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Tis wroteclassicaly here! This blog is considered my library, where I will discuss things about all of my works (past and present, plus the future), & reblog them from my main! Make sure to turn your notifications on for this blog, so you can get notified when I post something new!
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A/N: I missed him. This was in my brain, full on late night thoughts/visuals. No warnings needed. Just Gator being Gator. I guess we can call this one “Oops, We Got Married” hah!
The cold air is at your back in an instance, causing you to shiver into your covers and pull tighter. His shadow hovers, a sickening cloud of strawberry flooding your space. He sighs, and that’s when your bed dips. Couldn’t he have knocked, or, damn - even broke into a regular sized doorway instead? It’s no use in pretending to sleep, the shithead has always been able to read you like some hardcover novel.
You permit him to sniff around, hovering like you’re his prey. All hair gel, chew, and that thick leather jacket. His trigger finger tickles its way beneath your camisole strap. Like a good lick to a wound, the purpling bruise is kissed from his touch. Generally, that is what happens when you miss the bed and land in a pile of limbs on a cheap hotel floor. His massive hand dusts around your flesh until those damn goosebumps appear.
Like a live wire, you spark into a charge.
“Somethin’ about bein’ married to you just makes me so fuckin’ hard.”
Oh… you’re positive he felt you react to his embrace now. A nursed hangover having passed this morning, your drunken decisions are no longer able to be avoided. Unanswered texts, ignored calls, and you in bed sleeping to calm your entire nervous system - it vanishes. You turn into his full hold, sighing, his silhouette absolutely radiating in the low light.
“Gator… this is ridiculous. We were drunk —“
He’s reaching for your left hand, raising it to adjust into his open palm, petting over the simple, silver band on your ring finger.
“Why you still wearin’ this if you’re so scared then?”
And god, open that heavy book, chapter one. You are terrified. Because your feelings run too deep to risk. With your choosing to remain silent, he continues. “On paper, you belong to me. You’re mine now, darlin’.”
He lets your hand go briefly, only to flash you his matching band, placed the same. Picking yours back up, he laces his fingers tightly, bending to meet you, his lips grazing your earlobe, nose near the side of your temple in a nudge. “You have my name now, baby. And I wanna hear you moan the first fuckin’ part of it.”
Summary: It was only the end of the world, right? Then I guess this is your typical confession…
Pairings: Steve Harrington x Best-friend!Fem Reader
Warnings: Angst, romance, hurt, comfort, fluff, feeling confessionals, mentions of death. It’s a sappy one, folks.
A/N: The title pretty much sums it up, haha. If y’all want a second part, (which will include the breakdown that Steve and the reader share over El’s death. And also, well, smut - duh!) let me know, pleaaaase, lol! Hope ya like it/enjoy! I’m slowly, but surely feeling my spark ignite again.
The blood that adorns your dirt caked hands, it shines beneath the light of Steve’s bedroom. You’re clinging again, cuts that stretch across your knuckles burning from how fisted your grip remains in the leather of his battle jacket. He doesn’t fight it, rocks with you as his eyes flutter closed into this private motion. Air filters in through an open window above his bed - clear and quiet. Hawkins is finally… just.
Jane’s death weighs heavy in your chests, the past four years of loss, monsters, blood, tears, destruction, fear, relationships, and danger - buried so deep you know it’s always going to be hardwired into your humanity. Neither of you need to speak to communicate. It’s here. Steve’s breath is warm on your cheek, his palms trembling against your waist. You’re not sure what he’s whispering, but there’s something he’s mantraing beneath pants.
This is when your legs give way to four-hundred total feet of climbing, running - hell, standing. It’s as if that tower, rusted ash, world draped in red, like it’s crumbling beneath your combats a second time.
“No,” you whisper.
“What?” Steve’s voice is slick with emotion.
You see no need to hide words anymore, especially after tonight. There’s strength in what you muster, however, you shake over a stiff tongue, words halfway filtering in. “You almost… Steve, if Jonathan hadn’t. You…” And fuck it you must be crying, because your jaw is tickled by the roughness of his fingertips, until it’s bounced into his palm with one smooth slide.
In that instance, it all collapses. Every year, the almosts, what-ifs, to what now is. Only when Steve’s pointer brushes across your eyelashes, do you risk a glance. There’s such an ambient glow in his tears. It’s as if something else has dawned on him. Your eyes find his lips when he wets them to speak.
“I wasted so much time thinking I loved Nancy longer than I did, and not doing what I should have done.” His shoulders are sharp, posture looking at ease.
You stare, blinking slowly, your stomach knotting, as if it’s beginning to twist into perches for rapidly growing butterflies. Inhaling so deeply that you have to gulp several more times, it takes a second, but you manage to respond. “Doing what, exactly?”
It’s automatic. “Loving you.”
He raises one bushy brow and you nod in confirmation, his mouth descending upon yours. You didn’t think you could grasp his jacket any harder, not until there’s a recoiling crack from the pressure inside your knuckle bones. It’s copper, messy, saliva stringing, and the god awful smells that the abyss bestowed (especially on poor Steve). Steve’s hips are bumping your own, everything becomes so fast. Until… it stops. You’re left chasing his mouth, confused as you tilt your head, sclera already glazed over in want.
He’s staring, a look of one thousand gazes, features dancing along his mouth in ways you’ve never seen before. His lashes are drenched, thumb wobbling as it swipes across the corner of your mouth. And it’s like he casts one giant bubbling montage of a memory array that you two have shared, maybe even before 1983. His voice is chalked full of rasp. “We don’t have to hurry or be afraid anymore. We can just take our time.”
“I wanna be close to you, Steve.” It’s an un-ashamed, raw need.
His lips find your forehead as you’re reaching to push his nearly mucus-liquified cap - off. You automatically rub your hands through the soft strands, before they station at your sides. Steve’s hands tuck in beneath your own coat, squeezing at your shoulders as he nudges it off, your bruises flooded in relief. “How about we take the world’s longest shower. And you can have me for the rest of the night. What do you think about that?”
Summary: Not all plans go accordingly. And maybe that’s a good thing…
Warnings: Fluff, hurt/comfort, minor violence mention (reader thwacks Jason)
A/N: Something that’s been in my drafts for a few years. I was going to add in more, but it’s actually a pretty cool stand alone. Hope you enjoy!
You stare straight ahead, your heels clicking in drumming thumps, the sticky fluorescent lights dimmed, leaving a cold and dank hallway, a light from the room where his club meetings take place spills across cold cement floors, casting shadows that showcase your small ruby red heels, also known as your pathetic attempts to dress up for him. You round another corner, their laughter dying out to hissing declines, and your hand finds familiar brick walls, striped with green and yellow school colors, your nails catching the jagged end of just one Valentine’s Day dance poster. It’s one flier versus the plethora you’ve seen around the building, yet it’s staring you in the face, almost as if whoever hung it on the wall with that scotch tape strip also sprayed it in a sickeningly sweet aroma. You let go of your propped position, knuckles grazing your cheekbone, stained charcoal from your smudged mascara and feathering lipstick across your flesh. It’s so fucking pathetic how you can still fantasize yourself into an embarrassing torment, hearing the gymnasium pulsate with lover’s songs, promised companies, futures, and girls discussing how much they’d spent on their outfits.
You won’t get that. And it was stupid to ever believe that he would’ve left you a note in your locker to begin with. You’d seen him eyeing the cheerleaders during his spectacles, never even glancing your way once in your high school career. He might be dubbed as an unapproachable freak, but you don’t think so. Regardless, he apparently finds you beneath him, just like everyone else, which is the last thing you expected.
Pushing yourself upright, you swallow harshly and begin your escape to the parking lot where your car is. You can formally break into pieces there. Fate, however, has other plans. Heavy footfalls thump over top the buffed floors, and you don’t have time to react before a shadow — one much taller than your own, one that smells like Old Spice, Cheeto dust, and Camel cigarettes invades your ashamed space. You immediately turn around and keep walking away from their voice, heartbeat locked beneath your ribcage, attempting to loosen your bones and stampede them to dust particles.
“Hey! Slow down, kiddo!”
You huff in annoyance, a watery laugh choking you. Kiddo? You’re a grown ass adult. Maybe he’s two years older than you, but that’s besides the point, and it makes you feel worse. You don’t need his pity.
“I ran track as a junior, I can keep up with you!”
Your facial features must be comical when you pivot, disbelieving and irate. You call his bluff on impact. “Bull-fucking-shit!”
His chain jingles and slaps against his pant leg, his white sneaker scuffing the floor as he stops short in front of you, panting in exertion. He really should stop smoking to avoid that. You won’t allow yourself to look at him, even though he’s speaking directly to you. “You’re absolutely correct, but it got you to stop for me, didn’t it?”
Damn your stupid fucking heart for accelerating, tongue swarmed with violent butterflies and their latching claws, dropping love bombs into the cove of your esophagus. His brown eyes are glowing with a mirth, but his mouth doesn’t catch on. His lips are wet with the pursing pop he exclaims, his ringed hands fidgeting at his sides, the paper that was supposed to be from him — that you’d crumpled in your fist and threw to the ground, he’d unraveled and smoothed out. The silence is awkward, tense, and you find it within yourself to beat him to the punchline.
“I already told you I was sorry for interrupting your special play. I thought the note was from you, I didn’t know?” Your voice is so small and raspy with tears that he inhales sharply, the action going straight to his chest and cutting into his lungs.
His extended lack of vocalization in comparison to his overly boisterous demeanor, it has you continuing. “I didn’t mean to, okay?” And you finally connect to the sparkling caramel irises of your long term crush, your unrequited lover — Eddie Munson.
