers in the sky, and your hand reaches up to clutch at your chestâlike it would be easier just to rip out your heart and show him.
Steve hesitates, swallowing hard. âItâs notâŚbad, right? That feeling?âÂ
âNo, Steve. Itâs not bad.âÂ
A quiet moment passes, then he blows out a breath. âAt college, they have these therapists. Robin dragged me to a session once, so I went.â You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes above. âI was scared, like, what if they didnât believe me, you know? And, well, Iâm not sure if Dr. Treya really believes me, but that doesnât seem to matter much. She treats it all like itâs true, anyway.â
Thereâs a loud squeal of a bottle rocket, then laughter somewhere in the distance.Â
âIâm sorry we fought the last few weeks,â you whisper. âI was angry. But mostly just hurt. By last summer.â
Steve sits up a little at that, his strong arm bracing his torso as he looks down at you. âAnd you had every right to be,â he says. âI was a coward for leaving like I did. I got scared, I think. But, Iâm getting better. At least, Robin says I am.â
You chuckle. âIâm sure sheâs right.â
âBut I am sorry, too. For that, and forâŚjust for everything.â
You gaze up at him, and the urge to cup his face and bring his lips down to yours grips you by the spine. But Steve lays back down next to you before you can say anything.Â
âIâm proud of you for going to see a counselor,â you say into the dark after a long moment. âDoes it help?â
âYeah.â He swallows. âBut I wish there was something I could do, too, you know? Other than just talk about it.âÂ
He takes the world upon his shoulders, this boy.
He deserves to know that, at the end of the day, someone has him. Someone wants him. Not just for what he can give, but for who he is. Heâs been pushing you away because you had that for him, and he didnât know how to accept it. Until recently.Â
You see that now.Â
His bare arm is so warm against yours. You follow it down with your fingers until you find his hand, threading your fingers through his.Â
âSteve, youâve already done so much. For everyone.â
His hand practically swallows yours. Long fingers, with blunt tips. They just remind you of all the ways heâs used them to pull orgasms from your body, one after the other.
All he does is give, give, give. Even when you give him hell all summer, fuck, he gives that right back.Â
Your hair whispers against the sleeping bag as you turn to look at him. His brown eyes meet yours, and his soft exhale ghosts across your cheek.
You search his face for permission, because he already knows what youâre asking. When his expression softens, just enough, you donât hesitate. Hooking your leg around his waist, you roll on top of him and sit up.Â
âLet me take care of you,â you say.
He sucks in a breath at the sight of you rising above him, his hand coming to land hot and heavy on your thigh.Â
Scooting backwards, you lower your mouth to his torso. He hisses, his other hand flying to tangle in your hair. His cock has softened slightly against his hip, but you can fix that with your mouth in no time.Â
His chest heaves with a shaky breath. âWait, no. No, baby.âÂ
You suck a soft love bite on his hip before raising your eyes to his. âYou donât want it anymore?â
âNoâshit, of course I want it, butââ He snorts, but his hand finds yours and he tries to pull you up. âIf weâre going to do this, I want to do it for real. Not to distract each other. Not like we used to. CanâŚcan you do that?â
You nod once. Then again. âYes. Yes, of course, Steve. I wasnâtâI was justââ your heart slams into your throat. âI still love you.â
A slow, sweet smile spreads across Steveâs face. Your cheeks flush, and you try to squirm away, but Steve squeezes your thigh, urging you to find his eyes again. And when you do, you see that familiar heat is back.Â
âGood,â he says. âNow we can get down to the real question of what the fuck do you think youâre doing barging into my tent when Iâm masturbating, you little brat?â
Heat licks up your spine, and you bite back a grin. âI told you! You were being loud.â
âYeah, sure, now tell me the real reason.â
âThat is the real reason!â
âDonât lie to me.âÂ
You open your mouth to argue, but his hands clamp down on your hips before you can, and in one smooth motion, he flips you so youâre on your back. Your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls you down under him, his chest rising and falling against yours.Â
âJust admit it,â he says, a cocky grin twisting his lips right over yours. âYou wanted me to lick that pretty pussy for you, didnât you?â
Your panties dampen instantly, pulsing in anticipation of feeling his mouth on you after so long.Â
You might have been at each otherâs throats for weeks, but that doesnât mean he didnât like it. You saw it in his eyes by the campfire and by every rough two-hand touch football game. Every time your face went red and you mouthed off at him heâd just smile and lift his eyebrows as if to say, âis that all you got?â Maybe crook two fingers at you with a cocky tilt of his head, urging you to âgive me more.âÂ
Well, you could definitely give him more.Â
âI donât know, Harrington,â you sigh, tilt your head against the tent floor in mock confusion. âI hardly remember what getting head from you is like.â
His grin turns wicked. Then suddenly, heâs movingâgreedy hands tugging at your shorts.Â
âOh, Iâm sorry,â he says, voice dripping in that mocking tone that always makes you wet. âI thought maybe youâd want me to do that thing my tongue that alwaysââ A whimper escapes your throat and he breaks off mid-sentence with an openmouthed laugh. âYeah, thatâs what I thought.â
He crawls down your body, taking your shorts and underwear with him, and you gasp when something hard and hot brushes your thigh. Glad to see heâs sporting that erection again. You feel a fleeting disappointment at the fact you havenât gotten to suck him off yet, but itâs probably better this way, to be honest.Â
Itâs literally impossible to make Steve Harrington be quiet while getting a blowjobâ
Without warning, he plunges two fingers deep into your slick channel. Your breath stutters, hips bucking into his palm on instinct. He groans out loud, but youâre too blissed out by the stretch that you canât even get onto him for it.Â
Lungs seizing, heart pounding, you squirm on the slippery fabric of his sleeping bag, trying to get even closer. Your nipples harden against your T-shirt, begging for his touch. For more of him.
You peek down your body just in time to see his head disappear between your thighs, and then his mouth is on you. God, his tongue is so warm and wet against your clit, and his skillful fingers stroke you just right. In and out, then curling into the spongey spot inside that has your mouth dropping open.Â
âMissed those sounds you make,â he says, voice muffled against your pussy.Â
Shit.Â
You hadnât even realized you were making noise. You dig your knee into his side in retaliation and he chuckles, squirming away before diving in again.
