don’t ya, steve?

You couldn't help how your cheeks burned at the messy, endearing handwriting, and the way he casually folded his hands on his lap after he passed the note to you. You were newer to town but not to teaching—exactly opposite to Steve, who had hardly stepped foot out of Hawkins, but about to take on a classroom for the first time this year. This conveniently allowed Steve the opportunity to ask you for a tour of the very middle school he attended. He nodded along and hung onto your every word as you guided him around the building, pretending he was seeing the trophy cases and lockers for the very first time.

You were none the wiser about this fact until your fourth date, when he finally confessed to feigning ignorance for any excuse to talk to you. The memory of your eyes widening with surprise, the sweet, melodic laughter that fell from your lips as you covered your face with your hands, embarrassed and flattered all at once, was something he revisited frequently, especially when he needed a little extra something to get through the day.

It was now May, month seven of officially being Steve's girlfriend, and in the thick of every teacher and student's most dreaded time of year: standardized test season. Two weeks of passing out packets, denying sad little faces bathroom breaks while you were desperate for one of your own, unable to even use the test time to grade, as you were expected to fixate on each student working with obsessive attention. Pinching yourself awake every hour as you walked up and down between desks, then almost immediately being lulled to sleep by the soft ticking of the clock, the pencil scribbling, the chill in the room. It was agonizing for all of you, with the finish line in sight and still so much to do.

This particular Friday night was not one of your best. Instead of heading out to dinner with your handsome boyfriend, or a bar with a circle of your best gal pals, you were at home—hunched forward on the sofa with a whole filing cabinet's worth of papers spread on the coffee table in front of you. This was peak crunch time for finishing up the year, and only being allowed to grade at home meant that this was how you spent most nights lately. Some nights Steve joined you, rubbing your back and refilling a glass of water while you worked. The last month of the school year for a health teacher was without a big scary exam, no life-or-death projects to finish, just filling in his final grade form with 'F's and 'P's, mostly 'P's, as his attitude about students was, to put it lightly, forgiving.

Checking the time became an afterthought six essays ago, pushing further and further to the back of your mind with every glance at the daunting stack lying in front of you still ungraded. You were pushing through the exhaustion and frustration as best you could, flicking out your writing hand and flexing the fingers every few minutes to try and stay relaxed. The patience in your feedback was starting to fade—long sentences of constructive criticism waning into scribbled words in the margins. Not your best work and you knew it, but the deadline for final grades was lingering over you like a shadow, taunting you from its penciled-in square on your calendar.

The anxiety of missing that deadline was consuming—so consuming that you miss the first knock on your front door, then the second, then your name called through the door, and the jostle of your spare key entering the lock. The only thing that actually snaps you out of your worried haze is a large, warm hand on your shoulder, squeezing as you finally hear your name.

The sight that greets you when you finally glance up from your essays steals your breath a little—Steve, dressed in his corduroy suit jacket and slacks that perfectly hug his thighs, your favorite green and purple plaid tie, hair swept effortlessly, save for the strand that dangles in rebellion over his forehead, and a bouquet of pretty pink tulips wrapped in brown paper resting in the crook of his arm.

"Steve?" You say, standing to greet him as a little relief washes over your exhaustion at the sight of your wonderful boyfriend. "I-what are you doing here?"

"Are you almost finished?" He sets the flowers down to gesture to the stack of papers on the coffee table. "Our reservation's in twenty minutes, we should probably get going, baby."

"Reservation, what do you-"

Your eyes focus past Steve to the calendar stuck to the wall, where today's date square sits with a little red heart drawn in the middle, right next to 'Date Night w/ Steve at 8' written in your handwriting.

"Shit, we had a date planned tonight," you groan, dropping your face into your hands to hide the tears that start to swell on your waterline. "I'm so, so sorry, Steve. I got home today, and I saw that huge stack of essays, and Thomas M's mom called me today, and she told me I was the worst teacher her son has ever had all because he deservedly got a C on his last quiz, and I had to report this other kid for cheating, and-"

Your frantic, desperate explanation is cut off by the firm press of Steve's lips to your own, his thumbs sweeping loving strokes over your cheekbones. The kiss forces an actual calming breath in through your nose, filling your senses with the warm spice of his cologne, and a little powdery, fruity tinge from his hairspray. The little corduroy ridges of his jacket rest under your hands as they move upward to feel his chest, fingers wrapping slowly around the lapels.