As for Eddie, he is rarely rendered speechless. Nor has he ever remembered feeling as if a parade of baby monkeys were tap dancing on his insides and making him wanna vomit his feelings out to you. This is the point where his foot and mouth usually become one, but he surprises himself when he’s able to calmly convey his regret. “M’ the one that’s sorry. I was a total fucking nightmare back there.”
Your timid reserve softens, a flicker of hope that helps Eddie move a little closer into your space. “I’m not like that, I just get really into my campaigns, and we had this one planned for over a month!”
His words seem to cause more harm than good, your head nodding in rapid understanding. “I get it, I interrupted.”
And you’re moving towards those double glass doors, making Eddie hiss out a frustrated breath. He feels the ache of unsaid explanations nipping at his toes. He has to make this right. His hands find your shoulders and he’s in front of you, a surprising speed for even him. You try not to lean in to his touch, but it’s embarrassing how needy and clingy he makes you. Stupid fucker. His calloused thumbs press into your shoulders, massaging, his palms begin to knead the tension of the night — free.
Eddie could do this forever, he realizes, calming your nerves with his touch. He’s never had this effect on any other human being, one that he was as equally enamored by, unbeknownst to you. You’re amazing and you just can’t see it. Your eyes have closed and you sigh once, twice, before they open. You’re sated, offering him a small smile. “You were a nightmare.”
His jaw drops, a relief flooding him, despite your boldness. He pokes your shoulder, waving the note in your face. “Well, someone is fucking with us both, but looks like the joke is on them, huh? You’re tougher than I thought, sweetheart, and I really don’t mind that they sent you my way.”
You roll your eyes at his pet name. Flirty bitch. You can’t let his words implode your ego. But before you can ask what he means by that, a disgusting laughter is bellowed from the doorway, your throat prickling with the burn of immediate tears, blood running ice cold. You now know what this means, even as Eddie is still clueless.
“Carver, what the fuck are you doing here? There’s no available balls for you to be juggling, so I’m kinda confused.”
It seems Eddie’s snappy remarks can’t take the glow off Jason’s face. He knows exactly what he did. His friends snicker behind a closed fist, awaiting their leader's big speech. Jason doesn’t disappoint, jabbing a finger at the yellow stationary paper in Eddie’s grip. “See that you got my letter, freak lover. Fuck, it was priceless to hear the freak embarrass you in front of all of his little followers!”
Your skin is on fire, stomach in nauseated knots, mouth watering with sickness, eyes burning with moisture that covers your sclera. You don’t get to say anything, Eddie doing it first. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you? This is low, even for you, Carver. She hasn’t done shit to you! If you got something to say about or to me — that’s for us to deal with, yeah? You don’t take it out on her like a fucking pussy—“
“What’s wrong with her, Munson? She’s the one that won’t shut up about you. People that want to roll in trash with a freak deserve exactly what’s coming to them.” Jason pauses, clicking his mint gum. “It’s sad though, when even the town freak doesn’t care about you. Dresses like a cheap cow in off brand clothing to try and impress you. And all it took was some chicken scratch scribbles and this bitch was drooling all over —“
Eddie used to wish he could see into the future, when he was particularly smoked out and sinking into his mattress, tapping his fingers into invisible beats on the glass of his bong, he’d picture what it might be like. It never amounted to anything, but daydreaming is always fun. However, seeing your knee connect between Jason Carver’s legs — that’s a downright evil fantasy. His anger at Jason planting the note about the dance and humiliating you, pushing Eddie into snapping at you when you were persistent over the piece of paper and he was clueless, to Jason berating you to further your torment — it momentarily takes a side stepping hold to seeing you personally bring the tainted golden boy to his knees (literally). Eddie wishes he could film this moment and big screen it at the next pep rally - real time.
Jason goes down on bended knees, at your mercy, as if you’re some dragon slaying Queen and he’s a pure peasant (he is, really), holding onto his denim covered crotch as his minions step in, but step back when they see Eddie come to your side. Without their mouthy leader, it seems their spines aren’t puppeteered enough. You use your palm and go at the golden blonde again, smacking him square in the forehead, tone shaking with an anger that could tear these very concrete walls. Eddie crosses his arms, awaiting instruction, but none is needed. The jocks relent, Jason aimlessly cursing you as Eddie starts to flap his arms like a chicken for a special soundtrack moment.
By the time you turn back to the curly haired man of your every waking and non-waking fantasies, he’s present, eyes shining with respect and astonishment.
“What?” You grow shy under his gaze, anger fading to a dull heartbeat in your chest.
“If I had a ring I’d offer my hand up to you on a silver platter, sweetheart, cause’ that might’ve been the hottest shit I’ve seen since Elvira.”
“Wouldn’t that be my hand you’re asking for, not offering up your own?” You smirk a little, basking in the attention, only to remember what happened and why you’re here.
He only likes me because he feels bad for me and because I stood up to the golden brigade.
“You’re probably overthinking what I’m about to ask you, aren’t ya? Believe me, I know. I think on a daily basis that the lunch lady isn’t spitting in my food because she feels bad for me.” You snort.
He knows how to comfort and charm, that’s for sure. But you know he does get it.
“Be Carver’s little spectacle, as it may, you never gave me a chance to respond with my own answer. You just assumed I wouldn’t.”
“Your own spectacle was reason enough…” you trail off. There’s a tension, something that you’re hoping you’re not imagining, something you’ve craved.
You don’t dare look at his deep doe eyes or listen to the crunch in his jacket when he situates his arms, and you especially don’t focus on how low his voice goes to talk gently, personally to you, just for you.
“I don’t dance, but I think I could dance for you.”
You’re swallowing noticeably as you stare one another down. He’s waiting for you to say yes.
You hadn’t let Eddie see your dress during the entire duration of the van ride, your black overcoat covering its fluffy entirety, leaving him to only see the soft pink makeup you’d done and the lining of ruby red lipstick. To his credit, never having been to this type of social function or on any real dates, treats you just like Cinderella. Helps you in and out of the van, makes sure you’re steady on your satin red heels, and escorts you properly into the overly decorated expanse of the gym; reds, pinks, whites, and various shapes hanging around, creating a soft atmosphere. You both feel a little unsteady, especially taking your coats off to reveal the final products of a solid week of worrying, and money spent.
Eddie wore his best dark jeans and bought a new white undershirt, wearing the only pair of decent dress shoes Wayne would let him borrow. His jacket was thrown over, his rings and pick chain left on, his old spice dousing his jawline and chest. And holy fuck did he make sure his wild mane was tamed for you - soft and curly. When he helped you remove your coat and stared straight into the expanse of the pink sequin bodice trimmed in gold around the bust, red tulle sleeves draped down your arm to frame your gold bangle and red manicured nails — his salivating begins to match your own.
You fluff your skirt, shyly looking down, meeting his shiny shoes, both of you shy and warm, on the verge of saying something when the yearbook crew is sweeping you away to the balloon covered lattice. And that’s when Eddie is cursing himself, watching the couples in front adjust corsages. He forgot yours in his backseat, like a dumbass. You don’t seem to mind, but he wants you to have something, needs you to know that he’s thinking of you. He just hopes this will do the trick.
When it’s your turn, Eddie slides in behind you and it leaves room for momentary confusion, until you feel him linking his pick chain around your neck, his chin propping on your shoulder as his arms wind around your waist seconds later. “This okay?”
He can probably feel you begin to tremble, hear the hitch in your voice as you say, “yeah”, but none of that matters. And as the night goes off without a hitch, you eventually get your corsage and a Big Mac Meal, heels off, and in the backseat with Eddie, splitting a smashed snack cake he’d stuffed in his pocket in case… Fuck it, he didn’t really remember anymore…
But he does need to remember to send Jason Carver a thank you note.
Summary: The Squawk van really does suck ass. You know… unless you’re stuck with Steve Harrington, post - winter crawl.
Warnings: Language, cocky/bratty Steve, mutual yearning, overall NSFW, van sexy time, and vaginal fingering.
Pairings: Steve Harrington x Female Reader
A/N: It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. I’m not completely on my top notch yet, but I managed to get inspired for this tonight. I hope y’all enjoy? And if you do, remember to give reblogs! It helps us authors out! ;)
Missed y’all! ♥️♥️
Monday, December 8th, 1986.
You aren’t sure who sighed first. Maybe it’s you? Maybe it’s the overly gelled, delicious looking, aftershave soaked, front seat driver to your left. That massive hand finds your line of site once more as he thumps the dash, causing dust to cascade across the entire area. You swipe your fingers through, breath palpable.
Steve reaches for his brown suede jacket, tightening it around his slightly bulked physique, his spare hand jiggling with the walkie that went silent over thirty minutes ago.
Noticed.
You always notice.
How can you not when it comes to him?
“This is just bullshit. Total and utter fucking crap.”
Resisting the urge to snort at his ‘utter’ usage, you focus on the snow dusted cornfield you happen to be broken down by, drawing a finger through condensation. Steve reclines in his seat, one arm slinging back over the passenger side, left arm elongating to prop onto his cheek, his pointer finger poking to stroke along his beauty marks, down to the corner of his mouth. Your thoughts are automatically transported, to the point that leather is heard creaking with your legs shifting. You’re so close to the chill frosting the glass that it’s scattering across your face, sending bumps along the back of your neck.
Stop being so noticeable. Doesn’t matter how close he is to you. With no one around. You said you’d stop, avoid shit creek any further than what’s been explored.
A self-guided pep talk that’s never worked. Not when it comes to Steve Harrington, anyways. So what do you attempt? Drawing more attention to yourself by starting a conversation you didn’t intend on. Because it riles Steve up, especially with these crawls.