He licks messy, broad strokes, tasting you on purpose, getting you all over his tongue. When you grind up into his face he grabs you by the hips and moves with you, following your every wriggle and writhe.Â
Yep, his mouth still makes the world feel dull, reducing your hearing to the whoosh of your heartbeat in your ears as everything else just fades away into mind numbing blissâ
âShut up,â Steve says, pulls back from you with a wicked grin. His face is covered in your arousal, glinting in the firework light, and the sight makes you clench around his fingers. âSeriously, shut up if you donât want them to hear you.âÂ
âWhaâSteve!â You whine, canting your hips up into his mouth again as he lowers himself back down to you. âH-help.â
He shrugs. âIâm not the one who gives a shit if they hear.â
The vibrations of his voice against your clit rips a moan from your throat, unbidden, and your lips cinch together. Your hand flies to your hip, finding his fingers there. You try to pull his hand up but he shakes off your touch, holding onto your waist and puling you roughly against his tongue.Â
You whine in protest, and go to pull on his hand again, but thatâs a mistake.Â
He brings his palm down to your inner thigh with a sharp smack that has your back arching off the ground, your eyes narrowing in warning.Â
âCover your own mouth, sweetheart, fuck,â he chuckles, giving your clit a soothing series of licks. âIâm busy.â
âFuck you,â you whisper, but it quickly turns into a needy whine when he sucks the swollen nub into his mouth.Â
Steve continues to stretch you out on his fingers, murmuring dirty things into your pussy as he does. How sweet you taste. How tightly youâre squeezing his fingers. But you barely hear any of it.Â
Youâre so wetâboth from his mouth and your arousalâthat your inner thighs slick together when you try to squeeze them. He yanks your legs apart again, and youâre powerless to stop him because the pads of his fingers are dragging out tendrils of pleasure from your spine you havenât felt in a year.Â
Thankfully, the fireworks seem to be reaching a peak outsideâ loud bangs and pops going off every few seconds help drown out the sounds of your needy pussy and blissed-out sighs. Because frankly, you donât have the brain power to think about anything except how desperately you need him inside you.Â
You whimper again accidentally. âSteveââÂ
âOkay, baby,â he replies instantly, knowing what you need by the tone in your voice alone. His fingers slip out and he rises up over you, your knees falling open eagerly as he lines himself up.
When he notches the tip of his cock at your entrance, your cunt greedily sucks him in. He gasps, hips bucking forward instinctively, and neither one of you are able to stop the mixed groans that ensue from finally, finally being connected like this again after so long.Â
Big hands scramble for a hold on your waist, blunt nails pinching your skin as he drags himself back, then forth, slamming up into you with a depth that makes you sob.
âStill fuckinâ made for me,â he groans. âGoddamnit.â
Youâre panting, arms wrapped around his shoulders, biting the skin of your forearm to keep from moaning as his hips roll slow and deliberate.Â
âGood girl,â he praises, and you shudder, feeling the ache grow sharper. âStaying so quiet, look at you. You canât ask me to be silent when you come around me, okay? Fuckâthatâs like being tortured all over again.â
You shoot him a withering look even as you writhe underneath him. âThatâs not funny.â
He laughs, and his silhouette shifts over you, his cock driving deeper and hitting that spot inside you that makes you see sparks that arenât there. âSorry, sweetheart. I justâoh yeah, grind that clit into me. Thatâs it.â
 Your hands rake through his hair, desperately trying to hold onto something. But the force behind his thrusts causes you to pull on the strands, and, well, that was a mistake.Â
His teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder in order to stay somewhat quiet, and ohâfuck. How could you have forgotten what pulling his hair does to him? Stars burst behind your eyes as the fireworks crackle overhead, and the tension between your hips coils tighter.Â
âFuckâSteve,â you gush. âPlease.â
âWhat do you need?â He rasps against your throat, sucking and biting. âIâm all yours.â
Little tremors course though your legs as your orgasm builds, the swollen head of his cock nudging those spots deep inside that ache for him.Â
Only him.
âYou need me to kiss you?â he says, breath hot in your ear. âNeed me to shut you up?â
You nod frantically.Â
âGo on, ask me for it.â
You whimper, too far gone to play the game anymore. âKiss me, Stevie. Please, pleaseââÂ
âFuck,â Steve groans at the nickname he hasnât heard in so long, and instantly lowers his mouth to yours.Â
The first brush of his lips against yours makes you want to cry.Â
âMissed you, baby,â he says, then kisses you deeper, his tongue dipping into your mouth and swirling with yours. âSo much. Missed kissing you. Missed talking with you.â He hesitates, pulling back slightly before planting one soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. âMissed loving you. But I guess I never really stopped, did I?â
Your eyes connect for one heartbreaking, devestatingly sweet second before you pull him back down, pouring your love for him into the gentle, yet desperate stroke of your tongue against his.Â
Feeling you kiss him like that snaps something deep inside him.Â
Your inner muscles clamps down around him as his thrusts turn messy and hard, and his hands run over your shoulders, your breasts, your hips, pulling your body back down to meet his every thrust.Â
The pleasure builds to an insurmountable level as he rips your shirt up to capture your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and making you want to scream.Â
You flatten your palm over your lips, whimpering through the gaps in your fingers over and over, squeezing your eyes shut as Steve pushes you higher and higher until finallyâyouâre falling.Â
Your teeth bite into your fingers hard to muffle your moans as your pussy clenches down like a vice on Steveâs cock rhythmically, your orgasm rushing through you.Â
He lets out a choked sound above you, and with the way his chest falls in a sequence of familiar pants, you know heâs close. Through the pleasured haze, your other hand flies to cover his mouth just in time for his orgasm to hit.Â
âMmhmm, mhhhmm.â Steve whines loudly, as his body tenses, and his cock twitches inside you. And you have no choice but to shove your fingers inside his lips, forcing him to suck on them as he reaches his peak. His eyes roll back as he bullies his cock against your cervix, painting your walls with his come, even as his tongue strokes your knuckles tenderly and reverently.
It takes awhile for the both of you to come back down to earth, but eventually, you let your fingers fall from his mouth and he laughs breathlessly, dipping to give you one last slow kiss before slipping out of you.Â
He fumbles around for his T-shirt in the darkness and then cleans you up with care, which makes your heart twist. Once heâs done, he settles on his side, and pulls you into him, your back pressed to his chest. You burrow into him, his arm settling around you, and itâs amazing how quickly your lashes start to fall, wrapped up in this familiar comfort.Â
âSoâŚtruce?â Steve whispers into the crook of your shoulder. You laugh softly.
Even under a hazardously leaning tent, and a sky littered with mini explosions, the world seems a little less dark right now. The past, a little less heavy.Â
Maybe itâs because neither of you are running away from it, anymore. But rather, facing it. Together.
And because you know, without a shadow of a doubt, Steve Harringtonâs heartbeat will always be in your future.