When he finally pulls away, Steve gives you a soft smile before he brings you close again, a hand cupping the back of your head as the other makes firm, warm strokes up and down your back, soothing your tired muscles through the fabric of your sweatshirt.

"Lot on your plate, huh?" He asks, resting his chin on the top of your head.

"So much," you say against his chest, soaking in his warmth. "I'm so sorry, I'm the worst girlfriend ever."

"No, not at all," Steve assures, with a kiss to the top of your head. "You've got a lot to take care of, honey. Grades, and those big tests. Kids are being real shitheads too, like, even the good ones are giving me problems."

You let out a watery laugh, wiping your eyes with the cuffs of your sleeves as you look up at him.

"There she is," he says sweetly, his hand never ceasing its tender pressure between your shoulder blades.

"You're really not mad?"

"Promise," he says. "Now you're gonna promise me something."

You tilt your head a little, eyebrows furrowing at the prospect of what he wants from you.

"You're gonna put those essays away, and you're gonna spend the rest of the night letting me take care of things."

At first, the idea of putting anything in someone else's hands does little to relax you. Teaching means being in control all the time, maintaining the delicate balance of understanding and tough love with students, deciding what concepts to prioritize in lessons, managing unhappy parents and pressure from your principals. You've been in control of so much for so long that handing over the reins at all seems impossible.

"I don't know, Steve," you sigh, leaning back to see him.

"I'm serious, baby," he scolds gently, rubbing his hands up and down your arms. "You spend all day calling the shots, taking care of everybody. I love that you care so much, but your big, beautiful brain is tired. Let me help you relax, yeah?"

He's giving you the softest smile, looking at you without an ounce of judgment or resentment for your mistake tonight. His eyes are warm, gazing down at you with admiration for how deeply you care about doing your best for your kids. It's hard to keep up your resolve, in fact, it melts away entirely as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

"Okay," you say, dropping your shoulders a little as an even bigger smile spreads across Steve's face.

"Thank you," he says, leaning in to give you a quick kiss before taking you by the hand and leading you over to the kitchen.

"Here's what we're gonna do," Steve explains, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the back of a dining chair. He pulls it out to face the kitchen, and guides you to have a seat.

"I'm going to make us something to eat," he says, reaching into your cabinets for two wine glasses, then over to the top of the fridge for the mostly full bottle of red. After a little more maneuvering around the kitchen for a corkscrew, Steve fills the two glasses with a generous hand, and you take a long sip.

"You're going to sit here, and tell me about your day, and look pretty," he instructs, before leaning in for a last, long kiss to your now wine-stained lips.

After a delicious home-cooked meal, a hearty glass of wine, and the never ending loving gazes from Steve, the worries that were once clinging to every inch of your mind had faded nicely into the background—still there, but more like white noise than the frenzied monologue it was before. Especially quiet now, with your legs thrown over Steve's lap as you cozy up on the sofa, leaned back against the cushions with his hands on you, grounding and warm. One hand keeps your legs up on his lap, only moving to stroke sweetly up and down your thighs through your pajama pants as the other wanders a little more freely, fingers gliding through your hair, squeezing your tense shoulder, knuckles brushing gently at the soft skin of your cheek.

"I'm really sorry about tonight," you say once more, leaning your face into his hand.

"It's all good," he says with a shrug. "I planned on spending some good time with you tonight, and that's what I did. I'm happy."

A smile spreads across your face as you lean a little closer for a kiss that Steve eagerly reciprocates, taking advantage of the closeness to lift you onto his lap, wrapping his free arm firmly around your waist. You let out a gasp that clearly satisfies him, hands pressing a little harder against your thigh and side.

"You still tense, sweetheart?" Steve asks against your lips.

"A little," you answer with a giggle.

"We can't have that," he mumbles, moving his lips from yours to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, and finally onto the pretty curve of your neck. The heat of his lips against the side of your throat pulls a sigh from your lips, head tilting back to give him better access to the sensitive skin.

"You're so beautiful, honey," he says, gently grazing his teeth over your throat before soothing the spot with the gentle flick of the tip of his tongue.

"Feels nice," you sigh, cupping his jaw.

"I'm gonna take care of you, yeah?" Steve affirms between presses of his lips and swipes of his tongue. "Slow that pretty head of yours down."

"Please," you breathe, feeling your pulse flutter under his mouth.