And you know what happens when he’s riled up.
“Get a taste of frosty’s balls over there, honey?” The smirk is practically heard dripping off his lips.
Feeding right into the energy, it’s spoken into the biting chill of the van. Steve’s fingers easily find your neck’s nape from their settled position. He steers you into looking his direction, with that bratty attitude molding into a purpose. All spice and courage, Steve closes a massive palm completely over your skin, his voice diabolically low and slick with sinful salvation.
“C’mhere.”
A click is heard as you swallow. There’s not a point in trying to resist. You’re too far gone into needing him just as much, if not more. A control you both have, yet one to lose within this town of chaos. He matches paces, seemingly connecting with your thoughts, wavelengths molding together.
You taste the cinnamon gum on his breath before the bridge of his nose even smudges yours, before his lips press an ever-so-light kiss to the side of your mouth. He’s got putty, begging in translation. With the other remaining arm, he lets it toss out, wrapping around your waist, squeezing the flesh of your ass. Your lashes flutter, eyes already glazed over with tears that decipher a yearning so strong your legs sway open upon impact. Steve’s breath fans your cheekbones, hot and welcomed.
“Figure we’ve got about ten to fifteen more minutes before someone’s here to jump this hunk of junk.” He pecks your upper lip. “Gives me time to get us both warm.” Your head lolls into his grip as he cups, massaging the back of your scalp. “One out of two for the night. Not bad, right?”
You can do nothing but nod. A consent. Still, Steve is the gentleman. He’s never not needed a verbal.
“Yeah?” It’s said with such a pronounced creation that it cannot be ignored.
With your voice winded and hoarse, breath fogged, you let him know. “Whatever you need to do to shut yourself up and make it warm in here, Harrington.”
A bite back. Helps him swell into his already tight jeans. He finds you, a caramel tress caressing your browbone. His mouth nips you for a kiss, covers yours to share in some knowledge that only he is privy to. “I hear the forecast is calling for a one-hundred percent chance of wetness. We’re talking slick conditions here, baby.”
“Steve…” A warning, a command. Just… something to get him to satiate the accumulating burn.
His teeth scrape your earlobe, blowing enough air to make you whine, arching into him. His hand slides slowly down its former place on your waist, tucking cool fingers beneath, idling along your jean waistband. Every touch feels like a connective sparking, burning Steve-etched scars into your skin. He doesn’t tease any longer, five minutes having been taken off the fifteen guess. You’re shaking your head in automatic agreement.
Pushing your coat aside, you lift your shirt as his fingers pop your button and undo your zipper with familiar ease. The temperature in the van isn’t the only thing making you shiver in anticipation. Steve’s knuckles drag along your jawline first. “Shh, just relax, okay? All you gotta do is come for me, honey. And I know you’ll do that.”
“Steve, hurry up, before anyone —“
Oh. Yeah. There’s that. How does he do it?
Steve’s fingers glide seamlessly through your soaked cunt, using the lubrication to push inside, crooking with ease, barely letting you feel a thumb-pad graze your spot. And then he’s reversing, all the way to your clit, pressing in hard. You dive into his mouth without care, sounding like some wanton animal. Anything to lick inside, taste your shared airspace. It’s like coming home.
Comfort and vulnerability, risking it all the more that you both let this happen.
There’s a thumping in your ear, a static, rhythmic beat. It tangles in tune to the second finger Steve adds. His thumb settles in on your clit, giving a steady and directive set of circles. His fingers moving gently enough to keep you mewling, as if your insides are being tickled to the nerve endings. Right there. More. It’s like you wanna cry, letting him coach you into rocking over his mashed hand, those knuckles sticky with the slick crotch of your panties, trapped inside your warmth.
Steve is panting rapidly when that ringing briefly pauses, as you become aware. He’s watching you, your eyes locking. Those mossy shards scattered around a black abyss. His mouth soaked from where’s he licking his lips, turned on by how wet you are for him, from your pleasure. That band is tugged to its fullest, brought back hard by the universe, some force stronger than Vecna.
Steve increases his pace, not letting you dare to look away. The way you want to as heat floods your features, your soaked pussy a backing track. How you can smell your arousal. His lips find yours, wrist snapping to meet your greedy chase. Time running out, not enough, reality too much. You reach to fist his perfect hair into your grip, whimpering, fading.
You start to tighten around Steve, and he knows it’s over. There’s thoughts not about to be spoken, happening in rapid flash flips throughout one another’s heads.
Don’t stop, Steve. Don’t ever.
Warm my hand, honey. Just wanna taste you.
So good.
Fuck.
I wanna —
I need to —
That tickle settles in between your legs, led by Steve’s fingers, all in his powers. Like a puppet to his strings, he brings you there. Toes first, your whole body warms with a coolness that quickly blazes to an inferno - exploding inside of you. Steve licks his way into your mouth as if he’s tasting the mess he’s made. Keeping himself at bay, he rears to watch you fall apart.
Shaking maddeningly, you let his name spill off your lips without regret. It damn near gets him close to tears. And they’re already matting his lash line. It’s always intense with you. Steve gives a nuzzle, working his hand out of your underwear, and as he suspects, upon observing, it’s stringing with fresh shine, damp with you to his wrist.
Steve doesn’t give a millisecond before he’s cleaning himself, weaving his tongue in between his fingers to get it all. And it’s still, taking it in after. He helps you by holding your shirt up as you adjust your pants. You know you’ll definitely need to clean yourself later, because damn. When the heat clears in the clutter of the van, you both do sample a look at one another, leaning, close enough to kiss one more time. Your lips smack, divulging, just holding one another now - your hands having moved to his jaw, finger tips tapping a stroking beat, his on your cheeks, tracing, trailing.
Headlights reflect off the windshield, a moment broken. And the globe you’ve perfected is back to loss of control and this current reality. You look away as Steve hops out, adjusting himself. He meets Jonathan and Lucas, looking back at you as they grab a set of cables, a soft, reserved half-smirk.
Summary: Steve Harrington is a gold medalist when it comes to eating pussy. But with you, it’s his occupation.
Pairings: Steve Harrington x Female Reader
Warnings: Language, NSFW, oral (fem!receiving), fingering, and spit.
A/N: There’s a video somewhere that I can never find. It inspired this, because I know Steve Harrington is the type that would definitely be this way. Hope y’all enjoy!
If there’s one thing your best-friend turned boyfriend, Steve Harrington is gonna do - it is to tongue fuck you until he’s satisfied, no matter how many times you’ve come.
You’re not sure of time’s concept anymore, not really. Your bedroom window is cranked, blush curtain blowing in the wind, tangling with the last of summer and the ushering of fall in - providing a lush breeze. It cools in prickles across your sweat slick skin, your bare breasts, hard nipples. Your clock, your tv, all is silent in the expanse of your bedroom. Well… all except for Steve and his fucking mouth.
And god, you can hear it. How absolutely-disgustingly, filthy he’s working you over. You’ve already given him every accolade, ones he doesn’t need to know that he gives good head. Hawkins grand champion, gold medal world Olympian in the sport of pussy eating. Sometimes, you wonder if he even thinks about himself or you (or just your pussy. Like maybe it floats around without your torso, just in his dreams).
You will never complain, even with his reminders that it’s you. It is always just you. But holy hell, when he gets like this. That heady look etched into his face, moles and freckles dancing through his skin. The moss within his eyes becomes tangled into an inky black, until he’s got you where he wants you and it dissipates entirely.
If you didn’t hear Steve’s tongue working relentlessly with his fingers, you’d have assumed he died down below deck. Still… you lift the blanket to find him unresponsive, completely outer limits, gorging himself on the cum that has embarrassingly leaked into your crack. His sweats are still on, but he’s driving his cock into the bed in slow dips to match his rhythm with you. He doesn’t stop you as you reach for an arm, lifting until you see the time on his watch.
7:11 PM. Two hours?! Two fucking hours he’s had you spread out like this, not asking for anything, and not letting up. And unless you’ve just not taken the time to tally hours put in before, this is the longest he’s eaten you out. He has a strong, chiseled jaw, pearly whites, but he must be hurting in some way. His spare hand falls back and it pins your thigh open, his tongue giving a particularly hefty flick across your hood, causing your speech to stutter and become lost.
It happens before you can stop it, your thighs accidentally pressing around his ears in a clamp, hips rolling into it, muscles trembling, giving into a slack fall aside. He doesn’t stop, his pace relentless, yet gentle into taking time with you. Exploring like you’re some fucking forbidden map. It’s when he hums, blowing hot air, that you try to get out what you need to say beforehand. For his benefit.
“Steve?”
Nothing.
“Baby?”
Nadda.
“Steve Harrington?!”
That catches him, as if he cares. His head rises and you’re sure you’ll be levitating in ten seconds. Those beautiful caramel tresses are in disarray, cheeks and ears covered in flush, face soaked fo the defined bridge of his nose, his tongue coaxing out on its own accord to lick at your taste as if he cannot stand to be away from it. He’s glazed over, intoxicated from your cunt, his pupils blown so wide it looks like color will never return to them. Your fingers wiggle into sweaty strands of his hair.
“Hmm?” His voice is gravelly, hoarse, so far gone.
It breaks your heart to offer, but you wanna consider him too. “We can… Steve, your entire jaw probably hurts. You don’t have to —“
He whines. A guttural sound from his throat, his fingers pausing over your spot, pulling out seconds later. He slicks them, all big and firm across the seam of you, smacking, stretching your arousal. When his eyes meet yours, there’s literal tears. Steve finds his speaking capabilities once more to let you know, pitiful, begging, a crack in his rasp. “Jus’ a little more, baby. Please? For me?”
