nic ♡

I shifted in bed, slowly opening my eyes, only to be met with the most angelic face in the

world.

I carefully untangled Joe’s arm that was wrapped around my waist and placed a soft kiss on

his cheek before getting out of bed.

It was our fourth month together, and Joe had surprised me yesterday. By the end of the

night, he had given me a ton of out-of-this-world orgasms.

When I stepped into the bathroom, I checked my reflection in the mirror and pulled a face.

My hair was messy, my neck was covered in purple marks that trailed down across my

chest, and I let out a nasal laugh as I shook my head and washed my face.

After brushing my teeth, I put on a random T-shirt and a pair of underwear before heading to

the kitchen.

The smell of coffee was starting to fill the room while I absentmindedly stirred the pan. The

house was still quiet, wrapped in that lazy early-morning atmosphere.

I heard dragging footsteps coming down the hallway.

— Good morning.

Joe’s voice came out hoarse, still heavy with sleep.

I smiled to myself.

— Good morning.

I felt his arms wrap around my waist from behind, his warm chest pressing against my back.

Joe rested his chin on my shoulder, breathing slowly, still half lost between sleep and the

smell of coffee.

— You escaped the bed…

he murmured.

— I’m making breakfast.

— Hm… maybe I’ll forgive you then.

He gave my waist a light squeeze, but when I turned to face him, I noticed something

change in his expression.

— What?

— Are you kidding me?

I let out a soft laugh as I looked down and asked,

— What?

— You’re wearing a Dominic Fike T-shirt and not one of mine?

He took his hands off me while raising an eyebrow.

— Baby, I got this one as a gift. My brother gave it to me when I used to listen to his music.

I said, taking a step forward after turning off the stove.

— And you don’t like my music?

He pouted slightly and I wrapped my arms around his waist.

— I love your music. You’re my number one every month on Spotify. You know that.

— Then why do you have another guy on your chest?

— Babe, stop it. It was the first shirt I grabbed when I got out of bed.

Joe narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to maintain his offended act.

— You could’ve grabbed any shirt… but you picked the one with another guy on it.

I crossed my arms, holding back a smile.

— Are you jealous of a T-shirt?

— It’s not just any T-shirt.

he shot back, pointing at my chest.

— It’s a guy’s T-shirt.

— A singer.

— A guy.

I rolled my eyes and stepped closer to him.

— You slept with me all night, Joe.

He stepped forward too, completely closing the distance between us. His hands returned to

my waist like they had never left.

— I think I need to fix this problem.

— What problem?

— This one.

he said, lightly tugging at the collar of the shirt between his fingers.

— The competition.

— What competition, you idiot?

— What?

he murmured, now wearing that lazy smile that always appeared when he was about to do

something stupid.

— I’m just saying… maybe you should wear one of my shirts.

— I do wear yours.

— Not enough.

— You’re dramatic. Even more than me. Did growing up with four sisters do that?

— You’re wearing another guy’s face right after a night where I was clearly amazing.

I raised an eyebrow and laughed out loud.

— Clearly?

He leaned closer to my ear.

— Do you really want to argue about that?

I felt heat rise to my face while he chuckled softly.

— Arrogant.

— Realistic.

Joe then slid his fingers along the hem of the shirt and murmured,

— We can solve this in two ways.

— Take it off me, Joseph.

I said more gently, and he kissed my cheek while pulling the fabric up.

He smiled, completely satisfied with himself.

— I’m your girl, always. Remember that.

I said after he tossed the shirt onto the floor and pulled me close against his body.

You told Joe to stand with a cushion in front of the camera and though he had no idea why, he did. Because you told him to.

"What's going on?" he asked, watching as you set up the camera.

You were backstage of a show he was prepping for, hour or so before he was set to take the stage. As he liked to, he relaxed with cups of tea to ease his voice, not a big crew around him, just you. His only person.

Typically you sat together, talked or read or he ran through some song choices he was thinking about and other things he was working on.

Today, you changed it up.

You stood next to him, with a cushion in your own hand.

Joe looked around, confused but with a smile. "What?"

"Just listen."

Joe squinted at the camera, regretting his glasses left on the side.

"Who was interested first?"

Before Joe could even register the question your pillow hit him in the chest with a soft whack.

He stumbled back at the force un-accounted for and looked back to you as you laughed. His jaw was agape even as your knees buckled from your force of laughter. "What the he-"

"Who said I love you first?"

Joe at least had a second to prepare, holing up his pillow before yours hit him again. He heard the question, he got the gist of what was going on and wasn't going to deny it. He remembered the picnic in central park he took you on when he first said I love you.

"Who is more protective?"

Both of your cushions went up and hit into each other, the force stumbling you both.

"You so are!" you argued.

"Yeah but so are you!" he said.

You hit him with the cushion again as he cowered in laughter.

"Who cleans more?"

Joe hit you.

"Who eats the most?"

Joe was ready before the question even ended he. He spun and whacked you in the ass with the pillow, throwing you back onto the sofa. "Oh shit!" he laughed.

The both of you were in fits of laughter. The camera picking up on you lying on the sofa, arm over your stomach with laughter while Joe loomed over you, laughing.

"Who spends the most money?"

Joe ignored the question, laying a hand on your back.

You tried to lift the pillow to hit him but he grabbed your wrist and put it down.

"No I don't!"

"Who is most likely to start an argument?"

Joe straight up dropped the cushion. He held his hands up in surrender, not willing to take the hit or make it. Maybe it was the two years you'd been together but neither of you started arguments. Who wanted to get into arguments?

Your own cushion was clutched to your chest as you were still laughing, trying to get up but Joe not letting it happen.

"Who falls aslee-"

The audio kept going and the last shot the camera got was Joe falling on top of you on the sofa in his dressing room, throwing the cushion at the camera and plunging the tikok into to darkness.

View all comments:

the way he dropped the cushion so fast

he really said we do not argue in this house

may this love attack me

y/n feeding us with joe content

JOE SAID I LOVE YOU FIRST

ii.

When you started posting Joe, you should've expected the fallout. The comments of 'hard launch of the century' or people aghast you were even together even if you hadn't been trying to keep it a secret. You also weren't trying to make it public-public.

But Joe liked it.

He liked boasting. His friends knew that. A hand always on each other when hanging out, if you were going out he liked to give you a hat of his to wear. And if nobody could see that love they could hear it in his songs.

So, you went again. A harmless little prank.

Your phone was in hand, the record button hit as you flopped next to your boyfriend on your sofa in your NYC apartment. On instinct, Joe's arm went around your shoulder.

You started with casual chat.

Then: "Oh my god, I forgot to tell you."

The camera picks up on the immediate interest in his face.

"Tell me, tell me," he said, abandoning his own task on his phone.

"I found Joe Quinn on Raya."

Joe didn't even think. He laughed, pushing back his hair. He leant closer toward you. "Did you? Did you really?"

"Yeah," you said with your own amused grin.

"But wasn't he- I thought he was dating-" Joe began, his head leant in hand as he dug his elbow into the sofa, watching you.

You shook your head, trying to keep back your laughter. You didn't want any other names to be involved in a Tiktok that would be posted online. You'd just picked Joe because he was yours and Joe's friend and you knew he was recently single. "No."

