tis the damn season

The nickname doesn’t bother him anymore. And, in truth, your anger doesn’t either — certainly not as much as it used to, anyway. It’s gotten far easier to see past your hurtful words for whatever underlying truth is typically hiding underneath them. Like now.

Steve shifts his head on his fist to flash you a smug smile. “So, what? You sayin’ you’re my girlfriend now?”

Your head snaps to the side again, jaw clenched and eyes squinted, too pretty to be so mean. “Don’t push it, Harrington.”

The ride back to the station is silent. The unloading of the van after the fact is silent, too. You use your quiet like a weapon, knowing it’s the only thing Steve hates more than your bitterness. You stand with him in the lamplit parking lot, glowing neon from the buzzing WSQK sign on top of the towering building.

Steve leans against the back of the van, with his arm propped along the hatch to block your path inside. He tilts his scruffy chin to flash you an unamused glance, still soft around the edges, ‘cause he can’t help but look at you any other way. “You’re not seriously gonna take this out on me all night, are you?”

“I don’t know,” you squint with your head tilted to the side. “Are you seriously gonna pretend like what you said didn’t hurt my feelings?”

He scoffs out a laugh. “You’re blowin’ this way outta proportion, honey—”

Your eyes find Hopper when he walks out of the station, wearing the exhaustion of the crawl all over, and heading for his car.

“Hey, Hop!” you call to him and smile when he turns to meet your gaze. “I love that jacket on you.”

The bearded man glances down at his fur-lined winter coat and back up at you again. His steely eyes narrow, suspecting something. “Don’t rope me into your lover’s quarrel, lovebirds,” he grumbles.

You roll your eyes at the code name and turn back to Steve. You find the boy suddenly hardened — dark eyes fixed in a firm glare, teeth clenched so tight it makes his temples shift.

You smile in the face of his scowling. “Aw.. Why the long face, Stevie—?”

“Get in the van,” he tells you in an unwavering monotone.

You scoff in response. “Don’t tell me what to do, Harrington—”

“Get. In. The back,” he commands, slower this time.

He unlatches the back door with a heavy ca-chunk. The rusted hinges squeak as they open. You swallow down your protests and climb into the back. Steve follows just behind, already on you before you can blink — leaning you down onto the plush carpet of the van floor, pressing his mouth to yours in a bruising kiss, unbuttoning your pants with practiced hands.

“For the record,” he mutters between his searing kisses. “I love these jeans on you, honey.”

Your mouths click when you jerk away from him, frowning all over again. “Oh, fuck off—”

Your scowl ebbs into a glass-eyed look of pleasure when his right hand slips into your jeans. His fingers are warm as they dip past the hem of your cotton panties, creeping through the coarse thatch of pubic hair above your pussy. His kissed lips curl when the pads of his fingertips find the honey you leak for him, more delicate than silk.

“You get off on this shit, don’t you, honey?”

“You’re lucky if you get me off once, Harrington— Oh…”

His fingers slip further, pressing hard against your clit.

He gets you off twice that way, both in quick succession, and until you’re begging him to stop — and then, when you’re perfect and pliable beneath him, he drags your jeans down your legs, and presses his scruffy face between your plush thighs.

He works you much slower with his mouth, rolling his tongue over your swollen clit in measured motions until you’re writhing and gripping the fluffy carpet in your fists (because you refuse to give him the satisfaction of tugging at his hair).

Your face screws in frustration as the coil in your stomach tightens, but refuses to snap. Every time you think you might cum, Steve pulls away again, pressing wet kisses to your inner thighs like he knows what he’s doing to you.

“Jesus Christ!” you groan with your head tipped back against the floor. “Just go faster—”

He peers up your body with lidded, glittering eyes. His face is flushed red and shining with your slick when he pulls back to smile at you. “Weren’t you just begging me to stop?”

“Yeah,” you scoff, tilting your flaming cheek to your shoulder as you glare at him. “And unless you wanna be begging Nancy and her pants to get you off later, you should probably make me cum now—”

His mouth locks on your clit, sucking hard at the sensitive bud, then licking at the bundle of nerves until you keen. Your moans fill the quiet van as you cum in his mouth.

Steve parts from you with a smack, keeping your orgasm going with two fingers shoved in your pulsing pussy and his thumb pressing hard onto your clit.

“Fuck—” you spit through gritted teeth, trembling from the sensitivity.

“This is all you needed, huh, honey?” he teases through labored breaths, mouth swollen and slick with your cum. “Just wanted a little attention, right? Is that it?”

“Fuck, Steve!” you gasp when your high ebbs but his merciless fingers keep going.

“I think you can give me one more, can’t you?” Steve coos beneath the sinful schlick, schlick, schlick sound of his fingers in your pussy. “C’mon. I know you can take it, honey. Just go ahead and give it to me. Let me have it—”

Your hips buck off the carpet, chasing another orgasm you’re not so sure you can take. You don’t give him the satisfaction of telling him so — you just bite your lip and take it, writhing on the carpet as Steve forces another orgasm from your twitching body.

“Oh, my god!” you hear yourself whine, sounding nothing like yourself, as you clench hard around Steve’s ruthless fingers.

You’re left trembling underneath him, buzzing from your dwindling high and feeling halfway out of your own body. With your eyes squeezed shut and your mind totally elsewhere, you don’t realize Steve is back on top of you until he’s pressing wet kisses across your neck.

“Atta girl…” he coos against your burning skin, nipping gently at your pulse point and then parting to smile down at you. His lips are swollen from his merciless assault on your cunt; his chin is glistening beneath the orange lamplight; his eyes are heavy-lidded and sparkling, too. “You get it all out of your system yet? Or do I need to stuff you full? Hm?”

Despite your swimming head and achingly sensitive pussy, you manage to exhale a cynical laugh in response.

“Full?” you scoff. “God, that is presumptuous of you—”