With a final kiss to the little space between your collarbones, Steve eases you off of his lap and helps you stand on wobbly legs. His palm is warm around yours as he takes it, guiding as he did before down the hallway to your bedroom. The hush of the room is broken by the soft 'click' of the door shutting, before Steve comes to stand in front of you again. His hands find your cheeks for what feels like the hundredth time this evening, and he leans in again, pausing right before his lips meet yours.

"You can relax, honey," Steve whispers, before giving your lips a soft kiss. "Lay down for me."

You sigh as your body leans back against the pillows, feeling the tension in your shoulders melt a little the moment they feel softness for the first time all day. Steve loosens and slips off his tie, then unbuttons his shirt, leaving him in his slacks and white tank. His broad, freckled shoulders flex as he lays the discarded shirt and tie over your dresser, shifting the thin fabric of his undershirt across the round curve of his tummy. The first time Steve slept over at your apartment, you caught him in your bathroom mirror as he was brushing his teeth, feeling across the expanse of his abdomen with his hand, eyebrows furrowed like he was dissatisfied. After that, you took advantage of any opportunity you got to shower this part of him with affection—sneaking your hand under his crewnecks when you snuggled on the couch, peppering his tummy with kisses any morning you woke up next to him, even sneaking in more requests to go out for ice cream after dinner for good measure.

Steve sits in front of you, and you smile softly, reaching out for his now bare bicep.

"You're so good to me," you say as he leans forward, propping up on a forearm that he settles next to your head, softly resting his weight on top of you. His free hand cups the side of your head, and his thumb begins to sweep softly across your temple.

"You make everything in my life better," Steve professes. "My beautiful, smart girl. I'm gonna take care of everything, just let yourself feel, baby."

He kisses you again, licking into your mouth tentatively as a hand reaches for the hem of your sweatshirt.

"Arms up for a second, sweetheart," he instructs, leaning back and guiding you to sit up a little with a hand at your waist. Your arms lift to the air, allowing Steve to smoothly pull off your sweatshirt, exposing your torso, the sudden cool air causing your nipples to pebble and grow more visible through your cotton bralette.

"I forgot to put on my date night bra," you confess, feeling your cheeks grow warm.

"You're perfect," Steve assures, laughing a little at your bashfulness as he finally pulls off his undershirt, revealing his hairy chest and the perfect little roll of stomach that extends just past his belt. "It's not staying on for long, anyway."

Steve's fingers slip under the straps to bring them down your shoulders, then slide around your back, making quick work of the hooks. You feel your breasts dip as he eases the fabric away from your chest, his fingers grazing the sides of them as he tosses the bralette to the side.

"That never fuckin' gets old," he grins, warm hands embracing your sides as he leans in for another kiss. His weight comes over you again, gently pressing you into the mattress as he kisses deeper. The hand near your head braces the side of your head as the other explores, teasing around your nipple with soft, deliberate swipes of his thumb. You shudder, hands reaching up and digging into the muscle of his shoulders.

"Grab on, baby, whatever you need," Steve says against your lips before he slides down, mixing small swipes of his tongue and little nips as his mouth makes its way to your breast.

"Steve-" you gasp as his lips move languidly over your nipple.

"I've got you," he assures, reaching for the other breast to tease and softly pinch, working with his mouth to send a deep swell of pleasure down to your core. He licks and teases a little longer until his lips move south, reverently kissing across your stomach just as you love to do to him, until he reaches the waistband of your pajamas. Steve's fingers wrap around the fabric, easing your pants and underwear down your legs with practiced ease, smiling softly at the view of you completely bare beneath him.

"Gorgeous," he breathes, lowering himself to your thighs. "You still good up there, pretty?" His head tilts back to look up at your face, hands starting to knead and dimple the flesh.

"Mhmm," you hum, reaching to brush the loose strands that have fallen in front of his eyes.

"That's what I like to hear," he says smiling, wrapping his hands around your thighs more firmly and gently spreading them open. "Don't be shy, good job, baby."

His lips trail up from the side of your knee to the inside of your thighs until he reaches your core, where he presses a messy kiss to your wanting clit. Your hips jerk up involuntarily as a small sound escapes your throat, eager for more contact, more of him. His hands move from your thighs up to your hips, and he firmly presses them back against the mattress.

"Be patient," he asserts sweetly, teasing you with the tip of his nose. "Don't I always take care of you?"

You nod, fingers twitching a little in his hair.

"Words, baby."

"You take such good care of me, Steve," you say, your voice soft and yearning. "Always taking care of me."