âTruce.â
a/n: the tent definitely collapses on top of them five minutes later, by the way. also, my idea originally was not nearly as angsty, but donât you just love it when characters highjack your story? god, the fics always turn out so much better that way.
steve masterlist | cutie banner by @cursed-carmine
SO. LET'S DEEPDIVE INTO THIS ONE. @graywrenhart your writing feels like a shock to the brain i swear to god. i actually need to make a list of all the things i loved about this.
bear with me.
the sarcasm. the tension. THE COLORS. OF. THE FIREWORKS. the hands. the MOCKING ???? MAKING HIM SHUT UP ???? and he goes to therapy. oh my heart.
Every time your face went red and you mouthed off at him heâd just smile and lift his eyebrows as if to say, âis that all you got?â Maybe crook two fingers at you with a cocky tilt of his head, urging you to âgive me more.âÂ
THIS. RIGHT HERE. I GASPED. THE SMUGNESS. STEVEN HARRINGTON.
CHAPTER TWO (A MODERN AU. SLOW BURN, ENEMIES TO LOVERS FT. LINECOOK!STEVE X FEM!READER. 3.1K)
THE MENU
Steve Harrington woke up in a bedroom that he didnât really recognise in the light of day. Well, early morning. He squinted against the weak blue light that came in through the gaps in the curtains and the space beside him in bed was empty and cool.
There was the sound of a shower running and Steve tried to remember how he wound up in a room that was very much not his. It was soft and pretty, feminine and a little messy with framed photos on the wall, artwork above a desk that was littered with make up and stray earrings. There was a lacy bra on the back of a chair, underwear - his and someone elseâs - on the floor. He covered his face and let out a soft groan, the last dregs of the alcohol heâd drunk seeping its way out of his system via a headache that started between his eyes.
Heâd only went out for a drink or two, to celebrate the new job, the one he was supposed to start in - he rolled on the mattress, reached a wandering hand down until he found his cell in his jeans and he checked the time - fuck, a little over two hours.
The shower was still running and the owner of the bed he was in was nowhere to be seen despite the early hour. He took it as a sign. Clearly, his late night companion hadnât wanted to wake him. Thereâd been no touching, no noise, no switched on lights or coffee made. That was fine by him, he was more than happy to skip the awkward morning after, he was totally okay with that.
He gathered his clothes from around the room, stumbling on unsteady feet as he yanked on his jeans and searched for his shirt. If he was entirely truthful, he was a little disappointed. He couldnât remember a lot from the night before but he did remember how fucking attractive heâd found you. Too pretty to ignore, because heâd wasted no time in approaching you. Heâd even danced with you, something usually only reserved for his Nanna at family gatherings. Although, the way heâd moved against you had been far from appropriate.
And then the taxi ride to yoursâ fuck, the taxi. Heâd never been kissed like that. Whatever youâd done to him had made him feel like a teenager again. Heâd been rock hard the entire journey, something that not even the eyes of the driver had quelled. He hadnât been able to keep his hands or mouth off of you, both of you half stripped before youâd made it to the bed.
Steve bit his lip, remembering it. His gaze raked over the bed heâd just left, sheets twisted and sprawled near the foot of it, a pillow hanging off one side. Yeah, shit, it had been a good night. But still, he shoved his feet into his trainers once heâd found them, patted his jeans pockets to make sure he had his keys and slipped out the apartment door just as the shower switched off.
But of all the things that had happened in the last twenty four hours, seeing your face again was definitely the wildest.
Heâd found out about the linecook position from an old friend. Heâd been told that The Gate was a cool place to work. Fifty hours a week, overtime available and despite the fact the boss was too cheap to give health insurance, he was apparently never on site, which meant unlimited smoke breaks in the alleyway out back. He hadnât even needed to apply, Eddie had told his boss that Steve was a solid choice and he knew him from working at a diner back home in Indiana.
Steve had got a text from Eddie the same day, telling him to turn up at seven thirty the next morning, bring his knives and that heâd take care of the rest.
But there you were. Staring at him through the glass door before youâd opened it and then stared at him even more, eyes wide as you took him in from head to toe. You were just as pretty as you had been the night before, even if the space under your eyes were smudged with tiredness. You looked cute in your work uniform, a little black skirt with an even smaller apron tied around your waist, a white polo shirt with The Gateâs logo on the chest tucked in neatly.
Fuck. Fuck.
He was standing like an idiot, finger pointed at his own chest and mouth hanging open because you very clearly recognised him. Which, Steve realised, was absolutely okay. And understandable. Because it had only been a little over four hours since heâd been buried to the hilt inside of you and heâd have probably felt a little stung if you hadnât remembered his face.
But you definitely worked here and Steve had no idea if you were his shift supervisor or just someone heâd have to spend a lot of time with. He knew your face, the colour of your bedroom walls, the way your name sounded on his lips when it was coloured with a moan and how you liked to be kissed on the neck when you got fucked.
That was it. That wasnât a lot of information and he didnât have a lot of time to process much else. An added bonus was the leftover vodka that was still coating his insides and the sun was too bright, even with his sunglasses covering his tired eyes.
And, well, he was a man.
So he dropped his hand and smiled again, a little too fake and said, âhi, Iâm here for the kitchen position. Iâm Steve, nice to meet you.â
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Was he fucking kidding?
You stared at Steve with an expression of complete disbelief, the audacity of his words taking over from your shock at seeing him there. You couldnât really see his eyes behind his sunglasses but he was smiling, warm and polite and suddenly you realised that you hadnât said anything else for a minute now.
It turned out you couldnât say much, but you managed to close your open mouth and smile back, awkward and polite, much like every other interaction at work. You gestured to the open door as you held it open, hating that you recognised the aftershave as he walked by you, silently furious that he was wearing the same one heâd worn when heâd approached you the night before.
What did he mean, ânice to meet you?â
Did you look that different? Did he seriously not recognise you?
You wanted to ask, you wanted to confront him. Your hangover made you mean, it made you square up for an argument that could never happen here because Eddie was coming out of the kitchen with a wide, easy smile on his face just as Steve pulled his sunglasses from his face.
âHarrington! Long time no see man, how you doinâ?â He clapped the new guy on the shoulder before bringing him into a full hug, laughing as they jostled each other in the way only guys did. âWelcome to the city, big boy, itâs good to have you.â
Steve replied with something you didnât hear because you were too busy staring, completely unashamed, at the side of his face. It was definitely the same guy. He had the same moles and freckles dotted across his skin, the same messy hair that curled under his ears and at the nape of his neck. And there was a hickey in the shape of your lips just under his jaw, a mark you remembered gifting him in your tiny hallway, right when heâd backed you into the wall and slid one large hand into the front of your underwear.
Someone was calling your name. Repeatedly.
âWhat?â You blinked, finding Eddie and Steve both watching you as you felt the heat of being caught creep up the back of your neck. âSorry, Iâ sorry. Hangover.â You said as a way of explanation.