Your belly hatches itself onto the wings of some dramatic butterflies, clawing, tearing into your diaphragm. His pleading, his wet eyes just to have you, how giving you pleasure gets him off. You nod, reaching for another pillow behind you to prop up and see the show. This time, his eyes stay on you as he lowers his head, that sinful tongue licking its way inside of you. Your eyes roll back, a cry perching itself on your lips. Steve raises his head again, his mouth dropping open, and he spits crudely onto your pussy, lowering back between your legs as he says. “Hush, honey.”
- Reblogs are much appreciated, as is feedback! Ty! ❤️ -
Blind farmer!Gator Tillman. Gets to actually engage with animals. It calms him. Especially horses. He finds himself learning to garden. Rolled down coveralls and a white tank top, dripping in Midwest summer heat, musk, nicotine, and his hair is so messy, freckles sun kissed, tan skin.
He chews on hay at the corner of his mouth sometimes, massive hand tending a big glass of cold lemonade, fingers soaked in condensation. He’s been known to pluck an ice cube out, let it melt through his chest hair, slides it over his neck. He mostly keeps his beard off in the summertime, but it’ll occasionally creep up, shadowing his jawline.
A/N: Idk what this is. I just let my heart lead on how I’m personally feeling. Here’s the product. Nothing to warn about. Just some depression and hurt/comfort.
“ I don’t think I know how to connect with anyone, Steve,” you say, breath spent, confession given to the moment. “Everything just makes me feel like I’ve been a reject since birth. Nothing goes right. I can’t trust anyone anymore, not even myself.”
“You can trust me.” He’s softening, pushing down his confusion, the impact from your statement.
“Trusting you completely gives you the power to hurt me.”
“But why would you think I’d hurt you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Your fingers fold in, tucking together as they tickle across the tips.
And he doesn’t like it, downright hates the way that you make yourself a recluse to him. Why does his presence not permit him in getting close to you? From holding you, to trying to calm you down when you’re upset. Why is that off limits to him? You let Nancy and Robin hold you, you hug the kids, Hop and Joyce. Hell, you hug Eddie and Jonathan too.
You’ve been close to Steve since that night he spent with you at gas station during the junior high’s snowball. Just you two, in his beemer, pigging out on candy and whatever snacks in store and in the vending machine that you could find. And it was good then, it was a kind of quiet that illuminated that darkness in Steve’s broken heart. He’s not done anything recently that is regarded towards asshole territory. Has he said something?
“Steve…” You’re sighing, as if this conversation is weighing you down too much to continue. And that fucking stings in Steve’s chest, real damn bad. You inhale another breath, speaking with the next. “Look, I know you’re getting into your head, but it’s not a big deal. M’ just… normal depression, I guess.”
He tries not to lose his temper with you, he really does. But that pain piles on beneath his breast bone, shattering in his ribcage, suffocating his lungs with dust. Steve pulls at the curls that droop at the back of his neck, before his jaw ticks. He’s never bullshitted you before, and he’s not about to start.
“We’ve been good, right? You’re my best-friend. Before Robin, even — don’t tell her I said that! Above everyone. I don’t call anyone else from the group in the morning, I don’t take them to park every single night, just so we can watch the sunset over the lake, and I’ve never allowed someone to wash blood and monster guts from my hair.”
Your sclera is flooded, throat hoarse with a stapling scratch. Your lips part to speak. Steve cuts you off.
“I’ve never let one single person see me the way that I have let you. No one knows my head always hurts, no one knows my scars burn from time to time, and not one damn person that we both know - they have no idea that I need a nightlight because of how bad it gets sometimes.”
“But that doesn’t mean —“ you start to speak, he clips you off once more, voice heady, dripping with a honey - hot depth.
“ — It doesn’t mean what? Tell me what’s gotten you so worked up that you’re more terrified of me than anything we’ve ever faced together.”
The unknown pinched between his brows, his haunting stubble. To the glossiness that’s roasting within his mossy irises, stirring a questioning sorrow. You feel a bunching punch in your esophagus, it threatening your dinner. Always the pleaser, the empathic one. And, well, how it’s Steve.
“The last word you said, Steve. That’s how you hurt me, that’s how you terrify me.”
He’s a bit incredulous, watching reflecting the late set time of night that this is. He mentally searches, pulling. “Together? But why would that make you not trust me? Shouldn’t trust make it easier? I don’t understand, I…”
Even though every problem feels piled up on you, despite this not being the only thing that has you held underwater, you pull what strength you can from inside, shoving it at him with one look. A look that Steve Harrington has never seen on your face. The silence, your shifting feet. And he sees. How you’re showing him through darting eyes and wet lashes, the way that he’s given you pieces of him, and what this build-up, this sometimes that Steve also thinks about - has meant to you.
He could laugh in personal elation, but he won’t, he understands. Finally. His toes are pressed with some invisible electricity working through his limbs, raising them, beckoning him forward at a slow caution, right inside of your space. You’re practically frozen, ground below trying to give out.
Are you standing? Is this real? Do you have breath? Is it yours? Steve’s?
His massive hand floats through the night air, pressing gently against your cheek - an apology that he didn’t get it, couldn’t tell you either. You lick your chapped lips into another part. He doesn’t waste time, ring finger separating from the rest to rub behind your ear. He’s holding your eye-line. And then, you’re engulfed.
“Trust me, honey. You have all the power here.”
Reblog if you want to. I’m writing for me now. 🖤 And if you’re hurting (or not), this is also for you. So I guess it’s for everyone?
Just having this vision of a little domestic spice with your boyfriend, Eddie Munson. You walk into the bedroom after a shower, towel wrapped around you, body dripping a little in places. You find your guy in a comical position, his guitar being sat aside, his hands ushering you forward from his head off the bed, upside down position.
“Step on up,” Eddie asks
You laugh at his antics, going towards your overnight bag. His bracelet drags across your wrist bone as his fingers slide into yours, pulling you forward. “Baby, come here.”
“You need to get your head off the edge of the bed, before all the blood rushes into it again.”
“Hmph,” Eddie says lazily, “bloods’ rushed elsewhere. Sides’, you need to get over here and sit on my fuckin’ face, princess.”
You won’t deny the way that your thighs twitch. He rings clink together as he wiggles his fingers once more. If he wants it, who are you to deny? He’s on you the second that you get there, head underneath your towel, making you giggle and laugh as he ‘converses with his kitty cat’. But ever-so-Eddie, he’s yanking at your towel and unwrapping it, sounds of his palms gliding across your legs.
The heat of his breath is more than prominent as you spread your thighs and straddle into a slight squat over his face. Your hands immediately find his damp curls, helping stabilize his head. He is pulling you completely down, tongue burying inside of you. It’s okay anyways, when the blood rushes into his forehead, burns. With your cum soaking his tongue, sinking into his gums, it only serves to get his cock harder.
Summary: Gator Tillman always has to prove something in his life. To his father, to himself. And with you, he’s able to do that.
Warnings: Angst, sadness, hurt/comfort, language, sub!Gator, oral sex (f receiving), and just overall NSFW.
A/N: Well… hello, my loves. It’s been a crazy fucking year!!I’m so sorry it’s taken me almost a year! But I was able to get back into a part of me that I’ve felt like was taken/lost. Yes, I cried in the middle of writing this.
It’s overwhelming to come back to yourself, to your passion, especially when your spark has been taken. I’m not at my best yet, but I bring you this, and more to come! It’s a little bit of a variation of a blurb I did before about a sub!Gator. Hope y’all like it! Love ya! ❤️🖤
You’re not sure when it started to become a main thing. Maybe within the blur of a near year (who knows). All you know is that nights like these are always reserved for him. Tall, coiffed hair a messed disarray, his fingers greasy from untangling the mane. Just like that first night he parked his truck in your small parking lot, heavy rasps on the old oak door, despite seeing an automatic closed sign taped to the front window, shadowed by one dim old fashioned lamp. He grew fascinated in the intricate detail, dangling beads.
You’d made heavy footfalls down the old hardwood, not able to hide your presence. Eye filtering in the peephole. You knew Gator Tillman. Went to school with him, and was told by your Mama to stay away from his family. But his heavy handed knuckle bones snapped into your subconscious and had you boldly speaking out. “We are closed, Tillman.”
You expected anger, threats. Why didn’t you bring your phone? But there was a quietness that blended in with the hounding winds picking up. You remember how you swallowed, how you clutched your night robe close to your chest. A courage, in which your bones felt an ignited spark, shooting electricity into your fingertips.
Chain lock.
Middle lock.
Handle lock.
The door fell open, squeaking on rusted hinges, bringing in a cool midnight breeze that had you needing to adjust your sights. Gator was still there, one hand propped above him, the other pinching his brow. He wasn’t Roy Tillman on the level of danger, but that didn’t mean you weren’t terrified, cornered, unsure.
“Cliche as this is going to sound, I don’t need trouble.”
A thoughtful pause, and finally, an answer. You’ll never forget how it sounded. Exhaustion, folding in on the tongue, throat thick with it. “Please,” Gator spoke slowly, still not looking your way.
You couldn’t think, had no reason left to argue. And that moment when he raised his head, strands draped across his forehead, lashes wet, gaze trying to avoid you, wild, sporadic pupils - like an abused animal. He had spoken again, not giving you a chance to adjust your slightly unhinged jaw. “I just need somewhere to lay my head down tonight, M’am.” His hand slid into his pocket, producing a crumbled pair of fifties, offering his massive palm, the whole limb shaking. “Rooms are fifty a night? Take it, take em’ both. I won’t be no trouble.”