"You deserve it," he reminds you, giving you a final smile before he finally dives in, licking a broad stripe from your cunt up to your clit, lapping hungrily at the wetness that had pooled at your entrance from his teasing.

"Fuck, you're sweet," Steve moans against your clit, the vibrations buzzing in harmony with the gentle, static pleasure building in your tummy. As he mouths and licks at your clit, two thick fingers gently dip into your cunt, testing how ready you are, before slowly plunging in. The stretch in tandem with the eagerness of his mouth is perfect, untangling the worry in your mind even more with each gentle push of his fingers and swipe of his tongue.

"Feels so good, Steve, god-" you moan, eyes flicking down past his head and shoulders to see the movement of his hips, grinding slow against your mattress. You didn't know if you were ever going to get over the fact that you had really found a boyfriend that took as much pleasure from going down on you as you received. Sure, some guys talk a big game about spelling the alphabet with their tongues, but Steve devoured you when he ate you out, the experience all the more satisfying from the moans he would release against you.

His fingers keep working you open, brushing at the tender, spongy spot deep inside your core as his tongue slides through your folds. Your walls start to pulse around his hand, cuing him to focus all of his sweet attention on your clit, wrapping his lips around the bundle of nerves and suckling. Your eyes shut hard as your first orgasm washes over you, the muscles in your thighs and abdomen contracting as the pulses of pleasure build. The movements from Steve's tongue grow frenzied, keeping you on your high with each eager lick and push of his fingers. Once your breaths start to slow, his movements do too, easing back to your body from the cloud he just had you on. Steve pulls away his fingers and gives your clit a final kiss before working his way up again, pecking your lips sweetly as he finally comes face to face with you again.

"Open those eyes for me," he coos next to your ear, and they flutter open, awed at the view before you—Steve, with wide pupils and his mouth slick with your pleasure. "There's my pretty girl, you feeling good?"

"So good," you sigh, feeling the soft hair of his chest and the wild thrumming of his heart under your palms.

"Thanks for trusting me, baby," he says, and presses his lips to yours. "You keep feeling good, that's your only job, alright?"

"Alright," you breathe, drinking in the sight of him standing to shed his slacks. The buckle of his belt clinks softly as he releases it from around his hips, unbuttoning his pants and pushing them down—his charcoal grey briefs and happy trail on full display. He settles on his knees between your legs again, pressing his clothed cock to your mound as he lowers himself again. Your hand stretches down to his waistband this time and he catches it, gently pushing it back up and over your head. A soft whine emits from your throat as his hips roll a little, the slightest, extra edge of pressure against your clit.

"You'll get what you need," Steve assures you, hand holding yours firm against the pillow. "You put up with so much, I know you can be patient."

"You're such a tease, Harrington," you pant. "You have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

"Trust me, sweetheart," he smirks. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

You smile and roll your eyes as one of Steve's arms wraps around your legs, knees hoisting over one shoulder while he takes the extra pillow from your bed and slides it under your hips. Steve's lips smack against your knee with a 'mwah', before he nestles them on either side of his thighs again. His thumbs hook the fabric of his briefs and he slides them down his legs, finally freeing his hard, aching cock. Saliva floods your mouth at the sight of his length—ridiculously thick while still impressively long, and so aroused that it curves upward toward his belly, pink tip glossy with precum.

"Fuck, I need you," you sigh, hips grinding and heels digging into the mattress.

"I know, baby," he soothes, taking his cock into his hand and giving a first, slow stroke. "I'm right here for you."

Steve's hips move forward and he drags the tip of his length through your folds, smearing the mix of your arousal and his as he pushes against your clit. He chuckles to himself in satisfaction at the noise you let out, jaw going slack as you moan beneath him. He gives one more tease up and down your pussy before sinking his head inside, letting out a deep groan himself as you pulse around him.

"Fuck, it feels so perfect," you whine, pawing at his shoulders for him to come closer, needing the weight of his body against yours even more. Steve obliges happily, leaning down on his forearms again and reaching for your hand, lacing his fingers into yours.

"Goddamn," he grunts, doing his best to keep his hips stiff, not wanting to give you too much, too fast. "Can I push in, baby?"

"Please."

A light, pleasured sob hums against Steve's shoulder as you tuck your face against it, utterly blissful as Steve feeds his cock into your further. He shudders as his hips finally meet yours, and the sting of the stretch fades nearly as soon as it builds, replaced with a warm, satisfying fullness.