You watched your boyfriend think about it and for a second, you thought you were caught out.

"Did you see the picture released of him as George Harrison?" he asked instead.

You laughed but nodded. "Yes."

Joe was momentarily confused why it was so funny but moved past it. "Wait can I see the photo's he-" the camera picked up on the very moment he realised. "Wait, Raya?"

You pitched forward with a laugh, as Joe laughed too, though more confused.

Joe chuckled. "Why are you on Raya?"

"I'm not."

"You're not?"

You picked your phone up and showed him the Tikok you were filming.

Joe rolled his eyes playfully and tugged you in closer. "Oh my god-"

View all comments:

Joe was so ready for the gossip

Never have I ever wanted to gossip with joe more

The panic and then he realised

Isn't this so distasteful, his ex literally cheated on him

It was a prank

I just know at the end of the day he's so ready to gossip

They're so cute together stfu

iii.

When you saw how much the people liked to see it, or some who hated to see the two of you in love and happy, you didn't want to stop.

Just like your boyfriend with his film camera you were there with your phone, taking pictures or videos of him at any time of day.

The two of you couldn't get enough.

So when your fans got a notification- you'd posted another Tiktok- they were excited to see what it could have been.

They found you, in the lap of Joe's. It was clearly Joe. His arms were around you with drumsticks in hand as he played the drums, tapping around, with you in his lap. Your chest to his.

It got over a million like in twenty-four hours and everyone was obsessed.

View all comments:

Is it in?

I don't know who I want to be more

I feel like I shouldn't be watching

This is what I pay wifi for

GET IT! GET IT!

iv.

Or another harmless little prank here and there. One where you wiped off a kiss he gave you when you were recording a Vogue get ready with me. It was clipped from the Youtube video and did the rounds on Tiktok.

Your 'prank' didn't work however as he only plunged the camera into darkness by blocking the both of you out of view to give you a kiss you couldn't so easily rub off.

Or another where you were cooking and dragged Joe into view, naming him your 'current boyfriend' to which he only shrugged and corrected you with one word.

"Husband, but sure."

Which then sparked a huge marriage rumour. You were not married. (Or at least not yet)

But you tried again, all for your own enjoyment. Where some didn't understand if Joe wanted to be on Tiktok or not, it was clear all he wanted was to be with you. Around you. Involved with you and your life however that presented itself.

You had your phone set up, acting as if you were using it as a mirror while you got yourself ready for the day.

Joe was pottering around behind you, throwing on different hats till he found the one he wanted for the day, getting a bag and his guitar to go to the studio. "Okay baby, I love you, I'll see you later," he said, pressing his lips atop your head so he didn't ruin the makeup you were doing.

He was on his way out the door when you called back.

"See you soon!"

The camera could just see Joe half way out the door, hands till holding it open as he looked back.

"Okay, love you," he said, trying it as casual as he could again.

"Bye!"

Joe waited a second, wondering if maybe there was a delay. "Babe?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I know, i'll see you tonight."

Joe looked back and saw the camera. He stared at it blankly as he understood what you were doing. He flexed his muscles, showing his biceps to the camera before he went back to being 'serious.'

You watched him through the camera as he leant his guitar on the wall and headed over to you. He leant over you and gently and playfully cupped your chin, getting you to look at him.

"Say it," he said through his teeth playfully with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"I love you," you chuckled.

Joe's face lit up in a grin. "Love you too, I'll see you tonight." He took his time, his lips against yours sweetly before he left for the day.

Across the field, practice is in full swing. Kids swarm the infield, shouting over one another, cleats kicking up clouds of dust. A bright, metallic clang rings through the air, signaling a clean hit. The whole team erupts into cheers as little Johnny Peters takes off for first, freckles flashing beneath his helmet.

You smile, eyes following the chaos fondly.

“God,” Sharon mutters, gaze fixed entirely elsewhere, “I know he’s young, but does he really have to look like that?”

“How old is he, anyway? Twenty?” another mom asks.

“Twenty-two,” Sharon corrects promptly. “I asked.”

Kelly snorts. “Of course you did.”

“Huh. And he’s not seeing anyone?”  

“Apparently not.”

You take a slow sip of your coffee, keeping your expression neutral. You’ve gotten very good at that lately.

“It’s the whole authority thing, right?” Kelly says after a pause. “Give a guy a whistle and suddenly—"

“—suddenly he’s attractive,” another mom finishes.

“Well,” Sharon adds, “I think it’s a little more than the whistle.”

A soft ripple of laughter moves down the row.

Just then, the sharp blast of a whistle cuts through the air.

The effect is instantaneous.

It’s like Pavlovian conditioning, the sudden hush that settles over the stands. Conversations drop off mid-sentence. Heads lift in near-perfect unison. Like suburban meerkats sensing a storm, all eyes snap toward the field.

Every mom here knows exactly what that whistle means.

Coach Steve Harrington steps out from the dugout, lips still wrapped around the whistle, hands signaling a time-out as he jogs toward the pitcher’s mound. His cap is pulled low, shades perched on the bridge of his nose. The top two buttons of his Dodger-blue jersey are undone—as usual—revealing tanned collarbones and just the faintest tuft of chest hair.

He calls out a few pointers to the team, then leans over the plate to demonstrate a perfect, controlled swing.

The pivoting motion tugs his shirt upward, flashing a patch of sun-warmed skin at his stomach. It also strains the fabric of his pants, those khakis clinging to his ass in a way that’s a little snug for a public park.

A very un-subtle sigh rolls through the bleachers.

“Jesus,” Sharon mutters. “I mean, that’s just unnecessary.”

“He’s gotta know, right? There’s no way he doesn’t.”

“That shirt’s always like that. Never fully buttoned.”

A chorus of murmured agreement follows.

You press your lips together, managing to school your expression just as you hear a pair of little cleats pounding toward you.

“Mom! Mom!”

Toby skids to a stop in front of you, panting with effort, helmet crooked, knees grass-stained. He wedges himself between your legs and you reach up instinctively, straightening his helmet before it tips again.

“Mom, did ya see me? Did ya see that throw?”

“‘Course I did, honey! You were amazing!”   

His grin goes blinding. “Coach Steve said I got way better this week. He said I’m really fast. Like, like, maybe fast enough to be a pro!”   

“Yeah?” you smile, brushing a smear of dirt from his cheek. “You’ve been working so hard. I’m so proud of you.”

Toby nods so vigorously his helmet nearly slips again. He takes a quick gulp from the water bottle you hand him, then darts back to the dugout.

Across the field, Steve is crouched near home plate, murmuring low encouragements as he adjusts another kid’s grip on the bat.

After a moment, he straightens.

Flicks his cap off, rolls his shoulders, then lets his eyes roam over the bleachers.

When he finds what he’s looking for, he flashes a quick, casual smile.

From this distance, it’s broad enough to be meant for no one in particular.

And yet.

You look away immediately, pretending to study the condensation sliding down your coffee cup.  

“Oh my god,” Kelly whispers beside you. “I think he looked over here. Sharon, was that at you?”

Sharon scoffs, though the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Please. He smiles at everyone.”

“Mm, not like that.”

You keep your gaze fixed firmly on the cup.