The bed and breakfast didn’t hold many rooms, and barely had any vacancy that time around, but you stepped aside, you took the money, and you led him to one of your quieter suites. He didn’t stay for complimentary breakfast, gone by the time you knocked on his door.
~*~
Those nights are reserved for him. He only stayed a few more times, but he visits you every Thursday night. Occasionally you’ll go with him and park, or stay right in your drive tucked away by the back gate near the rose bush. But mostly, Gator has you on your bed, thighs spread and lifted over his shoulders as he kneels before you, uncaring how uncomfortable old floors creak beneath him. It never goes beyond his mouth on your cunt .
No kissing.
No sex.
No touching him.
He’s clear when he arrives, a mission already having taken residency. You don’t argue anymore, don’t push to pleasure him. He begs you, each time for praise. Those mossy ember eyes blown so wide you swear you’re swimming inside of them. His brows pinch in concentration, raising in a need to know.
You’re gripping into his hair, fingers slick between, thighs messier, evidence dripping down your ass. Gator is crude on letting his tongue dip into your crack to clean it, always uncaring if he’s crude. Taking what he wants, addicted to how you give yourself over with such free fall. There’s music on your Spotify, usually docked to mood. You often grow surprised at his picks, tonight no different.
Evening is settling in, blue swirling to pitch gray clouds, highlighting that rain as it pelts your open window. Summer’s fading scent, that cool breeze causing your flesh to dimple. Gator dips his tongue inside your cunt and everything goes still, music swells, and your toes curl into his back, hands pawing through his uneven mane, craving, raw to connection. It’s on your lips, swelling your tongue, wetting your lashes.
Tears spill over as your orgasm rises, your praises being swept off your mouth and carried to his ears. “You’re so good for me, Gator. You’re the best. S’ fucking good. My good boy.”
He jerks into you, shifts. He’s rock hard in his dark jeans. He wants to tell you so many things. Like how he only feels safe here. The way he’s never wanted to be in anyone as badly as you before.
And those ways he shoves it down and doesn’t even come to the thought in his hand, afraid of what it might unlock if he truly lets it go. If he can just be good for you, do right by you - then Roy is wrong. He’s not all bad, he has use. Gator is giving you what you need. No one can take that away from him.
His tongue coaxes more from you, lapping up your orgasm until his nose has pressed into your clit, causing you to hold him to your face, using him for another. By the time it’s over, you're covered in slick, white cream, but he doesn’t stroke. Never uses his hands on you. At this point, he’s driven you insane. How you’re so close, yet so far apart.
When he raises, licking his mouth, cock straining so hard you know it’s painful for him. You hesitate, he holds a massive hand. His voice is scattered, tangled. “I’ll be back next Thursday.”
Warnings: Language, oral sex (F receives), NSFW, squirting, watersports, pent-up energy, chaotic besties, and MORE!
A/N: Surprise! To you and me, haha. This was supposed to be a blurb, but went into full one-shot with a different (sorta) direction. It's also the first longer piece I have done in almost one year! Hope y'all like it? And thanks again for all the support and patience!!!!
You and your best-friend, Steve Harrington are fighting because you’re pent up. He’s tired of the attitude, despite barely containing that bratty Harrington tone of his own.
“Look, honey —“ a rather poisonous curl of his tongue around what’s usually meant to be sweet. He’s attempting (and failing at patience) — “you’re not the only one who hasn’t gotten any in a while.”
You have a zero enthusiastic comeback, just a ‘shut up’. And the bastard does his trademark smirk, hauling in his last roll of wires into the radio van. It’s quiet, except for the crickets and the scents of burning fires wafting off the breeze. Your hand raises to trace absent minded circles across the license plate on your side of the open door. Steve is staring, you know he is.
It’s like he’s waiting, well aware you have a sentence to form, be observant until its arrival. It doesn’t take long. You’re a little toned down now, however, you still don’t look at him.
“I know it’s stupid, especially with the whole world ending. But I just… I feel crazy sometimes. Deprived. Alone. Like I could claw through my drywall if someone doesn’t put their hands on me. And not in a long-nailed-spider-monster, or a slimy thing that’s face likes to open into the world’s most fucked up flower shape-kinda looking thing…”
Your chest is heaving as you finish your statement. Guilt immediately settles in. And this time, when you do meet Steve’s gaze, there’s that need again. He’s all long legs in Levi jeans, newest Nike shoes on his big feet. His red jacket has been left in the station, and he wears a simple crisp white undershirt beneath his plain and navy long sleeved. You can see beneath the cover of starlight that isn’t clouded amongst a neon red smoke, the glittering silver of Steve’s chain.
You’ve seen how it lays, you know it settles against his chest hair. Hell, you’ve dressed his wounds more times than you can count since he’s had it, changed in front of one another since everything happened nearly two Springs prior. Every freckle, every mole, it’s prominent to you… even in the darkness. His hair is a mess tonight, having run his fingers until it’s tousled. And you, it causes you to shiver a little into night time’s coolness.
Steve notices, and his stubble works into a harsh swallow. “You alright?”
There’s a crackling that has zilch to do with the underworld, an electricity so woven deep into the air, that it’s hanging off your mutual confession. Logic leaps, slamming into the wavering of your voice. “Steve… I — “
At this point in time, you're sure that not even Vecna could keep you two apart if he appeared. It's as if some musical ensemble has dropped off a thumping vibration, that engulfs you and your best-friend towards a point that you know you will not return from. His side of the van door slams closed, one arm elongates, toned forearm stretching beneath bunched fabric. And then he's grabbing you, one massive palm gripping your waist and digging in, jerking you up until sneaker clad toes tip into the dirt and settle again. His mossy eyes have given way to a black abyss, blown into shards.
Your body runs hot, pulse thrumming wherever it can be taken, felt. And God, does Steve take advantage of that. He waits with a heaving chest, tongue pressing into the corner of his mouth. But you don't stop him, and he goes ahead. That defined nose bridge pathing down your jawline, inhaling you like some wild animal.
His lips that find the ridge of your pulse point, securing. Steve's tongue follows suit, licking the remains of your perfume, the salty sweat of you, twisting his maneuver until his tongue is flicking your earlobe. Your fingers ball into his shirt and twist, wrinkling his collar, nipples hardening beneath your bra. Just this... after so long, you're too far gone to say anything but 'harder'. He tries to, though, still remaining that Harrington chivalry.
"Maybe we shouldn't. Maybe it's selfish, right?"
The pain between your legs has you a lot uncaring about anything other than being with him. Years of built-up need, love, trust. And the opportunity to have this peace of paradise with Steve. You reach out and cup him by his neck's nape, fingertips tapping, both of you already moving towards the van's bumper, the backs of your thighs hitting. "Do I feel selfish to you, Steve?"
He's shaking his head like some dog that's done with its bath, his next words let off so slow that you don't have to identify the swell at his crotch. "No, but letting me inside of your pussy might be."
That one filthy reference. Yeah, it's over.
"Steve?"
He's panting by now, waiting for instruction. "Honey?"
"Better make it count then."
He's on your mouth in an instant, the spark that neither one of you expected - exploding. He is grabbing at you, both of you uncoordinated, acting as if you're unexperienced in movement. An urgency like never before breaks through the surface and Steve's hand is across your spine, encouraging, sliding to your ass and smacking hard across your deep wash denim, as you clamber into the van, falling onto your back. He easily raises into the van and the doors slam behind him, his hands pushing equipment askew, bumping his head on the roof. You're struggling to get your shoes off, jeans a damn task that tickles your stomach with a frustrated pattering ache.
Shirts are forgone, Steve's belt clanking as it comes open, giving you a fresh, onset fury to finally get your jeans to your ankles, ass lifting to take down your panties. Modesty is gone, caring about sexy underclothing doesn't exist. Steve briefly pauses on himself, bending to wrap his fingers around your ankles, and he yanks the fabric so hard that it causes him to growl. Your legs spread automatically, elbows planted in the carpet, and you do not take your glassy vision off this man. He gives a knuckle-deep tuck into the tiny waist of his jeans, and they lower.
More freckles. More moles. Hidden secrets you're privy to now. His hipbones dip into that happy trail, which you aren't surprised connects to his cock. A dark, thick, full bush of hair at the base.
You whine when your eyes find the prize (an honest to fuck whimper that crooks Steve's mouth into a smirk). Red, swollen, leaking rapidly at the tip, vein protruding underneath, thicker than anyone or anything you've had inside, long, completed by full balls on either side. Fuck, he is gonna have a lot to give. Your legs sway, cunt sticking together from how ridiculously you're leaking. Steve licks a stripe down his hand and grips his sack, rolling it up with his cock.
"Turn over," he commands, that slick sound of him pleasuring himself echoing all over these walls.
You comply, arching without being told - all spread wide open for your best-friend. And you feel too fucked out for shame to appear, not even as you look beneath and between your thighs to see your arousal string from your pussy to the floorboard.
"Because I can promise you, that if I look at you while we're doing this, we'll be out here all night - FUCK! Baby," he rasps, "you have the prettiest pussy I've ever seen."
"And you have the biggest damn dick. It's gonna be hard to walk after this."
He knees closer, draping himself across your sweat slick back. "Yeah? Well, you don't have to walk, can jus' have you sit on my cock."
You push back into him, edging across his hips. "Steve, goddammit, do it!"
"Mind if I borrow some of this?" He's ignoring you as he asks, fingers dipping into your cunt to gather a little wetness (not that he needs it with how hard he's leaking), jerking himself into his own arching stance.