âThis is Steve Harrington,â Eddie took Steve by the shoulders, giving him a little excited shake. âAn old friend from back in Hawkins. We worked together at Jimâs old diner, I taught him everything I know, didnât I? Steve this isââ
You didnât listen to Eddie's introduction to you, you just watched as Steve nodded and smiled, polite as ever, eyes skating over you as if he was seeing you for the first time. His gaze lingered on the open buttons of your polo shirt, staring at the skin that had been marked by someoneâs elseâs lips - his fucking lips.
He didnât say anything. He just looked back at Eddie laughing at something he said before he was introduced to Robin and Argyle too.
You spend too much time standing in Hopperâs office after that, your sore head pressed against the cool wall of the big ass metal safe he insisted on keeping beside the computer that was from the nineties. You felt like you were going crazy, like youâd only dreamed of getting absolutely railed by the hot new guy who was now in the kitchen, being shown the freezer and the pantry.
But the thump of your head and the ache between your thighs told you otherwise, and Jesus Christ, you tugged at your neckline, hiding the hickey there. It was him, right? It was definitely him. He was holding the same sweater heâd been wearing the night before. Youâd tugged it off of him, you had stepped over it on your way to shower just hours before. How was he just acting like he didnâtâ
The door to the office opened and when Steve stepped inside with you, it became infinitely smaller. It closed with a click behind him, the low lamp on Hopâs table making the already grey-blue walls look darker and moodier. Steve leaned against the wood and for a second or two, you both only stared at each other, as if remembering what the other looked like naked. You could recall the mole on his left shoulder, right beside the space youâd sunk your teeth into when heâd called you a good girl, the scratches youâd left on his back when heâd told you to ride him harder.
âEddie said you know where I can find some whites?â
His sunglasses were in his back pocket now, his face the same one youâd invited back yours. There was zero doubt about it. His gaze was fixed on your own, a game of chicken neither one of you was willing to lose untilâ Steveâs eyes dropped.
A glance that turned into more, a heated look that lingered from where it started on your bare legs, drifting upupup over your hips and chest. His eyes met yours once more, but still, he didnât say a damn thing.
Fuck it.
âDo we know each other?â Your voice was a lot more blunt than you intended it to be, but working at seven am with a hangover did that to a person. Your face was blank, neutral, at least you hoped.
Steve took his time to ponder it, face just as expressionless as your own before he shrugged, lips turned down. âNope. Donât think so.â
You stared at him. He stared back.
âUniform is down by the bar,â you finally conceded, voice sharper than a chef knife. Cutting, only dulled slightly by a chipped ego. You didnât know what the fuck you were supposed to say, but your pride was finding that swallowing the words down harder than a dry pill.
But what were you supposed to say? We fucked last night? You were in my bed this morning? Loved it when you went down on me, by the way, welcome to the team?
You didnât say any of that, of course you didnât. You did, however, knock your shoulder into Steveâs when you made for the door. He didnât say a thing, but he did follow you. Too closely, and you could smell his aftershave, the same one from the night before. He followed you back to the kitchen, new chef whites in hand after heâd grabbed them from the bar and the room was already too busy to talk quietly.
The grills were aggressively noisy, sparks of hot oil landing on the tiles behind it, Eddieâs speaker playing music too loudly. Argyle was hammering fillets of chicken breasts with a wooden mallet as he prepped for lunch and you decided to very much not look at Steve as you spoke.
âPantry door sticks a little, freezer temp jumps sometimes so let Eddie know if things start melting. Thereâs a set of knives in that second drawer over there and no opened toed shoes in the kitchen - youâd think that would be common sense but nobody told Argyle, apparently.â
Steve suppressed a smile and nodded. âGot it.â
âHopperâs barely here so ask Eddie for anything you need, wages go out the last Friday of every month, deliveries come at six on Monday mornings and you want any of the wait staffâs help, you ask nicely. No one yells at my girls.â
You turned then, waiting for another agreement, eyebrows raised.
Steve let his eyes roam over you, his lips curving. âRight,â he said.
You felt yourself boil over at the sight of his smile, at the way his hair flopped in his eyes and you hated that you suddenly remembered yourself brushing it out of the way when you were kissing him hours before, your knees hitched at his waist, pressed into your own bed. âIf you need a first aid box, youâll have to buy one and try not to sleep with any other staff members before lunch.â
The kitchen halted to a screeching stop at that. Eddieâs spatula stopped half way to the pan and Argyleâs mallet tumbled out of his hand. Both men stared at you, their eyes flitting to each other and then to Steve, whose cheeks were pink from more than just the warm air. If anyone was planning on saying anything to you in return, they were too late.
You were storming out, hands slamming onto the door so hard it hit the wall behind it. âWelcome to The Gate,â you yelled over your shoulder, just as Robin was unlocking the front door and the first of the regulars poured in for their morning coffee.
It was going to be a long fucking shift.
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Eddie let out a long, low whistle. âDude. Itâs been ten minutes. The fuck did you do?â
Steve was still staring at the swinging door, long after youâd disappeared from sight. He groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck that was prickling with an uncomfortable, embarrassed heat.
âSomething bad, I think.â
Eddie appeared at his side, eyes glittering with amusement. âYou know her, man?â He dug an elbow into Steveâs ribs, a gasp leaving his lips when Steve opened his mouth and didnât respond. âOh shit, you two totally banged.â
Steve still didnât reply, instead, tugging on his chefâs jacket over his shirt, head bent and eyes avoiding Eddie and Argyle, who was back to filleting chicken and definitely listening in
âDude, when?â Eddie was beside himself now, his grin too big and too happy at Steveâs miserable situation. âDid you not call her back or somethinâ? I mean, youâd be crazy not to - Iâve been flirting with the girl for over a year now and she wonât crackââ
âLast night,â Steve was leaning over a butcher's block, his hands in his face as he regretted every single action heâd taken since he opened his eyes that morning. âWell, technically this morning. Like, five hours ago.â
Argyle dropped the premise of pretending to not listen. He snorted, looking over Steve with a mixture of awe and disbelief. âOh youâre so screwed, Eddieâs friend. Why you out here actinâ like you donât know the lady?â
Steve scrambled for words, his hands gesturing helplessly to the closed door, out to where he couldnât see you. âIâ I donât know, okay? I panicked. I woke up this morning and she was gone! I didnât know she worked here! I thoughtâ I thought it might have been easier to just pretend it didnât happen, that we didnât know each other.â
Eddie was staring, his features set in an unimpressed mask. âJesus, Harrington, thatâs so fucking dumb, even for you.â
âI know, okay!â Steve snapped and then crumbled once more. âFuck, I was standing at the door and I donât know, I thought she might have been my fucking boss or something, I donât know how to be professional when itâs been in the fucking morning, Iâm probably not legal to drive yet and my dick is still half hard from how many times she roââ
The door swung open and Robin appeared. âThereâs four people wanting to know where their bagels are, why isnât anyone taking tickets? Eddie, what the fuck?â She gestured to where there was a trail of receipts hanging on the rack by the kitchen window and sure enough there were tables filling up, groggy eyed customers all waiting for breakfast.