⚾︎

“Alright, Cubs! Awesome job today! Make sure to grab all your stuff. I’ll see you back here Tuesday, yeah?”

A chorus of okay, Coach! and bye, Coach Steve! follows.

The bleachers wake up all at once. Moms rise in unison, purses scraping against aluminum, lipstick caps popping open for quick, totally casual touch-ups meant for no one in particular. Kids spill off the field in excited clumps, chatter overlapping as they relive every hit, every near-catch. Toby’s voice cuts through it all, loud and proud as he recounts a grounder he almost snagged.

You’re stuffing a water bottle into your tote when a voice behind you makes you freeze.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

You turn.

Steve stands there, casual as ever, bat slung over his shoulder, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. His jersey’s still hanging half-open, collar darkened with sweat.   

“Hi.”

You purse your lips, stifling a smile. “Hi.”

He stares for a beat too long before he shakes himself, clearing his throat.

“Uh—I just wanted to say Toby did really great today. Kid’s a natural. Solid throw, great hustle. And..." his eyes flick briefly toward the chaos of children behind him, voice dropping a notch, “...he actually listens.”    

You laugh softly. “That last part’s news to me.”

Steve grins. Takes a step closer.

His voice slides into a familiar cadence you’ve come to recognize, warm and teasing. “So... I heard you might be on snack duty next week.”

You raise a brow. “You did, huh?”

“Yep. And, you know, I run a pretty serious operation here. Snack’s are a very important part of team morale. So I thought maybe we should… discuss our options.”

You can’t hide the smile this time. “Oh? And what exactly were you thinking, Coach?”

“Well…” he leans closer, eyes glinting. “We might need to talk details. You know… what kind of chips to get, how many… make sure everything’s perfect.”

“Mm,” you nod solemnly. “Sounds important. Why don’t I—”

“Mom! Mom!”

Toby barrels toward you, juice box clenched in his hand like a trophy, still buzzing with post-practice adrenaline.

“Mom, can I sleep over at Jackson’s tonight?”

You blink. “Tonight?”

“Yeah! He’s got the new Super Mario game! And, and, he said we can have pizza while we play!”

You glance up to see Jackson’s mom waving from a few yards away, already herding kids toward her van.

“You sure, baby? I made that lasagna you like.”

“Nooo, Mom, please? Everyone’s going.”

You give in with a smile, smoothing his hair back. “Okay. You want me to bring your stuff over?”

“Nope, he’s got extras!”

“Alright. Be good at Mrs. Miller’s, okay? And say thank you.”

“I will!” He vibrates in place just long enough for you to bend down and kiss his cheek.

“Okay, bye Mom! Love you! Bye, Coach Steve! See you next week!”

“Bye, buddy,” Steve waves. “Great job today. Let me know how that game goes, yeah?”

Toby nods furiously before sprinting off.

When you turn back, Steve’s grinning at you.

Hand shoved in his pocket, rocking lightly on his heels.

He's more boyish than ever, looks downright fucking pleased.

“Well,” he starts, tilting his head, “I don’t know about Toby, but…”

He shrugs, eyes flicking to you with warmth and something unmistakably like intent.

“I could definitely go for some lasagna.”

⚾︎

“You know all the—mmph—the moms are... t-talking about you, right?”

Even with your face shoved into the pillow, words muffled, jaw slack and drooling, you know exactly the kind of shit-eating grin that’s hovering behind you.    

“Yeah?” His voice comes perfectly level, lazy with a familiar taunt. Like he’s not ramming you within an inch of your life. “What’re they saying?”

“Mm, Shar... Sharon thinks you’re—fuck, Steve!”  

There’s no warning, just the sudden crush of his weight shoving you flat onto the mattress, pinning your stomach against the sheets. His hips snap forward, driving all the way to the hilt in one, long thrust, your body jolting up the bed from the sheer force of it.

You let out a strangled yelp, hands flailing back instinctively, scrabbling at his arms, his hips. You squirm desperately for leverage, clawing at the Dodger-blue fabric bunched around his waist, but he pins you easily, weight sinking down like an anchor. A thick forearm comes around to hook under your chin, wrapping around your neck to hold you there.

“She thinks I’m what?” he breathes, lips pressed to your temple.  

“She... she...”

He allows you a moment of merciful reprieve, thrusts slowing to a teasing grind, hips rolling in deep, languid circles against your ass.

“Into her,” you manage. “S-she thinks you’re into her.”

“Huh,” he pants, thoughtful. “Mrs. McIntyre?”

You nod weakly as he adjusts his grip around your neck, pressing up until you can feel your own pulse thundering along the column of your throat.

Then, before you can find your next breath, the weight over you lifts, the pressure around your neck releasing. You suck in a long, trembling gulp of air—the first real one in what feels like forever—just as you feel a pair of hands wrap around your hips, flipping you swiftly onto your back.

You hit the pillows with a startled gasp, chest heaving, legs splaying open instinctively.

Your cunt glistens between your thighs, weeping a slow, sticky trail into the sheets. It’s twitching uselessly, clenching around open air as if it could pull him closer.

From between your knees, your man watches.

The late-afternoon sun cuts through the room in slanted gold, draping his body in warmth and shadow. You take him in helplessly, all the familiar lines of him—the sloped planes of his shoulders, thick biceps and a toned chest that melts into the soft curve of his stomach. The pale-white scars that shimmer along his sides, stark and beautiful against flushed skin.

He’s naked except for that blue jersey. Hanging open at the front, hem brushing over his hips. The last two buttons are gone, thanks to your handiwork.

It’s a miracle his shirt’s stayed intact at all, what with the way you were climbing over each other the moment the door slammed shut.

Savage, open-mouthed kisses giving way to ragged gasps as you staggered through your living room, tripping over the ottoman, narrowly avoiding a vase as you dragged each other toward the bed. His dirt-stained khakis discarded mid-stride, he barely managed to tear your clothes off before hauling you onto the mattress.

Predatory.

It’s the only word to describe the way he’s looking at you now, honey-brown eyes darkened with intent, burning hotter than the molten orange sunset bleeding through the curtains behind him.

He takes his sweet time.

Holds your gaze, unblinking, as he shrugs the jersey the rest of the way off, letting it drop away. He raises a hand up to his chest, palm flat, and drags it slow across his skin. Slides it over his ribs, his stomach, the trail of coarse hair running below his navel, reaching down, down, down, until his fingers brush against the sticky patch of curls at his base.

A pleased, knowing smile spreads across his face as he drinks in your reaction.

“Mrs. McIntyre, huh? I had no idea.”

And even this fucked up—dazed and boneless from the way he’s been drilling his cock inside you for the better part of an hour, buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach—a tiny part of you can’t resist pushing back.

Just enough to test him, to see how far he’ll let you go.

“Don’t act like you’re surprised…” you murmur, words slurring. “You were smiling at her today.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a low, incredulous laugh.

“At her?”

The hand on his stomach moves lower, thumb and four fingers splayed to form a wide ‘V’ as he cradles the imposing monument he calls a cock. The head of it’s all swollen, leaking, skin flushed from friction and glossed all over with your arousal.

“Huh,” he intones mildly, gaze flicking down between your legs, tongue gliding slow across his bottom lip. “Did I make my girl jealous?”