Your jaw becomes unhinged to the point you're sure it might dislocate. Steve buries his face in your ass, licking, sucking, tongue immediately dipping inside of you, dragging your cum to circle your clit. You reach to meet the hand that finds your covered breast, digging into his wrist and shoving it beneath your shirt and bra. He pinches and twists your nipple like he's trained too, circling your areola with tickling tips. By the time he's starting to hump the air and you're riding his face, calling out his name twenty different ways - he can't keep teasing.
He resurfaces, gripping your neck with his free hand, bringing you up and against him, your scent all over his sinful mouth. He's vulgar in it forcing your lips open, licking into your mouth, whispering. "Yeah, honey. Fucking taste it." You barely have time to try to respond, then Steve is dropping you back into position, heavy head nudging you open, pressing. He keeps one hand at your tailbone, the other wrapped around your thigh as leverage.
The finale, the complete line crossing. Sporadic breathing is heard, everything for years is experienced, suspended, painstakingly waiting.
"S’ this okay?" He is soft, quiet, hips shaking into yours as he struggles not to take, pause right at your opening, which he can feel trying to take him inside on its own accord.
You don't talk; you surprise the both of you by slamming yourself back on him, taking his entire length with a huge stinging fullness. You yell his name into the van's expanse, hoping the radios are off. Your head falls forward, nails digging into the carpet, wetness spilling out from where you're joined. Steve's teeth grit and he momentarily drifts atop your back. That doesn't last long, however, not when he raises. Your thighs widen, back points, and you're fucking yourself back onto his cock with everything you have in you.
There's nothing you can see through the haze of your vision, just taste, smell. Yourself, Steve's cologne, sweat of two bodies, and your arousal getting strong as you near your orgasm. His hands find your hips, lips parting to manage to let him speak, though it's strangled within the depth of his tone. "So, it's like this, baby? Good girl, use your best-friend's dick."
Skin slapping skin, his balls bouncing off your cheeks as they ripple off his thighs. Steve shifts a little, one hand running back through his hair, one leg propping, and the direction you hit next causes you to see stars.
"Oh. MY - Steve?"
"Yeah, honey. I'm right here."
No warning, stability snaps, and you hold, being captured by the band as it comes from your toes to the top of your head. Blood rushing, sounds drown out, and you're cumming around Steve. Hard. A torrential flow of flood squirting out with every thrust. In awe and confessed shame.
"Steve. Steve, I'm pissing. Wait -" You stop yourself, moans louder when you hear his followed reaction.
He falls over you, face buries itself into your neck, gives one final thrust, and you're stimulated by that pulse as he fills you full. Neither one of you moves after this, panting to catch yourselves. Steve is the first to speak, cheshire grinning when he helps you turn around. There's a soaked puddle beneath where you were. It's different, fresh, odd, yet everything that's been missing as you two observe one another.
Pent up feelings far from over. But doing what you just did.
"I can't believe you were so pent up that I fucked you until you pissed. Holy shit. And you pissed a lot; all over me and my new jeans. These cost me a lot, you know."
But he's not mad, and you know you aren't. He grins, you reciprocate, kneeing across to kiss one another. You break reluctantly. "We better clean this place up."
"Nah," Steve whispers, "was kinda hoping I could make you do it again."
Reblog, like, comment - support the author if you like the story!!!! Steve says so!
Gator Tillman picks weeds and rips flowers up from someone’s yard, crams them in his coat, and half-asses gives you the bent stems and missing petals. Doesn’t say Happy Valentine’s Day.
“Here.”
Then drops onto your sofa and kicks his feet up on the coffee table.
Eddie playing Barbies with yours and Steve’s daughter. She prefers it when he does, because ‘Uncle Eddie knows what’s going on with Samantha and her job.’
Come to find out, Samantha has been eating all of the fries at drive thru. And Eddie’s Barbie is the only one with the power to fire her. She is ‘ruining quality food and consumer good will, after all.’
With Steve’s identical hand to hip pose, she sasses, “Oh! And she hates Ozzy - the shithead has to go!”
“Ozzy?” Steve raises a brow.
Her matching eyes roll. “Daddy, I know you don’t remember who that is, but c‘mon…”
Eddie Munson loves the way that you pick at the chipping polish on your nails until it’s dangling from the cuticle. Enjoys how you only shave the bottom half of your legs but let the top grow out. Oh god, and when you chew and bite your straw to an unusable puncture, leaving lipgloss all over. The times at lunch where you’ll find him to ask, “Can I play with your hair?” You aren’t in Hellfire Club, but the group has taken to adopting you as a seat mate.
Well… you had simply settled down there before Eddie’s group approached. He’d leaned in to inform you that this was a private table. To which, you shrugged and asked who usually sat where, following suit with finding your own space - which just happened to be right beside the dungeon master himself. You’d put on your headphones, took out your spiral, and began writing, everyone free to converse as you let yourself get lost amongst new company.
Soon… things changed. It went from, “What’s she doing here?” To “What are you listening to today?”
Eddie often lets his thoughts scatter from campaigns conversations, the band’s music — all because he ends up watching you get lost to yours. Ink pen tapping, eyes fluttered closed. Every single bit of cafeteria commotion ceases to exist, footsteps echoing, Eddie’s heart thrumming in his ears (fucking tinnitus).
Vibrating your way into everyone’s affections, Eddie remains awe struck & jaw slacked that you can’t see how easy it is to connect with you, to feel like everything is okay when you’re around, how there’s not one single person on planet earth and beyond that is like you. You wear what you want, model a personal style that belongs to you, have prepared more comebacks than he’s seen in his twenty years of life (that would shrivel any man’s ballsack and make all the other girls envious). It’s how you tried to make red, white, and black knit scarves to match their shirts for Christmas, and it ended with balls of fabric, your bloody thumbs, and Eddie helping you fix each one with a gentle hand (because everyone has to have something, Eddie). How can he forget that you’re not a baker, but your boxed brownies are Eddie’s favorite, especially when you wrap them in Christmas paper, serving hot chocolate to go along, making your way around the table to plop marshmallows in each styrofoam cup, that way no one is forgotten.
“Something for you and the group to have during tonight’s campaign. Oh! And my mom actually taught me how to make the hot chocolate in a crockpot, so…”
Eddie Munson has tried convincing himself that you’re just another sheep to protect. His stomach isn’t fluttering like a hoard of bats are shredding his insides, his knees aren’t growing weak everytime you smile, his breath isn’t getting caught on the wall of his chest on days that your full figure wears a skirt or a dress to accentuate features you love to possess, but can’t see their beauty with your eyes. He’s seen you in the morning, in the sun, in the rain, in the dark, and now, as it’s snowing outside the walls of this school. You’ll get up to retrieve something in the lunch line and Eddie will peer into your notebook, ringed finger scanning the lined page of your latest short story.
A guy and a girl, one small town, looking at the simplicity of various Christmas lights. It’s traditional, differing from what you usually let him read. You’re a sheep, lost from your flock in the manger. An angel so soft that feathers have nothing on you. A fucking Christmas star, shining so bright it burns the entire town to the ground.
By the time you’re carrying a bowl of cheese fries back to the table with two forks, Eddie has already picked you up in his van, a thermos full of his mom’s famous hot cocoa recipe. Eddie loves the way that you - oh… fuck… he loves you.
Summary: Unpredictable things, they tend to fall apart…
Wordcount: 1,821
Warnings: Language, smut, vaginal sex, hurt/no comfort, anxiety, mentions panic, self-esteem issues, insecurities/body insecurities, Gator is a bit of an ass, and a secret relationship.
A/N: Sooooo, this is pretty self-indulgent. It’s a lot different than some things I’ve written. I wanted to try a different perspective/one of my opinions on how Gator would be in a relationship like this. Obvs. I cannon him loving bigger girlies (even when my self-esteem says no sometimes), but I wanted to explore one of the very accurate ways he could react to the situation. I was mega inspired tonight, what can I say?
This fic was intense, and I had two songs I used to inspire me whilst writing this. One of them is Wildflower by Billie Eilish. Which… I know the lyrics aren’t at all aligned with this situation (I know the song’s meaning), but I just love it so much and it resonated with me for this story in some different way. Let me know if you’re interested in part 2 (that would be partially from Gator’s POV)? One last thing, I hope those who read enjoy this, that it makes sense, you know?
The girlies who know, they know. Right? ❤️ It brought me a lot of comfort and self-strength, and I nearly cried writing it, so I guess that’s something? Anyways, if you got through this long ass author’s note - Gator loves you and so do I! Enjoy! - Kristen 💐
Gripping the leather above him, it crunches beneath your fingertips - indents, perspired palm print left behind. His dark hair is uncoiled, strewn about his side shaved head. You give it a grip in your spare, his neck rolling with your guided motion, tendons made to stand out, jugular constricting around a vice inhalation. You feel the panting hot breath hit your cheek before his nose nudges your ear.
“Holy Christ,” he stammers.
You hear the sounds of his boots arching by a crunched, worn heel, helping him bounce them, pushing his muscular thighs into a guiding assistance. His massive paws find your overflowing waist, squeezing. And with teeth clenched, Gator Tillman unravels, scatters into your airspace. With darting eyes left towards the ceiling, you’re pulling back just enough to see his tongue slick across those pearly white teeth. His mouth is smeared red, marked clean with your lipstick.
Making a map is what you find yourself doing next, digging into the tense muscles at his nape, only to push his jacket off his shoulder, bending to nose your way into his t-shirt. He bucks in between your legs the moment your lips find that constellation spattered skin, damp from a day’s musk and fading cologne spices. So warm… So Gator…
His head slams into the rest, fingers digging painfully into the bunched dress around your waist. A gone, honey soaked rasp. “Shiiit,” he’s whining. “you’re so fuckin’ slick, baby… never felt you this ready for me.”