Steve spotted you through the open hatch, your back to him as you took another order from a table taken by a tired looking dad and his three kids. There was already spilled salt on the wooden surface, an iPad blaring on the bench seat and despite the way he could hear you speaking pleasantly, your foot had set an impatient beat on the tiled floor.
He didnât take his eyes off of you when you turned and walked towards the kitchen, heading for the hatch with your order in hand - he couldnât. Steve was staring - blatantly. And for a second, maybe two, you looked back with just the same intensity, like you were sharing the same memory, both of you remembering the way the other had moaned their name, the way the bed had creaked and groaned with every stroke of Steveâs hips. Like you were thinking of doing it again, like neither of you wouldâve minded a repeat in the back office, crushing each other against the lockers or on top of Hopperâs empty desk.
But then you reached the hatch and your gaze hardened. You slammed the order down with a sharp hand and when you lifted it, your middle finger saluted Steve before you walked away once more.
No one said anything for a beat and then Eddie laughed, clapping Steve on the back. âYeah, what she said, man. Welcome to The fucking Gate.â
plot 150 words
bed-sharing 200 words
smut 800 words
projecting my fears, insecurities, and anxieties onto a fictional character 9,356 words
fluff 150 words
someone who is good at fan fiction please help me budget my WIP, my family is dying
â§ď˝Ľďž:you have to convince him you want it. Clark worries every time he fucks you that heâs going to break you, and it takes days of begging to convince him youâll be fine. You kneel between his legs and rest your head on his thigh, pouting and pleading while he pets your head. His jaw ticks, and he closes his eyes in something close to a prayer. His eyes flutter, and you know he wants it as bad as you do. You feel it, every time heâs inside of you and presses down a little too hard. Every time he picks up the pace then slows down. Every time he throws you around and his cock twitches. You promise to tell him if itâs too much, rubbing that thick, demanding tent in his pants. He gives in, and youâve never degraded yourself for something better.
â§ď˝Ľďž:clark holds you in a headlock. His massive bicep wrapped around your throat, pinning you against his shoulder, forcing you almost fully off the broken mattress. You cling to his arm, your eyes rolling back and drool falling from your swollen lips. Heâs everywhere like this. The heat rolls off of him like a summer storm, everything wet and humid and sticky. His thighs bracket yours, forcing them together while his free hand splays on your stomach and forces your ass backwards. The angle makes his cock feel like itâs cleaving you open, the thick head bumping against the deepest spot inside of you as his balls press against your cunt.
â§ď˝Ľďž:every deep moan and filthy word is snarled into your ear, and vibrates through your body like electricity. A dazed, cockdrunk smile paints your lips as you take thrust after thrust, your body limp and overwhelmed with pleasure. The headlock limits your breathing to shallow gasps of Clark and more, but the pressure makes your head spin and every sensation all the more powerful. Clark kisses over your neck and face, skin slapping against skin, enough friction between your bodies to start a wildfire.
â§ď˝Ľďž:âthatâs a girl, huh,â he rasps, thick, calloused fingers dragging down to rub your clit in tight little circles. Your whole body writhes, back arching and a broken moan leaving your parted lips. You arch, unsure if youâre chasing more or trying to get away. Clark chuckles, pressing down hard on the hypersentive bundle of nerves and readjusting his grip so his fingers wrap around your throat. He forces your head backwards and swallows your hopeless moan with a rough, claiming kiss. âNeedy little brat, takinâ my cock like youâre made for it- Shit-â
â§ď˝Ľďž:clark groans and kisses you harder. His thrusts are getting sharper and shorter, and your own orgasm begins to wash over you like flooding sunlight. Clark fucks up into you like an animal, fingering your clit like a toy, and stars form behind your eyes. You scream with delight into his open mouth, your pussy flooding and gushing around his thick cock. He moans, squeezing your throat, and doubles over. You fall face first into the mattress, and Clark forces your ass up into the air. You sob, the pleasure overwhelming, and Clark kisses everywhere he can reach as he desperately ruts into your warm, gooey little cunt.
â§ď˝Ľďž:he cums with a moan of your name, burying himself deep inside and painting your insides with hot, thick ropes of cum. Another orgasm shivers up your spine like lightning, making you boneless and ditzy. You giggle into the sheets as Clark folds over you like a massive blanket, and he smiles against your back, kissing over your spine and shoulders.
â§ď˝Ľďž:âdid so good for me,â he murmurs, twining his fingers through yours. âThat was⌠Geez.â
â§ď˝Ľďž:you laugh softly, still at a loss for words, and just curl under his body. Safe, empty-headed, and warm.
âŚClark Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!âŚ
âŚAuthor's Note: dirty clark ily <3âŚ
âŚBuy me a coffee!âď¸âŚ
âŚsummary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. âŚ
âŚwarnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluffâŚ
âŚwc: 8.6kâŚ
âŚauthor's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for loveâŚ
âHave sex with me.â
Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. Youâre patient. Heâs scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You donât think itâs going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.
âBetter?â You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyesâit wasnât that crazy a thing to sayâbut bounce on your toes and wait.
Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like youâve grown a second head.
âWhat?â
âHave sex with me-â
âYeah, I- I heard you the first time, thatâs not-â Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. âItâs eight in the fuckinâ morning-â
âItâs eight fifteen.â
That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.
âThatâs fifteen extra minutes, it matters-â
âNot for this. And- I ainât even showered yet-â
Your nose wrinkles. âWhy havenât you showered?â
âI shower after coffee,â Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. âIf I donât, Sammyâs stinkinâ up the kitchen from his run.â
âOh- Okay.â You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. âIs that⌠A yes?â
Deanâs eyes widen on yours. Youâre worried heâs going to choke on the air this time. âYes?â
âAre you going to have sex with me,â you clarify, and his mouth falls open.
âI- Iâm- Youâre-â His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. âAre you fuckinâ with me?â
You frown. âWhy would I be fucking with you?â
ââCause, sweetheart, you canât just-â He lets out a sharp breath. âIs it Sam? Did he put you up to this? âCause I told him- That kinda prank, itâs off the table-â
âWhat kind of prank?â Youâre a little lost, and thereâs shame starting to burn up your neck.