You scoff, pushing weakly against his shoulders as he makes his way back down, boxing you in between his elbows. “You wish, Harrington.”

He laughs under his breath, soft and playful, before he slams his lips against yours in a filthy kiss, tongues clashing until you’re left panting for breath.

Pulls back with a wet smack, eyes hooded, blazing with amusement.

“Sorry, honey,” he breathes, head tipped in mock sympathy. “Had no idea.”

You roll your eyes, instantly betrayed by the tremor in your voice. “I don’t care.”  

“Mm,” he smiles, dipping his head to nuzzle your cheek, mouthing along your jaw while he reaches a hand down without looking. “I think you do.”

His cock drags against your inner thigh as he positions himself against your opening.

“And I think,” he adds softly, “you mean Coach Harrington.”

You laugh despite yourself, breathless, feeling him bury a smile of his own against your neck.

“Nice try... ‘m not calling you that in bed.”

“Worth a shot.”

“Uh-huh.”

Your amusement quickly dies on a moan when he nudges the head of his cock against your swollen clit, dragging it down in a slow, wet schlick to your entrance. The pressure makes you clench, whining when he rubs insistently against your folds without pushing in.

“Steve—"

“Shh, I know, baby,” He smooth a warm palm up the inside of your thigh, pushing it back, spreading you wider. “I got you.”

In and in and in, he bottoms out in one stroke, stretching you endlessly until his pelvis is flush against yours. You take him well—pussy warm and slick from earlier rounds—but the weight of him, the sheer girth pressing into you, draws a low whimper from your throat.

“Yeah?” he breathes. “Is that good?

His lips trail soft, lingering kisses across your neck, one hand coming up to smooth your hair back, cradling the top of your head to shield it from bumping against the headboard.

It all runs so counter to the way he’s thrusting—slamming inside in quick, deep thrusts, hitting your g-spot with such merciless accuracy that your eyes prick with tears.

“God,” he huffs, brow furrowed in pleasure, jaw going slack as he starts hitting that rhythm proper, “You have any idea how hard it was to behave today? Couldn’t stop fucking staring at you. Couldn’t... couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

His eyes roam greedily over the fresh trail of bruises he’s already mapped across your body: deep wine-reds that bloom just underneath the skin, running down your neck, your collarbone, the soft underside of your tits.

“You were looking at me too, huh?” he murmurs, already knowing.

Head lolling back against the pillow, you can only nod, too dizzy and breathless to do more.

“Yeah, baby, I know you were,” he coos, dropping his forehead to yours, lips brushing in a slow, teasing ghost of a kiss. “Sitting up there… looking so pretty. Bet you were making a mess out of the bleachers, huh? Getting yourself all wet.”

You groan, arching against him. “Steve—”  

“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with need. “Tell me how good this feels. Tell me how much you need this cock.”

“I—fuck—I need it. I’s so good. Feels... feels so good.”

He lets out a guttural groan, pressing down harder, pulling you closer.  

“Drives me… drives me fucking insane, you know that? Acting all polite out there, ‘Yes, ma’am…’ ‘Oh, he did just great today...’ When all I want—” He draws his hips back, slamming back inside to punctuate his next words “—is this.”

“Fuck, Steve—!”

The pleasure is blinding, a violent flash-bang to the senses that knocks the breath straight out of you. You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping onto his shoulders for dear life as you tip into your third orgasm of the day. He fucks you through it, murmuring praise, hips pistoning so hard it makes the mattress squeak, the headboard rattle.

And even as the high fades, he doesn’t relent. Light, shallow thrusts that leave you whining, twitching, your clit jolting each time he brushes against your tender g-spot.

“Mm…” you squirm, legs trembling against your will. “Steve...”

“Hm?”

“Can’t... ‘s too... too sensitive...”

“Just one more, baby.” He pants, lifting himself up on his hands. The playful edge in his eyes replaced by a look that’s all earnest now, all intent. “Want you to come one more time for me.”

You groan weakly, shaking your head. “I can’t.”

“You can,” he leans in close, nudging his nose against yours, pressing a soft peck to the tip. “Just one more. One more, baby. For me?”

Your response breaks into a loud groan when his hand slides down to your clit, middle and ring finger pressing slow, firm circles across the sensitive nub, making your cunt spasm around him with each pass.

“Come on, honey,” he whispers, voice soft but insistent, almost petulant in its coaxing. “I never get to take my time with you. Never get to have you like this.”

And even in this state, you can’t stop the wet, fucked-out laugh that escapes you. “You... you had me like this two days ago.”

The memory hits in a dizzying haze. He’d invited you over to his place before practice on Tuesday. Fed you a surprisingly excellent omelet first, then wasted no time bending you over the counter, and then the couch, and eventually his bed—both of you panting and laughing by the end of it, scrambling to get dressed once you realized how much time had passed.

“But we were still rushing then,” he counters, and you can’t muster the energy to argue that three and a half rounds don't exactly count as ‘rushing,’ but maybe for Steve Harrington they do.

“Please, baby,” he murmurs, still thrusting gently. “We’ve got all night today. Wanna see how many times I can make you come.”

“Fuck...” you sigh, head tipping back as another shudder rolls through you. You were convinced you’d come up against a wall, but the moment he angles his thrusts upward, fingers continuing their precise, coaxing swipes over your clit, the smoldering tension in your stomach catches kindling.

The high starts climbing back, somehow, sharper and brighter than ever.

“God, you’re so pretty... so fucking gorgeous,” he whispers, driving in a little harder. “Can’t believe you think I’d look at anyone else when I’ve got you.”

You whine weakly at his words, at the way his voice dips on the words I’ve got you, unmistakably possessive yet so bruisingly tender.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he mumbles against your lips. “No one gives it to you like this, hm?”

Your response is a trembling, breathless gasp, mouth brushing against his on every thrust, pressed so close it’s impossible to tell when you’re not kissing.

“Yeah? Say it, then. Tell me.”

“Yours, yours, ’m yours... fuck, don’t stop... mmph—"

Long, slow, filthy passes of his tongue as he pries your lips open, gliding into your mouth; he craves this point of connection, always. Every sound you make is swallowed eagerly, turned into something shared.

He breaks easiest when you’re this close, when the air between you disappears and his control gives way to raw, aching need. Instinct pulling him toward a singular desire to stay close, to share breath and spit and praise while he takes you.

“Oh... oh my god—Steve, I’m—"

“Yeah, that’s it, honey. Let go, I’ve got you.”

It almost hurts, this time around.

The slow, exquisite, endless pull of pleasure, cruel hands of a thousand little deaths come to strangle you off. Every nerve in your body feels raw and frayed, tears leaking freely when you shut your eyes tight. You bury your face into his shoulder, nails pressing hard enough to break skin, clinging desperately to his words for some fragment of relief.

“Good girl... ah, shit, s-squeezing me so tight. That’s it. Keep coming, baby. There you go.”

Your cunt spasms uncontrollably around him—long, drawn-out pulses that keep him from pulling back out. He ruts the last few inches inside before spilling deep, groaning against your neck.

“Fuck, yes, just like that. God, baby....”

He always stays inside you afterward, for as long as he can. Kissing, kissing, always kissing, like he just can’t help himself, lips roaming over any patch of skin he can reach. When he finally draws his hips back, he does so carefully, softening the distance with more kisses when you whine at the loss of him.