"Doing so good for me, sweet girl," he moans, giving an experimental roll of his hips. "I'm gonna move a little more, just keep breathing for me."

You nod, tipping your chin up for a kiss, that he smiles into lovingly. The weight of his hips and the stretch of cock fade for a moment before coming back, repeating as Steve builds a perfect rhythm.

"Don't stop, Steve," you pant as he thrusts, squeezing the large hand that holds yours in place beside your head.

"Never, honey," Steve replies, lips brushing yours as his hips roll deeper, fucking into you at just the right pace. The thrusts persist, encouraged even more by the ways your walls flutter and pulse around him, early waves of ecstasy building again.

"Let go for me," he says, looking deep into your hooded, almost sleepy eyes with a star-crossed expression. "You're good, baby, you can let go."

The sweetness of his words helps the waves build, filling every nerve and breath with heavy, consuming euphoria. In a matter of seconds, you're falling apart again, moaning nonsense against his collarbone, as the warmth spreads from your core to your tummy, extending into every limb.

"Good, baby," he sighs, kissing your forehead and slowing his thrusts as his own high starts to build. "Love those pretty noises you make when you're feeling good."

His hands release yours to reach for your knees again, hiking them up and over his shoulders. A soft cry escapes your mouth at the new and sudden deepness, which Steve soothes with a kiss.

"I know you can take it, baby," he pants. "Just a little more, I know it's a lot." His hips start to move again, thrusting and grinding as Steve chases his own high above you. He glances down, moaning at the sight of the creamy ring of white at the base of his cock—proof of how deeply he's pleasured you. The thrusts grow clumsier and clumsier as he gets closer, only ceasing when he pushes in as deep as possible, flooding your walls with cum.

"So perfect for me, baby, shit-" he grunts, the muscles of his back rippling under your fingers. "You were so good for me, thank you. Fuck." Your chests rise and fall against each other as you catch your breath. Once the rapidness of them starts to slow and you return back into your body from your high, you cup his face and kiss him sweetly.

"Thank you, Steve," you sigh, brushing the pretty twin spots on his cheek with your thumb. "I can't tell you how bad I needed that."

"I love making you feel good," he responds with a shrug, kissing you with a soft peck before he leans back, pulling his softening cock from your cunt, puffy and creamy with your mixed orgasms. "I'm gonna clean you up, I'll be right back." Steve disappears into the hallway, returning soon wearing his briefs again and holding a warm washcloth.

"Here," he says in a low voice, easing your thighs open again and swiping delicately at your core. You inhale a little sharply at the sensation, and Steve kisses your knee again.

"I know, baby, almost done," Steve whispers as he finishes, dropping the cloth into your hamper before approaching your dresser, pulling out fresh underwear and a big sleep shirt from the drawers. He helps lift your hips as you slide the underwear on, pulling you up gently to sit before slipping the shirt over your head. Steve reaches for the pillow that was under your hips and tosses it up to the headboard again, before slipping under the covers next to you.

"You're so amazing," he grins, propping his head up on an elbow to look down at you. "Seriously, I'm in awe of you."

"Steve-" you blush, hiding your behind your hands.

"C'mon, let me do this," he pleads softly, guiding your wrists back down to your sides.

You sigh, resolve melting under his puppy dog gaze, and nod.

"Your brain," Steve says, with a kiss to your forehead. "You're the smartest person I've ever met, I tell everyone all the time."

He pecks your lips on his way down to your neck again, where he presses his lips sweetly on the column on your throat.

"This voice," he hums. "Helps me keep my head straight, brings me back home."

Steve's head travels down a little further until it reaches your sternum, kissing slowly through the fabric.

"Your beautiful heart, baby," he sighs, hands bracing your sides. "Taking care of everyone, loving so much. You make me so happy."

Steve crawls back up to you, swiping gently at the little mist of tears swelling in your eyes with the pad of his thumb.

"You gotta tell me if you're overwhelmed, honey," he scolds. "You're smart, and hard-working, and badass, but I know how much bullshit you put up with. I have to put up with it, and I teach health, for god's sake."

"It's really hard," you admit, voice coming out soft and a little choked.

"It is," he agrees, settling back against your side, a hand guiding your head to rest on his chest. "But I wanna make it less hard. What do you think, let me try?"

Your head tilts back to look up at him, greeted with pretty hazel eyes that swim with real admiration, cheeks pink and dimpled from a lovesick smile.

"Let's see what you've got, Harrington."