A prank. He thinks itâs a prank.
Itâs not. Youâre so serious itâs almost embarrassing. You wouldnât have asked him if you werenât. Youâd almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.
Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didnât seem capable of noticing. Youâd tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about.Â
Youâd neglect your feelings in the hope theyâd die, but heâd water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. Heâd buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. Heâd open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, heâd smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, heâd call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. Heâd play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when heâd see you take down men closer to Samâs size with barely a grunt of effort.
âNice try, sweetheart,â heâd whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and youâd have to swallow down your moan.
Heâd get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. Youâd sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.
If Dean knew how you dreamed about himâhow those moments followed you into bed, every single nightâyouâre so sure heâd never look at you again. He doesnât see you like that, youâre sure. Youâre the kid they took in, the annoying girl whoâs got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.
Youâve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where itâs supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.
So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on
You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over withâone time, where he doesnât know heâs taking your virginity, where heâs peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existenceâand then you can try to move on. Once youâve had sex, it wonât be this big monster you shy away from anymore. Itâll just be another thing.
So youâre asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, itâs a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. Heâs bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, thatâs none of his fucking business.
Maybe youâre not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You wonât even cry about it in front of him.
But he thinks itâs a prank. Why would he think itâs a prank.
âYou know,â he says, watching you wearily. âSammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.â
You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. âItâs not a joke,â you mumble. âI- I was serious.â
âYou were serious?â
He says it like itâs insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.
âSweetheart-â
âYou donât have to,â you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isnât being torn to ribbons.
You really hadnât expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.
âWait, just- Hold on-â
You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like heâs swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because youâre a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feetâtheyâre smarter than the rest of you, they want to runâand trying not to melt under his gaze.
âYouâre actually askinâ me to fuck you?â He rasps, and you nod.
Itâs the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.
âWhy?â
âWhy?â You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. âBecause- You- Youâre good at it?â
âIâm good at it,â Dean repeats. âYou wanna fuck me âcause you think Iâd be good at it?â
You wish heâd stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. âI donât think,â you offer. âYouâre the one who said you would be.â
Deanâs lips twitch, but he doesnât look amused. âI could be lying, sweetheart.â
âI donât think you are.â
He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceilingâmaybe he still thinks heâs on a prank showâand he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.
Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.
âNo,â he mutters. âI ainât- Doinâ that. Not just âcause you- No.â
You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but thatâs not his problem. Heâs allowed to reject you. Youâre also allowed to cry about it.
âSweetheart-â
âItâs fine.â Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. âItâs- Thatâs okay.â
âNo, just- Fuck-â He rubs his jaw. âListen to me, alright-â
âYou donât have to explain,â you shrug weakly. âItâs okay.â
Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. Itâs not going to help.
âIâll just-â You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.
Dean says your name again. When you look back, heâs reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.
âThank you for your consideration.â You say, because youâre a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like youâre one.
You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you donât look back.
Rejection is fine. Youâre fine. Youâre so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because itâs fun. Itâs fun to cry over something you never even had.
At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.
If Dean wonât sleep with you, youâre going to find someone who will. Youâre going to get it over with. This week.
Youâre learning something about yourself.
You are not good at flirting.
The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. Itâs a habit you donât think youâre able to break.
âWhereâre you going?â He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where youâd usually sit.
âBar,â you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.
âWhy, you forget something?â
âNo.â
âThen what-â
Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised youâd be back.
Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you donât think youâd be able to tell him no.
Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasnât stopped treating you the way he always has, but thereâs something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. Youâve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.
You donât want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. Heâs not the one who got his heart broken. Heâs not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.
He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what youâre doing. He said he wasnât going to sleep with you, and youâre a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.
âYou canât be for real, sweetheart-â
âDean.â Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.
âCâmon, Sammy- Tell her sheâs being crazy-â
âCrazy?â You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. âYou fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that Iâd do the same thing?â
âItâs not- You just- You donât-â He swallows. âYou donât do this-â
âI do now.â
âSweetheart, just- Sit down-â
You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isnât the end of the universe.
Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.
âWhatâs a pretty little thing doinâ in a place like this?â The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.
You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you canât really hear. He seems into itâno matter how pathetic you must be coming offâuntil his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine thatâs not the hot rush of Deanâs touch, but the sliver of a snake.
You go home alone that night, and you donât look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because thatâs the only way this is going to work.Â
But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you canât manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and thereâs no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. Theyâre all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.
No. Youâll just pretend itâs Dean all the time, and thatâs the opposite of what youâre supposed to be doing here.
So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Deanâs been looking at you weirdâbrow pinched and jaw set, every single nightâand youâre getting desperate and fuck it.
âSam.â
Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.
âSam.â
âIâm listening, whatâs-â
âHave sex with me.â
Sam, to his credit, doesnât choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.
âJust- Listen-â
âNo?â Sam gapes at you. âIâm not- Iâm not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-â
âCome on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldnât make it weird-â
âItâs already weird-â
âYouâd be doing me a favor-â
âIâd be making a death wish!â Samâs voice drops to a hiss. âDean would fucking kill me.â
 You roll your eyes. âThen donât tell him, dumbass.â
âNo, I- Iâm not doing that.â Sam shakes his head, like heâs trying to jolt the image free. âTo you. Or him.â
âTo him?â You narrow your eyes. âI- What the fuck would this do to Dean?â
Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. âI⌠Canât say.â
âSam Winchester-â
âWhy are you asking me?â Sam whines. âIâm not- Youâre not even into me-â
âExactly, there would be no strings attached-â
âThatâs not healthy-â
âFuck off, like you donât have casual sex-â
âI mean, I do, but Iâm not-â Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. âJust- Why would you even want to have sex with me?â
You flush, but shrug. Itâs just Sam. Itâs easier to tell him than Dean. âI want to get it over with.â
âGet it over with?â Sam echoes. âIt- You mean sex?â
You nod, and Sam blinks.
âAre you a virgin?â
âMaybe.â
âYou- Youâre-â
âDonât be an asshole-â
âNo, Iâm not- I mean- Itâs fine. It doesnât matter. It actually-â Sam frowns at the air. âIt makes sense, I guess.â
That makes you scowl. âIt makes sense?â
Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you canât even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.
âYou know Iâm not going to sleep with you, right?â
âYeah.â You sigh, and he nods slowly.
âDoes Dean-â
âNo.â You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.
âI think you should-â
âSam. Iâll cut your balls off.â
âI- Okay.â
You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. âWould you?â
Sam blinks. âWhat?â
âIf you didnât- Know me,â you mumble. âIf we werenât like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?â
Sam snorts, and you scowl.