“C’mere,” he pants, breath still ragged as he rolls onto his side, tugging you in until you fit flush against him. “I’ve got you.”

Warm, gentle strokes against the curve of your back as you level out together, syncing your breaths. The window’s cracked just enough to let the evening air roll in, cooling against heated, buzzing skin.

“You okay?” he murmurs after a while.  

You hum in response, nodding once as you tuck your nose closer to his chest, breathing him in. Citrus cologne. Sweat. Steve.

“Wow,” he exhales, half a laugh caught in his throat. “What was that, three times?”

“Four,” you mumble, words muffled against his skin.

“Oh my god,” he laughs fully now, warm and boyish, chest vibrating beneath your cheek. He dips his head to press a quick kiss to your temple. “We’ll do five next time. Promise.”

You groan softly and shove at his shoulder, rolling away to hide your face in the pillow.

You hear him chuckle behind you as he slides off the bed. The soft pad of bare feet follows, sliding across hardwood, then the click of the bathroom light. Water trickles quietly from the sink.

You’re still catching your breath when the mattress dips again.

His fingers brush the backs of your legs, gently coaxing you to turn onto your back. You do, cheeks burning as he carefully swipes the warm, damp towel between your thighs, focused and attentive.

It’s something he’s done countless times before.

And still, it’s the part that always makes your chest tighten.

You push yourself upright once he’s done, settling against the headboard. He tucks the sheets around your waist, smoothing the fabric over your hips before reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand.

Brings it to your lips.

“Steve,” you laugh softly, still flushed, “I don’t need you to hold it.”

“Ssh,” he murmurs, lips quirking. “Small sips.”

You narrow your eyes at him but drink anyway, hands folded uselessly in your lap while he keeps the glass steady. When you’re done, he takes a long drink himself before setting it aside.

He turns back, catches you staring.

“What?”

You shake your head, smile faint. “Nothing.”

He studies you for a beat longer, searching your face, but doesn’t push. Instead, he stretches with a low groan, shoulders rolling until something pops.

“God,” he mutters. “You hungry?”  

“Sure. I could eat.”

“You said there’s lasagna, right?”

“Uh-huh.” You start to scoot toward the edge of the bed, but his hand lands firmly on your arm.

“Woah, hey. Where are you going?”

“To... get the lasagna?”

He shakes his head, already moving away. “Nope. Just tell me where it is.”

“Steve, it’s fine, I can—”

“Not happening.” He nudges you back against the pillows, then tucks another one behind your back for good measure. “I got it.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but he’s already pulling his boxers on.

“Is it in the oven?” he calls over his shoulder.

“...Yeah.”

“'Kay. Be right back.” He leans in for a quick kiss, lifting a finger at you as he backs toward the door. “Don’t move, alright?”  

You purse your lips, watching him go.

He’s back not ten minutes later, balancing two plates in his hands. Steam curls from the lasagna, edges crisp and bubbling.

“You gonna feed it to me too?” you ask dryly as he settles beside you.

He doesn’t even blink. Just picks up a fork and starts cutting into one of the slices.

“Jesus, Steve,” you laugh, grabbing the plate from him. “I was kidding.”

He hands it over with a grin, watching you take the first bite before digging into his own.

“Oh, hey,” he asks after a while, swallowing around a mouthful. “Did Toby like the new glove? Didn’t see him with it today.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “He loves it. I think he’s saving it for when the old one gives out.” You hesitate before adding, quieter, “Thank you, by the way. You really didn’t have to do that.”

Steve pauses mid-bite, fork hovering for half a second before he lowers it, lips pressing together.

“Yeah,” he nods softly. “Of course.”

You glance down at your plate, tracing a smear of sauce with the tip of your fork. “You know… if he knew it was from you, he’d probably never use it. He’d want to put it on a shelf or frame it or something.”   

He snorts quietly. “Guess it’ll be our secret then.”

“Hm,” you nod, the sound coming out thin.

You don’t eat much after that. Staring at nothing, just pushing the food around, lost in thoughts much heavier than hunger.

Steve notices.

He looks up from his plate, cheeks full, a smudge of tomato sauce at the corner of his mouth. He chews slowly, studying you over the rim of his fork.

“Hey,” he says once he swallows. “You okay?”

You blink. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He watches you for another beat, then sets his plate aside and slides closer. His hand settles on your knee, rubbing small circles.

“Did I, uh…” He glances down, then back up, eyes sheepish. “Wear you out too much?”

You nudge his ankle with your foot, managing a small smile despite the ache blooming in your chest. “No. It’s not that.”

“Okay,” he says softly, not quite smiling back. “Then what is it?”

“It’s... it’s nothing. Stupid.”

“Baby,” he reaches for your hand before you can pull away, fingers threading through yours. He shuffles closer until your knees press together. “Talk to me.”

You close your eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow breath, then another. Your chest tightens on the exhale.

“Is... is this about…?” His voice trails off, gentle, circling the truth carefully.

You sigh and turn your head, but he follows, refusing to let the space grow.

“’Cause if it is,” he rushes on, urgency bleeding into his tone, “I’m ready. Whenever you are. I mean it. I want to—”

“Steve, stop,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You can’t.”

He freezes, lips parting like he wants to argue. The light in his face shifts: eyes drooping, brows pulling together. So young, stripped of his usual bravado, it hurts to him look at him like this.

“Why... why not?”

“Because I can’t ask you to do that.”

He shakes his head, grip tightening as he pulls your hand to his chest, pressing it over his heart.

“Ask me to do what? Be part of your life? Be around your kid?” He shifts closer, trying to catch your eyes. “I… I wouldn’t—look, I care about Toby. I really do. And I care about you. I lov—”

His voice falters. He swallows hard, throat working around the word.  

“I love you.”

You stare at a spot on the sheets, blinking hard, vision going blurry at the edges.

“Baby,” he murmurs, thumb sliding gently under your chin. “Look at me. Please.”

You do. Lashes heavy, eyes shining despite your efforts. He smiles at you then, soft and steady, certainty radiating in a way that makes your chest ache.

“I love you,” he repeats. “I want… I want to be with you. Wake up next to you, go to sleep next to you. Take you places.” He lets out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, that old caravan I bought is a total mess, but... I thought we could fix it up together. Travel a little. Go see the country.”

His smile softens, expression sobering a bit. “And I want to be there for Toby. I know what it’s like to have a shitty dad. I would never do that to him. Ever.”

You make a small, broken sound and turn away, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb keeps tracing the same soothing path over your knuckles.

“And I’m not saying we should get married or—or move in or anything. Just… maybe a couple nights a week? I could come over, help with homework, hang out with him, just be there however you need m—”

You surge forward, pressing your lips to his in a desperate, trembling kiss. He freezes for a heartbeat, then melts into it, arms winding around your waist and lifting you onto his lap with careful, fluid strength.

You cling to each other, kissing in a messy, gasping rhythm, until the salt of your own tears brushes against his lips.

“Hey,” he whispers, pulling back, gently drawing your face into his chest. “It’s okay, it's okay."

You let yourself fold into him, cheek pressed against his bare skin.