You can’t stop your body’s automatic reaction to the first time nickname usage. You tighten around him, his massive girth nudging on that spot now, tickling electricity zaps into your stomach. Your eyes clenched closed, hips giving a particularly rhythmic roll over this man’s lap, that it has you seeing literal spots in your vision. An ache, a fucking burn that sizzles all the way down to your toes and curls them into your boots. It hurts, god does it hurt so badly that it’s hard to breathe.
You’re already starting to pick up your pace, body leading first and foremost. The lace cups of your bra become pushed beneath your breast, dragging over his t-shirt clad chest by rough movements, his hands trembling against your waist as you ride him for all he’s worth into his own driver’s seat - one hand still where it was mid-way. He keeps trying to lean in, to abide the kisses you usually chase but rarely get, his mouth left in ungodly puckers. He’s biting at mid-air, high-tailing your lips. However, you aren’t giving in, unable.
His truck is rocking with each motion, wind sweeping russet colored leaves, soaked with rain across the windshield from the tree above. You start to become shaky, falter, emotions briefly winding around the coil inside your stomach, keeping it hostage. Tears brim your sclera, sticky, soaking into your lash line as you realize you won’t be able to come too, sharing it. Of course this would be hard, how could it not be? Maybe it isn’t going to be for him, but for you..
His trim hips are stuttering beneath you, hairy thighs slamming to meet your efforts, making this so real that you can hear everything morphed inside, taste how your blood is rushing, despite it not making any sense. You’re on fire, doused in heated flames that you won’t be escaping from. One of Gator’s arms stretches the length up your back, cupping your neck, bringing you away from his shoulder that you’ve again found, to make contact with you. Shrugging it off, you don’t even look at him, eyes staying closed.
He is unsatisfied with this, uses a strong forearm to sling beneath your tailbone, hoisting you higher, making your mouth fall open enough for him to kiss his way into. Fuck it. Wet, hot, his tongue works its way into your mouth and then you’re gasping, working with him together, foreheads smashed, breaths panting around parted lips, sought between each kiss. On a particular break off, he cradles your head in his massive palm, amber eyes blown into shards, flecks of cinnamon scattered apart from that only black abyss. He’s damn near snarling, a dip in his brows, an expectant struggle.
You cry out into the vehicle when he finds what he was hunting, his crooked smirk, tongue dipping into that corner of his mouth to go with it. He grumbles into a deeper tone. “Yeah? That’s what I was fuckin’ lookin’ for.”
Saying his name, it doesn’t come out. So he keeps on going. “M’ just gonna stay right here, baby. You keep goin’. Finish us off.”
You give it your all, knowing what he likes, what will give him what he seeks. This is it… You continue your own lead instead of following his, purposely leveling yourself off that spot. His brows knot together, bushy and confused. But he doesn’t have time.
He’s fading, and going out fast for you. Gator reaches, clings, tries to take your hand, see your face as he feels you wrap around him to the point that it all drawls and reaches into his abdomen, attempting to burst through. You hide into jawline the moment that he cries out broken chants of your name, rejecting his reaching for you. He comes moments later, regardless. Tremors settle into his worn bones, muscles sated with vibrations of his release.
You resist every urge to hold him through it, shifting your hold off the seat, off him, turning yourself around to settle into the passenger seat. Your chest is heaving heavily as you push your breasts into their cups, tugging your blouse back down, lifting enough to gather your panties off the floorboard and raise your heavy, boot clad feet into the legs. He’s staring, you don’t have to check your peripheral to know this. A wounded, baffled mix of emotions cloud his face. Suddenly, Gator feels more vulnerable with you in this very moment, than he’s ever remembered feeling in his whole life.
Your knuckles scratch across the silk of your knee sock thigh highs, bringing your underwear completely up, sealing the evidence of him with you. The skirt you wear is the last thing to be readjusted. It’s silent in the cab, with the exception of rainfall, uneven breathing patterns. There is only light from street posts, houses down the pathway of the road you’re parked on. You miss every hint he throws, every single hurt, wounded look that molds his features into a haunting sight.
His belt buckle clanging as he brings it back together, along with the defeating sound of his zipper, that’s what has you glancing in his direction. He’s chewing on his thumbnail, arm propped on the driver’s window, knuckles of that hand tight. His spare is wound around the wheel, eyes haunted, unfocused as they look ahead to meet damp, black pavement. Of all the things you expect him to say, it isn’t what leaves his mouth next. Wobbly and unsure.
“I’ll make ya come next time, I promise. I got so caught up, I —“
It sounds so pathetic that you have to break it off. Deserved reservations.
“This was the last time.” Fucking Christ, it feels as if someone cracks open the bottom of your ribcage and your organs are spilling out. It’s too hard to breathe, your own cowardice showing as you finish the reveal of your sentence, of what you’ve known you had to do for yourself to keep from developing a hate for him, and all the self-berating this relationship has caused you inside. “I’m seeing someone next weekend.”
At first, you think reality has settled in on him. But then he snorts, a sound that goes right through you. He’s in disbelief, which proves that this was the right decision all along. It’s when you aren’t laughing that he gets the hint. And this time, you don’t look away. Let it all go…
“I know that you make fun of me behind my back. To your friends, to your dad when he asks why you’re with me so much, to the other women you flirt with around town. It’s how you justify doing this.”
There’s a pure amount of shame that coats his cheeks and it makes you laugh bitterly, stinging your mouth. You reach to collect your purse from beside your feet. Gator is ashamed, worked up, so overstimulated and caught that he barely is able to grab your arm as you push his door open and one leg hits the asphalt. His mouth moves as if he’s communicating some silent, pleading apology. Begging you to understand.
And you have always understood. More than you should ever have to. He’s like a deer in headlights, panicked, jaw twitching, nose scrunching. At least it affects him some, he’s not emotionless to this situation. It leaves you very little comfort, though.
His silence is one with his learned cowardice. He knows what’s right, but he’ll never cater to anything that set aside this image he’s tried to build for everyone (including Roy) to see. Instead, he’s losing the one person that’s taken everything she has in her to give - offering. A wounded animal in the driver’s seat, waiting on you to lead, to accept what little he’s willing to give. Your heart skips, launching into your throat, damp and slippery words pressing your lip’s seam apart.
“You know, I really do care about you, Gator. And I hope you find your way away from your dad and all of this bullshit.” Your voice is jagged, dragging over each word as you motion your hand around, before continuing. “But I don’t deserve this.”
You don’t any more of his silence, climbing completely out and slamming your door, prepared to walk away with remaining dignity. Gator Tillman, he has one final pulsing drive that propels him into following suit, calling at you from the opposite side of his car. “No, please?”
You tilt your head towards the sky, rain flowing feeling from murky night skies, glittering across your face, painting itself into your brows. Gator’s hands find the truck’s roof, his messy hair shining underneath the half-hidden moon, the lights lining the roadway. His breath is puffing his chest into a theatrical exertion. And you two just stare at one another across the hood of the tan GMC cab. His bridge ruffles, nose wiggling to adjust his emotions.
To his credit, he tries. But both of you know that it’s not going to be enough this time. “I do care.”
An automatic rebuff. You sink in on yourself, retorting. “In the dark, right?”
You leave him with this, his sucker punched expression, not there to see anything more, and begin to walk in the direction you came from, back towards town. By the time the rain picks up, you’re crying and a horn is blaring behind you, coming from his parked truck.
“I want you,” is all your voice can manage, evaporating into the raw need that you are currently holding for your best-friend.
It’s a mutual lunch break hour from differing work environments, and you’d managed to huddle up into your benefits part of the friendship package, piling into Steve’s backseat. It’s not the first time… and it definitely will not be the last…
You’re insatiable for him, thoughts having been built from the night before, as you came three times with his name on your kiss starved lips.
Steve.
Steve.
Steve.
Paper bags and wrappers are carelessly littered to the beemer’s floorboards. Jackets discarded. Indiana’s icy autumn air goes hand in hand with Steve’s heater - leaving behind streaks of accumulated fog that is glistening across every window. Traded lunch tastes linger with every kiss. Steve’s peanut butter and jelly strong on his tongue as you pass it by with a sweep of your own turkey club.
And if you ask Steve Harrington one of the things he most remembers about today, it’s how you shamelessly licked the chip crumb from the corner of his mouth to finish it off. You were helped into his lap when the turning point occurred (a look, one that’s before a paused heartbeat, a sharp - shared breath). Only, it’s different on this occasion. Sure, you’ve taken control before, rode him until his eyes crossed and his toes curled into a crack, one that had him squeezing you so hard that you felt it for days. However, there’s something more building here and he knows that you know, but he isn’t sure what will happen (he is just privy to what he wants, what he’s fucking terrified to say).
“You have me,” he says, a blush pecking into the apple of his cheeks, results stirring between his legs.
You both take in those words - for a moment the sound of a soft rain and falling leaves trickling across his back windshield all that you can hear. But then Steve exhales a withheld breath that bumps at you from positioning, and you’re super sensitive to the situation, the need becoming an aching, overwhelming hunger to have. You find that freckle on his left ear first, licking your way down his jaw to follow, your hips starting rock in his lap - an established rhythm you’d worked together to find over the months. Steve’s eyes roll back, toes tingling in his Nike’s, and he’s realizing the interior of his car’s roof.
“Holy shit, honey.”
It’s said wet, weak. And he’s pretty sure he just spit the words into the air. But you pay it no mind, encouraged to find those defined tendons, covered in old scars and beauty marks alike - paying attention to each one. Steve attempts to raise his hips, close his legs to get some friction on his own accord. You provide, in synch, seconds later, dipping into a particularly hard thrust that has him whining into a whimpering pain.