âIâm serious-â
âYeah, I know you are.â Samâs lips twitch. âItâs just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.â
You stand a little taller. âReally?â
âYeah, I mean- You know youâre attractive, right? If you just didnât, like, annoy me. Iâd be in.â
âI do not annoy you-â
âYouâre annoying me right now.â
You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.
âAnyone would be lucky to have you,â he says your name slowly. âI just- Donât want to be lucky.â
You huff in amusementâif Sam isnât lying, aversion to luck is a family traitâbut dip your head. âThanks. I think.â
âYouâre welcome. And-â Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. âIâm sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are⌠People. I think youâre going to figure it out.â
âYou need to sleep with her.â
Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt heâd ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.
âSammy, what the fuck-â
Sam said your name, and Deanâs hands fisted on the table.
Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. Youâd looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if heâd died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything heâd ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasnât allowed to take it.
He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didnât take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things heâd ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hookedâbecause he would, he fucking knew heâd never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just livingâand turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.
Dean wouldâve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, heâd stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. Heâd get possessive, heâd snarl at anyone else who got to close, heâd fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.
And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.
So heâd told you no, and youâd looked at him like a wet fucking kitten heâd kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. Youâd get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldnât get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.
He was the one who was rooted here forever. Youâd find something softer. Something good. Heâd accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. Youâd find something better, and that was what he wanted.
Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. Heâd kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.
But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like heâd lost his damn mind.
âNo,â he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.
âLook, Dean, I get that youâre being cool and righteous and whatever-â
âIâm not fuckinâ her, Sammy- I shouldnât.â He shot Sam a glare. âYou know why I shouldnât.â
âYeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.â Sam said flatly. âYouâve never even asked her if sheâd be- You know. Open to it-â
âI know sheâd be open to it,â Dean scowled at his coffee. âBut thatâs- I ainât doing it, Sammy. Never.â Not like that.
Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. âShe asked you first, didnât she.â
Dean frowned. âWhatâd you mean, asked me first-â
âTo take her virginity.â
He hadnât taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. âTo- What?â
Sam leaned back slightly. âDid she not ask you to sleep with her?â
âNo, she did, I just didnât fuckinâ- Sheâs a virgin?â
âI guess,â Sam shrugged. âYou know thatâs not a big deal, right?â
Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasnât a big deal, he didnât care. Heâd wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasnât the fucking issue.
But youâd asked him.
Youâd asked him to fuck you. Youâd wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. Youâd chosen Dean, to be the guy, and heâd told you no, and then youâd started flirting around with other people, and you couldâve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-
Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Deanâs eyes narrowed.
âHow the fuck do you know that.â
Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. âUhâŚâ
âSam-â
âShe mightâve⌠Asked me.â
âShe what-â
âI said no!â Sam said quickly. âI told her I wouldnât. But- You know.â Sam cleared his throat. âIf youâd said yes to her the first timeâŚâ
Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.
âNo.â
âDean, just-â
âNo. Iâm not takinâ advantage of her, Sammy, Iâm not-â
 âItâs not taking advantage of her if she wants it!â
âShe doesnât want it-â
Sam snorted. âOh, fuck off.â
Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didnât back down.
âWow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.â
Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. âDean⌠Just- Think about her, okay?â
Dean almost laughed. âAll I fuckinâ do is think about her-â
âThen think a little harder.â Sam said flatly. âBefore both of you get actually hurt.â
Dean didnât have an answer to that. Sam didnât seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police werenât there to stop him.
He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Samâs fault.
âCome in!â You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.
Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesnât need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. Youâre already losing sleep over the worry youâve fractured something between you beyond repair.
âHi,â you whisper, and he swallows.
âUh- Hey.â
âHi.â What the fuck is wrong with you.
Deanâs lips twitch. âHey.â
You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. Heâs wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and itâs sexier than all the profile pics youâve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you donât think youâve ever wanted to climb over him more.
âYou, uh-â He glances at your computer. âYou busy?â
âNo- No.â Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. âWhatâs up?â
Deanâs throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. âJesus.â
âWhat-â
âNothinâ.â He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. âDid you ask Sam to sleep with you?â
Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. âI- I didnât-â
âYou didnât?â
âNo, I mean- I- He wasnât supposed to tell you,â you whine, avoiding Deanâs stare. âI didnât- Fuck-â
âHey- Itâs- Woah-â
Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. Youâd started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadnât even realized it.
âDonât hurt yourself, sweetheart,â he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.
You nod, your voice only a breath. âOkay.â
Heâs so close. You can count all his crowâs feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. Heâs still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.
Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but donât manage to look away.
Deanâs tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.
âSammy told me something else,â Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.
âYeah?â You whisper, and he nods tightly.
âYeah. Said youâre, uh-â He clears his throat. âSaid youâve never- You know.â He cringes. âBeen fucked.â
Your mouth falls open. You think youâd like to die now. âDean-â
âIs that why you asked me?â His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. ââCause you just wanted someone to take it?â
You drop your gaze to his crotch. Thereâs a soft bulge there. Youâd drool over it, if you didnât think you were going to explode any second now.Â
Dean says your name, and you shake your head.
âDonât,â you mumble. âDonât just- Feel bad for me- You said no, thatâs- Itâs fine-â
âWhat if itâs not.â
Your eyes shoot up. Youâd think he was joking, if he didnât look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.
âHuh?â You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.
âWhat if I wanted to. Help you.â
âBut-â You blink. âYou donât.â
Dean shakes his head. âWrong, sweetheart. I do-â
âYou said you didnât-â
âI lied.â
You stare at him. He doesnât back down.
âWould it mean something?â He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. âIf I did it?â
You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You donât want the cure. âWould it matter to you?â You ask, and Deanâs eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.
Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as heâs offering you.
âDe- Dean-â You gasp against his lips. âDean-â
He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but donât try and pull away. You donât want this to ever end, and youâre afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.
High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.
âBreathe, sweetheart,â he mutters, rough and thick. Itâs the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When heâs giving an order you didnât ask for.
Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now youâre putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. Youâd do anything, just for him to never let go.
You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. Itâannoyinglyâhelps a lot.
âThere you go,â he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. âThatâs a good girl.â
You whine again. âDean-â
âSorry. Couldnât help it.â
He doesnât fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and thereâs a smug glint in his eyes thatâs almost dangerously intoxicating.
âBetter?â He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesnât push you away.
This might be real.
âAre you sure, âbout this?â Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.
âYes.â
âIâm old, sweetheart-â
âI like it.â
Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.
âI- I mean- I like you, so- I donât care if youâre old- I like you old- I like you-â
Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his you canât shy away.
âYou- Can you- I mean- If itâs just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-â
He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Deanâs lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.