"We’ll figure it out. We'll be okay, I promise."

You melt against him, surrendering to his warmth, letting the steady, gentle strokes of his hand calm the storm of thoughts in your head.

Eventually, a small, wet laugh slips out.

“Toby’s gonna lose his mind.”   

Steve pulls back a little, meeting your eyes. “You think he’d be weirded out by it?”

You shake your head, a smile breaking through. “No, he’d love it. He already worships you. And then you two would just… gang up on me every day.”

Steve laughs, thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. His gaze is unwavering, soft and intent as he lingers over the lines of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, eyes sparkling. “I’m pretty sure I’ll always be on his mom’s side.”

⚾︎

epilogue

Toby sits at the very end of the dugout bench, where no one else is sitting.

He’s six and a half years old, not a baby anymore, but his legs still don’t touch the ground when he sits. They just kick the air, swinging back and forth, back and forth, cleats cutting little half-circles in the air. He scoots down an inch so the tips of them can scrape the dirt, and he finds a small pebble near the bench post. He nudges it with his toe, then nudges it back, careful not to kick it too far.

Everyone else is out on the field.

There’s the loud crack of a bat, and all the kids start shouting at once: “Mine!” “Run!” “Heads up!” The ball pops straight up into the air, and bonks Nathan Foster on the head when he tries to catch it. Everyone laughs. Even Nathan laughs, rubbing the back of his head like it didn’t hurt, even though it probably did.  

Coach Steve says that kind of thing is okay. Messing up is how you learn.

Coach Steve knows a lot of things.

He knows how to line your fingers up on the bat, and how to breathe out when you throw so the ball goes straighter. He says baseball is supposed to be fun, even when you strike out, even when you’re not the best player on the field.

But Toby isn’t having fun.

He keeps his glove in his lap, hugging it tight with both arms like it might slide off if he lets go. It’s new. It's the one Coach Steve bought for him, even though his mom said his old one still worked fine. This one is stiff and smooth and smells good—like a store, or like the inside of Coach Steve’s car. Toby presses his fingers into the leather and traces the thick stitches with his thumb, over and over.

It helps a little.

There’s a worry sitting in his chest. Heavy and squishy, like when you step in mud and it won't let go of your foot right away.

He hasn’t told anyone about it. Not Miss Collins from art class. Not his mom. He didn’t even whisper it to his glove, even though sometimes he tells the glove things—like how fast pitchers make him freeze, or how scared he was on his first day of school.

Today, the worry stays stuck inside, pressing down.

A part of Toby thinks maybe he shouldn’t be worried at all.

Coach Steve said that everything would stay the same. Normal. And most of the things Coach Steve says turn out to be true. So maybe this will be too.

But Jeremy Miller said something different.

Jeremy knows stuff. His dad’s a doctor, and doctors are smart. They do important things.

Toby kicks the pebble a little harder than he means to. It skitters across the dirt floor and disappears under the bat rack with a soft clack.

“Hey, buddy.”

Toby looks up.

Coach Steve is standing at the opening of the dugout, blocking out part of the sun. His whistle hangs from his neck like always, bumping softly against his chest when he steps closer.

“You hiding from me?” he asks, grinning. “’Cause if you are, this is kind of a bad spot.”

Toby shrugs and drags the toe of his cleat through the dirt, making a crooked line. He sort of misses the pebble he kicked away. “I’m not hiding.”

Coach Steve comes in and sits down beside him, the bench creaking under his weight. His knee bounces once, then goes still.   

“So,” he says, leaning his elbows on his thighs, looking out at the field. “I was kinda thinkin’ today might be the day you show off that rocket arm.”

The heavy feeling in Toby’s chest squishes tighter.

The words fall out before he can stop them.

“Are you and Mom gonna get married?”

Coach Steve freezes.

Just for a second, but Toby notices. His grin fades, and he blinks like he forgot what he was about to say. His hand comes up and rubs the back of his neck.

“Uh…” he clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, we are, buddy.”

Toby nods. He already knew that. Mom had told him. Coach Steve had told him. Grandma cried a little on the phone when they both told her together. Still, hearing it out loud again makes his stomach feel all twisty.

“Is that…” Coach Steve says, then stops. He presses his lips together. “Is that still okay with you?”  

Toby sighs and draws another line in the dirt next to the first one, pressing hard so they match.

“I guess.”

Coach Steve moves a little closer, his arm brushing Toby’s. He rests a hand on his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, thumb rubbing slow circles like he does when Toby’s nervous before a game.

“Hey, if you’re feeling weird about me and your mom, that’s okay to say.”

Toby swallows. His throat feels tight, like when he’s about to cry but doesn’t want to.

“No, it’s just—” He stops, frowning. “I just want you to be my coach, still.”

Coach Steve turns his head sideways, frowning. “Why wouldn’t I still be your coach?”

Toby’s shoulders curl in. “’Cause Jeremy said that if you’re family, sometimes you can’t do stuff for each other.”

 “Jeremy Miller?”

Toby nods. “Yeah. His dad’s a doctor. Jeremy had to have surgery ’cause his ap-pen-di-sigh-tis was broken, and his dad couldn’t do it. They didn’t let him.”

Coach Steve lets out a slow breath through his nose. “Oh.”

Toby grips his glove tighter. “So, if you’re my family… you can’t be my coach anymore, right?”

Coach Steve’s face goes a little funny. His eyebrows pull together, and his mouth does this wobbly thing, like he’s trying to smile and can’t figure out how. He reaches out and gently pushes Toby’s hair back, his thumb brushing across his forehead.

“Toby,” he says softly, “that’s not how that works.”

Toby frowns. “But Jeremy said so.”

“I know, bud. And sometimes grown-up rules are really confusing.” He lets out a small huff of a laugh. “Doctors have rules like that. Coaching’s a little different.”

He waits until Toby’s looking at him.

“I’m always gonna be your coach, Toby.”

Toby wants to believe him. He really does.  

“…You promise?” he whispers.

Coach Steve’s face scrunches up more, eyes shiny like maybe some dust blew in from the field. “Yeah, buddy. I promise.”

Toby sticks out his pinky. He doesn’t do that at school anymore, because he’s a big first-grader now, but he still knows it’s the strongest kind of promise there is.

Coach Steve smiles, hooking his pinky around Toby’s, giving it a firm shake.

Satisfied, Toby launches forward. It’s all of him at once, knocking the air right out of Coach Steve.

“Oof, okay—” Coach Steve laughs, arms coming up to catch him. He pats Toby’s back, holding him closer as he rocks him side to side.

Toby squeezes back just as tight. The heavy feeling in his chest lifts, like taking off his backpack full of books at the end of the day.

He pulls back, smiling now, and says the thing he's been scared to say since the day he talked to Jeremy.

“Love you, Dad.”

Coach Steve goes very still. Then he clears his throat and quickly blinks up at the sky, like he definitely got some dirt in his eyes that time.

When he looks back at Toby, that funny, wobbling smile is back.

“I love you too, buddy.”

Toby grabs his glove and hops off the bench. His feet hit the ground, solid and steady.

Coach Steve stands too, quickly scrubbing the dirt from his eyes before turning back to him.

“So. You wanna go show your mom that throw we’ve been practicing?”