It rushes across your body - molten heat obliterating your insides into an irreparable mess. Pulling away, you press your fingers straight into his mouth, nudging his chin back, your own tongue slicking across your teeth as you watch yourself wrecking him in only ways that you know how. Starved to command, to pleasure, to give to him, it’s leaving your lungs and you don’t try to stop it.
“Suck on them. Come on, Steve, work for it.”
He doesn’t falter, the blown amber irises into twisted tangles, gone to blown abyss that is his pupils. He’s gone glazed over, sucking the salty taste off your digits, wanting so badly to be good for you. His trust in you, his engagement, you’re having to undo his jeans with a noisy, hasty hassle. Getting him bare cannot come quick enough. Watching his size spill from his briefs, resting its heavy, warm weight in your grasp as you reach - it takes you completely under its bidding. Steve is mesmerized, hands finding the plush of your waist to hold onto.
You manage to get your tights slid down from beneath your tennis skirt, coolness rushing in to prickle along your flesh. You won’t be bothered with boots, so you simply slide the pink silk aside, hovering over him. Steve can feel the slick silk as you brush yourself across his length, gently giving a tantalizing taste of a tease, your hand shining with the stain of his pre-release. He wants to pound you into the driver’s seat, his teeth clenched, legs bouncing. It simply serves to add more to the temptress show.
There’s a particularly large surge of rain that spills across the crystal behind your heads, in perfect timing with your new whispers. You get close, hands now pushing his shirt up to expose that deliciously black tufted chest, taking your fingers through soft curls. You circle his areola with a nail’s edge, lips sucking in his earlobe, before releasing to divulge a secret. “Wanna take you home and lay you out in my bed, pin your hands above your head.”
A low groan rumbles into a release from his throat. You take pity, one hand cupping his cheek. He holds his breath, your spare hand remaining on his chest, both heartbeats doing sporadic gallops, eyes zoned in on one another. He can’t function, you can barely let it roll off of your salivating tongue. “You gonna let me fuck you?”
Steve cries out, a literal beg and plead combo that makes you grasp and tug him back into your palm. It serves to your reminding cause. “Such a good guy, Steve. An incredible lover, the best best-friend a girl will ever have. Teaching me so much, always willing to learn.”
He goes shy at that, tries to tuck his face into your shoulder. “M’ not…”
Your spare hand finds his chin and holds him level. “You’re fucking everything, Steve Harrington. And I wanna — no — I need to feel you inside every single part of me.”
There’s this bone deep, muscle scraping rasp that drips like scorching, soaking hot honey when he speaks. You watch the five o’clock shadow swirl around his mouth as it separates to answer. His hands pinching into your sides, releasing to gently rub up and down the fabric of your shirt that is keeping parts of your skin away from him. You await, a soft smile indenting. One of his hands makes its way to your jawline, cradling, thumbing along the bone to help beckon you into his kiss.
Upon parting, lips grazing, stringing together - he lets you know. “So much crap has always been confusing, but you… You’re not.”
Your brows push together, throat constricting around a vice grip. Implications are fragrant, clear. No more exchanges as Steve’s hand finds your neck’s nape and brings you to his forehead, your leverage given to sink down in his lap. He frowns into his drawn out moan, relaxing into your shape. You curse at the stretch, hands seeking his shoulders out, digging into the blades.
You move, taking him with you. Your pace beginning slow, climbing to a quickening desperation, a burrowing trying work you over from the inside out. Throwing your face into his neck, it has you biting, marking. Steve’s breathing becomes choppy in just several minutes, his knees jerking rapidly, you controlling the rhythm, using him, being with him. He’s a sweaty, disheveled mess - hair askew from your languid pullings, shirt still wound up, and jeans soaked from the both of you.
There’s a sound that throttles his diaphragm, comes out tenfold. His massive palm slapping around to your tailbone, before it dives up the back of your shirt, fingertips dancing, shaping letters along your flesh, ending right beneath your bra band. He nuzzles your throat, leaves a kiss. “Yeah? It’s okay if I…?”
God… you can’t take it anymore. This man drives you past outer-limits.
You consent, and your bra straps are sliding from beneath your sleeves, falling over your arms, and discarded behind somewhere. Steve immediately brings your naked chest to his, breasts squished, stimulated by his fluffy, chestnut embankment. Hands find another set, fingers interlocking, and you rock so hard that his car begins to vibrate. Seconds, hours - who knows? Steve is pitiful in his warning.
“I’m gonna — Can I cum?”
You share a cheshire set of twin grins. Your mouths meet, arms raising to hold his against your hips, just… feeling your movements. You’re nodding, nipping at the stubble underneath his jawline. He swells instantly, his grip so tight on you that you can’t help but to pick your pace up to help him ride out his high.
“Good boy, baby. Feels so right, doesn’t it?”
Steve’s jaw unhinges, throat muscles tightening, legs raising until his knees hit the backs of your thighs, and everything rings static in his ears as the knot unravels at his navel, catching all on the way down to where you’re joined. He’s pulsing inside, a wide whine stretching past his lungs, slipping off his tongue. You lick at it, slowing your pace as not to overstimulate. His heart is racing, damp chest taking purchase across your own, making you rest your forehead against him. It’s a few moments that it takes you, and - reluctantly - you start to rise off, hand shifting between your thighs to press into your clit, mumbling how you wished you brought a toy to plug his essence inside.
There’s a panicked look that overtakes his perspired form, and he’s automatically keeping you in place, making you reach for his shoulder, tightening around his sensitive cock. “Steve…”
“Just… wait! Leave it inside?”
Fuck. This man…
“You sure you can handle it? I don’t mind.”
A reserved fondness, he unlocks a hand that still remains held with your own, half his fingers on your neck, the other on your face to hold. His eyes dart back and forth, a sparkling mirth making your heart dip to rise. You get it.
“I want you to finish with me still here.” He’s let go of your other hand to urge your hand aside and spread you apart with his own thumb, admiring the shine of mixed wants.
And those words… Fuck, they’re on the tip of your tongue. You’re not sure how much longer you’re going to be able to hold them back for.
Warnings: Language, comfort, mentioning anxiety, mentions the menstrual cycle and pain, tooth rotting fluff.
A/N: Just a little something, because I’m on mine and I miss him… badly.
~*~
The anxiety is rippling across your stomach, winding around that ghastly heat that scratches across your navel and remains traveling. You’ve tried every position, drank your second glass of iced water, but nothing is helping. You feel as if you could throw up, mouth watering, whilst simultaneously craving for one specific thing… Your eyes follow the heavy wooden door that’s cracked open, illuminated by an autumn thunderstorm. Giving one more tapping of itchy fingertips to your borrowed quilt, you toss the blanket and sheet combo off, your baggy sleep shirt hanging off of you as you make your way down the hallway and outside of the master bedroom door.
It’s quiet throughout his new home - which isn’t anything fancy. A simple old two story cottage you’ve been helping him restore with Nadine’s help. However, it’s his own. And you have your own room here. It’s where you are a lot, still giving him space to make his pathway, but never straying too far.
You two don’t speak on it - there’s more time for that later. Doesn’t mean you aren’t stopping the wishes, the cravings. On nights like tonight, you don’t want your own bed. Still fogged out from the pain inside your exhausted body, you don’t knock, instead pushing the door open enough that it has that whistling sound effect. Before you can raise your hands in surrender, he’s got his gun from beneath his pillow, safety off, and has it perfectly aimed in your direction.
You’re immediately regretful, tears blurring your vision due to emotions. He’s still worried for his own safety, tenfold after his prison time and all of the surgeries needed to restore his eyesight. You hear him sigh as you let out a soft apology. The safety is restored and his gun is placed on his nightstand. His hair is a mess, grown out and shaggy, his chain glittering under the dampening, shrouded moon.
Rain cascades across his window, the illuminating him like a portrait of delicate carving. He gives a soft sigh - equal parts irritated and relieved. You look wonderful, just in your shirt, bare feet on his hardwood, in his home. He scoots over and peels back his blankets, overwhelming grateful that you scared the shit out of him. You gravitate towards him, a soft smile pressing your face as you knee your way onto the California King.
“You ain’t sleepin’ on my side,” he says.
“Don’t care what side I get, just wanna sleep here.”
You’re already shifting down into the mess of olive greens, swirled in blue tones, and cream sheets, turning onto your side. The anxiety instinctually dissipates. You’re surrounded by the soft smell of the rain, mixed together with the rustic colored leaves that drape across the roof, soaked in earth and season - his window open slightly. His pillows, his bedding, soft detergent, a grainy cinnamon and cedarwood engulfing you from his body wash and shampoo. You aren’t expecting it when he does, a beat silent, his hovering presence behind you, but he then pulls you back into his chest, one defined bicep tossing across your waist.
Warm. Safe. Home.
His voice speaks in a sleep bitten rasp, as if someone has just fed him honey soaked tea. “You want my heatin’ pad?”
You’re shaking your head, already forgetting the agony that is briefly settling in your uterus. You reach for one of his massive palms, splaying it out across your belly, pressing it down. “Just this.”
“Hey…?” It’s a timid trail off, one that catches your attentions before you can drop into sleep.
You tilt your head back and his nose is bumping into yours, a nudging that plants him directly into the apple of your cheek. You don’t have to reach, fingers resting on you tightening together, lips meeting in a kiss so featherlight that it sends a tickling electricity into your toes. You give, he gives, sending a few more chaste pecks, nuzzling with pressed foreheads, and he’s sliding into place behind you, face burrowing into your neck, boxer-briefs heavy on him. No more words are exchanged. You’re out in two minutes, Gator following shortly after, gun forgotten on the table.
Safe… Loved…
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