âNot just sex,â he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. âNot with you, baby.â
You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. âCool.â
Dean grins back. âYeah?â
âMhm.â
âCool âcause you like me,â he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. âOf âcause Iâm old.â
You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, âYouâre spritely.â
Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. âSpritely? You think Iâm-â
âYouthful,â you babble quickly. âYouâve got a lot ofâŚâ You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing heâd just kiss you and shut you up. âYouth.â
Deanâs mouth curves up. âYouth, huh.â
You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.
âHurts when I bend over now, honey, donât think thatâs very youthful of me.â
âSo donât bend over,â you mumble, and Dean snorts.
âDemanding, arenât we?â
You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.
âMouthy and demanding,â he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. âDonât worry. Iâm gonna fix that.â
You whimper, and Deanâs grin grows.
âYou like that, huh.â
âDean-â
âAh,â he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. âYou wanted my help. This is how Iâm gonna help, baby. Takinâ real good care of you,â he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. âJust like this.â
 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Deanâs neck. You donât think youâve ever been this turned on. Itâs different, with Deanâs hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Deanâs lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.
âJust gotta do what I tell you, alright?â He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. âCan you do that, baby? Do it for me?"
You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.
âEager,â he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. âEager and soft.â
He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.
âSit still,â he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.
It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.
âThatâs right,â he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt. âGood work, baby girl. You fuckinâ love the attention, donât you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.â
You swallow, hugging him so tight youâre a little worried youâll choke him. Dean doesnât even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.
âIf youâre gonna hide that pretty face,â he grunts in your ear. âAt least fuckinâ kiss me.â
Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. Youâre panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.
âShit,â he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. âThatâs it, baby, just like that-â
 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he canât fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.
Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, youâre worried his cock might kill you.
âLook at you,â Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. âJust my fuckinâ fingers, baby. Keep breathinâ, or this is all weâre doing tonight.â
You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.
âGood girl,â he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.
âDean-â
âShh,â he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. âYou feel that, baby?â
âMmm- Mhm.â You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. âFeels good.â
âI know it does, sweet girl,â he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. âItâs that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.â
His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Deanâs smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.
âLie down,â he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.
Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.
âEverything off,â he says, and you go still.
âEverything?â
âMhm,â he raises his brows at your flushed expression. âThat gonna be a problem?â
You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You donât want to disappoint him, but heâs going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really donât want him to see you and change his mind, and-
âHey,â Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. âYou want my help?â
âYes, please,â you breathe, and thatâs all it takes.Â
Dean rips off his shirt firstâmakinâ it even, he saysâthen makes quick work of his jeans. You donât get more than a second to marvel himâflushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a wormâbefore heâs touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.
Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. âGettinâ shy, baby?â
âShut up-â
âAh.â He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. âWho tells who what to do?â
Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.
âYou were doinâ so well,â he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. âDonât get shy on me now.â
It doesnât help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Deanâs hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.
âNeedy fuckinâ baby,â he mocks. âCanât even help it, can you. Still tryinâ to be good for me.â
He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.
âYou want a little more?â
You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.
âSay please-â
âPlease,â you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. âPlease, Dean- More- Oooh-â
Deanâs thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.
Heâs not cruel, with how he touches you. Heâs generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.
When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. Youâre bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.
âGreedy little pussy,â he rasps against your lips. âKnow youâre gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"
He groans, like heâs the one being fingered into oblivion. Heâs set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.
Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.
âPoor girl,â he mutters. âAlready like this and Iâm not even properly fuckinâ you.â
âYour- Your hands,â you push out the word between sharp breaths. âTheyâre big.â
Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. âYeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckinâ big my hands are?â
âMh- Mhm.â
You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.
âWords,â he grunts. âYouâre not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.â
âLike it,â you breathe out. âLove- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-â
You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.
âYour close,â he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. âCum for me, pretty girl. Now.â
His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Deanâs hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. Youâre shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.
Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.
You donât even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but youâre mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.
He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.
Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but youâre still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.
âDean-â
You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.
âPlease?â You try again, and he chuckles.
âYouâre cute.â
âI- I am not-â
âYeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,â he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. âCute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.â
âDeeeean-â
âDeeean,â he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. âListen to you. Fuckinâ adorable.â
You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you donât even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.
âSon of a bitch,â he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. âYou got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckinâ idea.â
You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. Youâve taken toys before, when you got really curious. Heâs bigger.
âYou wanna touch, sweetheart?â He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.
Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. Heâs warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.
âEasyâŚâ He rasps, and you nod nervously.
You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.
âThatâs enough.â He mutters, twining your fingers together. âJesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.â
Your eyes widen. Youâd almost forgotten about that part.
âThatâs not going to fit inside of me.â
Dean chuckles. âYeah, it will.â
âNo, I mean like- It canât-â
âIt can.â
âDean, Iâm serious-â
He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.
âJust do what I tell ya,â he mutters. âWeâre gonna make it fit.â
You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.
Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy onceâas if he canât help himselfâbefore crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. Itâs tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.
âOpen up for me, baby,â he rasps. âCâmon.â
You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Deanâs lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time heâs fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like itâs fragile.
âSlow,â he mutters, and it sounds like heâs talking to himself more than you. âGonna go slow.â
You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Deanâs cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Deanâs hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him. Â
âTakinâ me so well, baby,â he rasps. âFeels good, doesnât it. Feels so fuckinâ good, beinâ filled up with cock like you deserve-â
His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound youâve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.
âYeah, you like that.â He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. âSay it, baby girl, say you like it-â
âI like it,â you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. âLove it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-â
Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. Youâre split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until youâre gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Deanâs fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.
âTight,â he moans. âSo fuckinâ tight- I- I canât- Shit-â
Deanâs hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.
âLet go, sweetheart, need you to let for âf me- Fuck-â
Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. Itâs a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.
His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.
Youâre almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.
âGonna clean you up,â he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.
âDeeean.â You grab at the air and catch his bicep. âStay.â
You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.
He better. You really donât want to let go of him now.
Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didnât realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but itâs a good kind of sore. When you moan, itâs not even really in pain.
He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.
âI like you,â Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You donât think youâve ever felt so bubbly in your life.
âI like you too-â
âNo,â his jaw works, the words low and tight. âI like like you- Like- Fuck-â
He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. Itâs almost adorable.
âYou- Youâre just- That really wasnât nothinâ for me, sweetheart, not even close-â
You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, âI like you too.â
Deanâs eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. âReally?â
âYeah,â you flush. âA- A lot.â
Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he canât stand not to look at you for too long.
âCan I take you out?â He says, and you nod.
âCan we have more sex,â you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.
âAny time you want, baby.â He says. âYouâre mine now.â
âŚEnd note: drooling for him âŚ
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