Steve is frowning, baffled and entirely dissatisfied with what Robin just said. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Murray, sitting on the couch right in front of him is smirking, his eyes wandering between yours and Steve's, and vice versa, puffing out a knowing chuckle.

“It's funny,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

You bite your lower lip, struggling to hold back laughter, feeling your cheeks grow warm as you sense Steve's gaze on you now.

So you just choose to play dumb. As usual.

You've heard about it, of course, many times before. Robin has told you over and over how over-sized Steve is, emphasizing that he would be exactly what you need, ever since you told her about your miserable and unsatisfying sex life.

The best fuck of your life, possibly.

“Ten out of ten,” she would say, shrugging her shoulders at your face, all contorted with skepticism and flushed with embarrassment. “That's what I heard.”

Steve's mouth opens and closes, stammering out a response, procesando todo lo que está pasando.

And unable to really say anything in his own defense, he smacks Murray on the shoulder, trying to get the man to stop giggling like a witch, but instead, he laughed even harder.

“It's very funny,” he repeats, glancing at you this time and nodding his head.

Steve doesn't deny it either, you notice.

The conversation about the final plan against Vecna and the end of the world carries on all around you, but you can no longer really focus on that.

Instead, all you can concentrate on is Steve's scent invading your nose, the perfect opening in his sweater neckline that wraps around his neck, his left hand twitching on his knee, and his other hand reaching across the backrest of the couch where you are seated to support his own weight. But his fingers seem to have a different purpose and they graze your shoulder. Intimate, complicit.

One touch of him has you as horny as the fucking midsummer sun.

How could you possibly pause to think about the potential apocalypse in six hours when you're falling downward in a spiral from the slightest touch of his fingertips on your shoulder?

His closeness is suffocating, his body heat mingling with yours, making the room feel unbearably hot.

It's not until about forty minutes later that Steve is bold enough to look at you again, offering you a small, sheepish smile and sweeping his hand across his neck as he walks toward you with purposeful little steps. 

He looks so good with that ridiculous backwards trucker cap that you have to physically restrain yourself from bouncing on him right there.

“Hey, look, I—I'm sorry about Robin. She's been acting weird about—” His voice falters as the air is knocked out of his lungs the moment you lock eyes with him, looking up at him so intensely that he is literally left speechless for a long moment. “About– about us. I've been telling her to stop sticking her nose in, but she's—well, she's Robin, you know her and—”

He keeps chattering uncontrollably, his brown eyes wandering down to your hips, appreciating what a great fit those jeans are on you. You look so hot in your monster-slaying outfit that it's making his face turn bright red and distracted.

“Is it true?” you interrupt him right there, because you don't have more time to waste. I mean, time is running out for all of you right now.

But you need to know.

His mouth gapes open in confusion. “W–what?”

“Is it really that big?”

Steve's brain short-circuits.

Completely. Catastrophically.

His jaw doesn't just drop; it hangs there as he stares at you, his eyes darting to your lips and then back to your eyes, searching for the slightlest hint that reveals that you're really joking.

But you aren't. And he just realizes it.

He glances around to see if there is anyone nearby, but fortunately for both of you, you are all alone. Finally.

Then Steve steps closer to you, his face morphing into one that expresses complicity and yearning and need.

“You really want to talk about this right now?” he whispers, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates right through you. “With the world ending in, like, six hours?”

“Especially because the world is ending,” you consider, your voice surprisingly steady despite the way your heart is hammering against your ribs. “When then, if not now, Steve?”

Steve reaches out, his thumb finally finding the skin of your neck, tracing the line of your jaw with agonizing slowness.

“You want it now?” he has the nerve to ask, when you're looking at him like that, as if he were the center of the entire universe, as if the world weren't ending, as if everything weren't collapsing around you. “You want me?”

Twenty minutes later, he is only just pushing the swollen tip of his massive cock into you and you already have tears brimming in the corners of your pretty eyes.

He has you sprawled out on the desk in the radio booth—his idea, since no one could hear you there even if you screamed, which you would, he had promised. 

Your shirt is tossed somewhere, along with your jeans and panties and bra. You don't even know where your shoes might be.

You're too busy trying to let your body relax and let him in. Because, holy shit, he's big. Big, big.

“F–fuck,” you whine out, feeling his pulse thrumming wildly under your palm clutched to his shoulder. “It's too big, Steve—”

“Shh, you've got this, princess.” He soothes you, pressing little loving kisses on your flushed cheeks, his lips wiping away every trace of tears. “Aw, it's okay. You're doing so well, so well.”

Steve groans as he pushes forward, just a little, because you're already crying into his neck, big tears falling down your cheeks now. The air leaves your lungs with every ragged whimper that crawls up your throat, every time he forces another inch deeper into your tight pussy.

“Hmm—!” you moan, your head thumping back against a radio monitor. “Oh my fucking God...”

You look heavenly under him him, with your legs spread, the gates of paradise wide open for him.

And he's massive, filling you so perfectly that you feel your insides stretching to their absolute limit. 

“I know, I know,” he coos into your ear, his voice strained and thick with the effort of holding back. He is being so patient and good to you. “Just breathe for me, baby— fuck— just breathe. Let me in, yeah?”

Because he knows he can't just dive in. He needs to open you up, that you adjust to his size, to make sure this doesn't hurt you, Steve wants to make things right with you after all. 

With a shaky motion he pulls back just an inch and slides down a little more, his knees opening yours wider.

“Doing so well for me, baby. So good, I–I'm halfway there,” he's praising you in soft, trembling whispers, placing gentle, affectionate kisses all over your tear-stained cheeks. “I'm going to go in a little deeper, o–okay? Just a little more, mhm...”

You nod your head eagerly, gripping his shoulders, clawing at his back, and forcing him closer to you. Your legs wrap around his hips, urging him to thrust deeper.

He sinks in deep —all the way to the hilt— in one smooth, heavy thrust. Your eyes roll back as a strangled moan escapes your throat. 

He's so big you can feel him in your fucking throat. You can feel your guts rearranging to fit his shape, molding and squeezing him so deliciously that you've got Steve whimpering on your chest, soaking your skin with drool and tears.

“There you go,” Steve whispers, his forehead dropping against your tits, “I'm all yours now. Taking me so fucking good, like no one else, f–fuck, baby. Still so fucking tight— my fucking God”

Steve's hands are shaking as they grip the edge of the desk on either side of your hips, his knuckles white as he tries to anchor himself. The feeling of being entirely encased by you, of your warmth and your tightness clamping down on his length, has his self-control hanging by a single, frayed thread.

“Steve...” you sob out, the sensation so overwhelming it's almost dizzying. “Don't... don't stop. Move— please, ohh—”

He is a good boy, so pulls back very slowly,  just a little. The friction make your hips hitch off the desk, and then—he drives right back in. 

Steve isn't just fucking you; he's claiming you, taking everything he possibly can of you, reaching your soul and lifting you to unknown heights. Every inch of him slides against your gummy walls with a perfect fit, hitting that special sweet spot of yours every time he bottoms out.

“You're... I—” he chokes, his voice breaking as he starts to pick up the pace.

Every time he bottoms out, his hips slap against yours with a wet, filthy sound that echoes off the metal equipment in such a pornographic way that has you all worked up and shivering. 

Slap, slap, slap!

“I— I can't— you're so t-tight,” he slurs, his eyes blown wide and glassy with pleasure. “So perfect”

He looks perfect. For some absurd reason, his hair looks flawless, even though you're constantly pulling, ruffling, and tugging at it. His hands, big and veiny and craving you, cling to your flesh, marking it, claiming it, pawing at your hips, your ass, your waist. He's out of control, he finally has you there, all for himself, at his mercy and will. To touch, to kiss, to fuck, to claim as his own.

His hands caress a path down to your thighs, hiking them higher onto his shoulders to get an even deeper angle. Although his eyes display a sense of uncontrolled ferocity, his treatment is careful and gentle.

The shift allows Steve to bury himself to the all the way into the deepest part of your core, his pelvic bone grinding against yours as he sinks inside you. You let out a broken, high-pitched cry, your fingers tangling in his hair once again, pulling him down so you can find his mouth.

When your lips meet, the kiss is messy and desperate. It tastes like salt and heat and longing and love. 

Steve moans right into your mouth, a deep, vibrating sound that you feel in your chest. He's moving faster now, his breaths coming in short, jagged hitches. 

He's hitting that spot again, more firmly, more determinedly—the one that makes your vision go blurry and your toes curl into the air.

“God, Steve—” you gasp into the heat of his mouth, your body vibrating with the intensity of it all. “I need— I need more!”

“More?” he purrs, incredulous and playful.

He pulls out of you with a wet, loud pop that makes you whimper at the sudden coldness and emptiness he left behind, but before you can even protest and whine about it, his big hands are on your body again, hoisting you up.

“There you go, sugar,” he coos softly, “Yeah, mhm, just like that.”

He spins you around, your palms slamming onto the cluttered surface of the desk. You lean forward, your chest almost touching the wood, scattering papers and radio logs as you find your footing. 

You're bent over, your spine arching perfectly, presenting yourself to him in a way that makes Steve let out a low, animalistic growl.

From this angle, he can see everything—the plumpness of your ass, open for him, the line of your spine, the gaping hole of your pulsating pussy, the wreckage that he himself has made in there. 

“Look at you,” Steve breathes out in awe, his hands sliding down your back to grip your hips, his fingers digging into your ass, before tentatively slapping one of your ass cheeks, grunting at the sight of the jiggling under his palm.

He hisses as he slides a teasing finger along your folds, your pussy responding instantly to him and sucking him in on instinct.

“Look at her. You look so fucking good like this.”

Steve doesn't give you a chance to bitch about it, stopping your ass from wiggling back in search of him ravenously and just lines himself up and lunges back into your pussy, his massive length sliding back inside you in one devastatingly deep stroke. 

He gazes at the way your folds stretch around his bulbous head, drool dripping from his half-open lips.

At the new position, he’s hitting your cervix with every thrust, sending jolts of pure electricity straight through your spine up to your brain.

“Oh! Steve!” you babble his name over and over, with your voice cracking. You grab whatever you can over the desk so hard your knuckles turn white, your head hanging low as you watch your own reflection blurred in the glass of the radio monitors. You're a mess. “Baby, fuck— right there!”

He’s relentless now. With his hands firmly anchored on your hips, he uses you as leverage, pulling you back onto him every time he drives forward.

“I've got you,” he answers your cries immediately, kissing down the point where your ass meets your back, “I've got you, baby.”

He's looking in awe the way your body is reacting to him, lowering his gaze to the space where his body connects with yours, admiring the sight of your pussy stretching out all around him, forming a white, creamy line around the girth of his cock. 

You're taking every inch of him as if you were made for this. For him.

“You like that?” Steve snarls cockily, one of his hands landing on your lower back and forcing you to arch it for him as he notices that you are begin to squeeze impossibly. You are close. “Is it big enough for you, hm?”

“Yes—yes, please— oh, Steve!”

He obviously has you cumming sooner than you can blink. And it's a earth-shattering, soul-shaking, life-changing orgasm.

Your breath comes in ragged sobs, your vision spotting with white crazy shapes, you feel like you're floating off into the distance.

“Baby,” Steve is calling your name in a breathless whispers behind you, noticing you're still on cloud ten, shaking like jelly underneath him, so much that he has to hold you tightly by your hips, “where—”

“Inside,”you manage to croak. “Cum inside, I need it, please. Cum in me—”

You're hardly finished formulating the words when he delivers one brutal, final thrust, sinking so so hard inside you the desk groans under the weight of his force. He's growling, sobbing, praying your name, and cursing, all at the same time.

“Oh, God—” he chokes out, his body seizing. 

It is God. The way your pussy is clenching him, milking out every drop he has for you.

And he is cumming so much that his seed starts to leak out around the base of his cock. He is filling you to the absolute brim, spurting ropes after ropes. Then he lets out one last, shuddering breath of your name, burying his face between your shoulder blades,kissing your sweaty skin appreciatively.

Steve is whispering sweet words of praise, repeating over and over how good and perfect and gorgeous you are. 

“Is this a terrible moment to ask you out for dinner?,” he sheepishly asks after just a few seconds of silence, a moment that feels comfortable and heartwarming. 

His hands are caressing your sides reassuringly, fingers trembling as he waits quietly for a response from you and pulling away from your back, not without first pressing a shy, soft kiss upon your shoulder.

Shy. As if he weren't literally buried balls deep inside you, his cum oozing out of your pussy after filling you to the fucking brim.

You let out a low, dazed laugh that vibrates through the desk, your cheek still resting against it as you try to remember how to breathe. The contrast between the animalistic intensity of the last ten minutes and his sudden, boyish vulnerability is almost enough to make you cry all over again.

“Dinner?” you say finally, your voice barely a whisper, raspy from all the moans and cries and whimpers he got out of your throat. “Steve, if we survive tonight, you can take me wherever the hell you want.”

He lets out a relieved, shaky breath, almost too shy to look you in the eye. “It's a date then. Enzo's?”

He finally begins to withdraw, the sensation of him sliding out of you leaving you feeling cold and so empty that you have a sudden urge to start complaining. You can feel the warmth of his seed beginning to trickle down your thighs. 

Steve is quick to help you up, his hands steadying your waist as your knees threaten to buckle. He cleans you up with a fresh towel he finds in a nearby drawer, his gestures and gaze full of concern and care.

“You okay?” he asks so gently.

His hands lingering on your waist to make sure you’re steady before he starts frantically scanning the floor for your clothes. The air in the booth is thick, humid, and heavy with the scent of what just happened, but the ticking clock of the apocalypse is finally starting to penetrate the bubble you’ve been in

“I've never been better,” you admit, smiling. You watch him getting dressed now while you sit on the desk. “So... Enzo's?”

“Enzo's. I’m gonna wear a suit. I’ll even get the hair extra perfect for you,” a goofy, lopsided grin spreading across his face at the mere possibility of a date with you. “You don't know how long I've waited for this.”

Steve draws back toward you, like a force of nature, and you reach out to him, your hands coming up to his neck. He watches you fix his jacket, his gaze softening. 

You kiss him on the cheek and he is left breathless, with that goofy little smile on his lips. Your hands caress his chest affectionately, “Robin was right. Ten out of ten.”