oh-sweet-thing

The softness of the clover and moss under your hands is the only thing keeping your mind centered to the earth, the only thing reminding you that you're in your own body, lying on the riverbank on the edge of the castle grounds. You can't exactly recall how long you've been here. The sun was starting to dip lower, but not quite set. Truthfully, you couldn't be less interested in the time. After the meeting that caused you to seek out the peace of the riverbank, your worry about being scolded for disappearing was replaced with a deep, stomach-churning sense of dread.

You had been forced into meetings with suitors since you were eighteen. All were eager before actually meeting with you—extremely interested in both your beauty and the access to power and resources that a union with you family would enable. This interest waned after the conversation, as they assumed a princess as pretty and adored as you would speak excitedly about wedding planning and children, not poetry and astronomy. You were all the things a girl of your status should not be—courageous, sincere, intelligent.

At last, in your twenty-second year, a prince in a much further kingdom decided that the resources your family had access to were worth a marriage void not just of romance, but friendship. In six months, you would meet the prince the day you marry him, move into a private residence within their grounds, show the face of an adoring wife to the public, produce heirs (hopefully mostly boys), and don't complain. You knew nothing about this prince, other than he was in his early thirties, he came from a family known for farming and animal husbandry, and that his parents were long tired of being responsible for him.

"We are just so happy that he will finally have other people to mill about with," his mother said with a too-tight smile.

As you think of this, you sling an arm over your eyes, blocking out the dwindling sunlight. You do your best to place your focus on your surroundings—the gentle, persistent rushing of the river at your side, the pillowy moss and tufts of clover under your hands, the smell of damp earth and wild hyacinth. You place this focus a little too well, your darkened vision and preoccupied ears missing the shuffle of leather boots on the ground approaching.

"You alive down there?" A boyish, charismatic voice says above you. "Because I'm in big trouble if you're not."

You tear your arm away from your face, finally taking in the view above you. Steven. Sir Steven to the court and the rest of your family, but you two had been so close since childhood, the first time you called him "Sir Steven" after his official knighting, it felt as foreign as a different language.

"Much to your delight and my chagrin, yes," you say sitting up on your elbows. "I am alive."

"Alive and grouchy," he teases, having a seat next to you. He takes two apples out of the satchel at his side and offers you one. With a sheepish smile, you accept. "What's wrong? You're usually more optimistic than this."

"I'm getting married," you sigh. "To some stranger from the farming lands far west."

His eyes widen and his eyebrows knit together slightly, and you realize this is a rare occasion where Steven is lost for words. He's been quiet like this before—when his mentor Sir James didn't return from the war when Steven was still a squire, when his first and most beloved horse fell sick and needed to retire to a pasture, and now. You feel a little surprised that this news hurts him as much as the other heartaches.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice catching strangely around the sadness. You can't bring yourself to look at him yet. You nod as you take a big bite of your apple.

"I was perfectly content to stay here," you say bitterly, laying down again. "I assumed after four years of hundreds of suitors and no marriage, rumors about my lack of wifely disposition would spread far enough that no one would ever try again." Steven chuckles softly at this.

"It really is a shame," he says. "You would have made such a good old witch." You shove him lightly and he relaxes onto his back. When he turns his head, the tip of his nose brushes your bicep. His warm hands reach out and take hold of one of yours, now chilly from the hours of mid-autumn breeze. For the first time all day, you take an actual breath.

"The land's nice at least. I've done some scouting out there," he explains, fidgeting with your fingers. "Lots of animals, I know you'll like that."

This was certainly true. In fact, your first meeting with Steven happened for this very reason. You were seven and he was eight, with sandy brown hair and arms and knees already covered in scrapes from dueling with the other squires for fun. You were on night three of sleeping on the ground of the sheep pasture after your father informed you that he would be sending your favorite lamb away. Younger Steven gently shook you awake by the arm.

"Your father wanted me to tell you that you need to come home," he said, parroting his instructions. "He said he isn't selling the lamb but that you can't do this anymore because it makes him look bad." He escorted you back home, and you had been attached at the hip ever since.

"It's a stupid thing to be upset about," you remark. "I was always going to end up married, and almost certainly to a stranger. I have no right to be disappointed."

"Of course you're disappointed," he replies sternly, tracing the lines of your palm with the pad of his thumb. "Anyone would be upset about being shipped off to a stranger."

His words cause your stomach to churn all over again, and you squeeze your eyes shut. His words sting, only because of how painfully true they are. In your twenty second year, and you had seen so little of the world. Now, you finally have your chance to see more, and entirely on someone else's terms. You had a grand castle for a home, a brave and handsome knight that swore to stand between you and anything that could bring you harm, a ridiculous wardrobe of expensive clothes, but nothing that truly belonged to you. You try to fall back into your body again, letting only your surroundings into your thoughts. The flow of the river. The plush of the ground. The smell of the crisp air. A tender kiss to the inside of your wrist pulls your mind back.

"Sorry," Steven says softly. "You just… went somewhere."

"It's alright," you reply, barely louder than a whisper.

A strong gust of wind rustles the leaves in the trees above you and blows a fresh cloud of hyacinth-scented air your way. Steven's thumb ghosts over your ring finger, soon to be adorned by a jewel, priceless to your future husband and meaningless to you. It breaks your heart how easily your family gave you to someone else. Your body, your dreams for yourself, your very sense of self, now belonged to a man you've never met. You would miss everything. The air around the castle, that smelled of hyacinths and pine. Your library, filled with books on astronomy, alchemy, poetry, music. Your big, overstuffed, goose feather canopy bed. The hallways of your home, where you would run around and hide in corners with Steven when you were little. Steven. God, you would miss him. The way his body felt in your arms when you rode behind him on horseback, and the little looks you would share across the room during parties and feasts. The ridiculous way he would smirk for the crowd after winning a joust.

A calloused finger runs the length of your nose.

"You keep going away," Steven says, sitting up to look down at you. "Just tell me what's on your mind."

"I just feel silly," you say. "I'm angry. I want to take everything I love about this place, and wrap my arms around it, and squeeze as hard as I can."

"I wish you could," He says, moving a lock of hair away from your eyes.

"I wish I had any control over my life," you say. "I mean, the first time I ever kiss someone is going to be when I meet this total stranger on my wedding day."

His eyebrows creep up.

"Are you serious?"

"There hasn't exactly been a line of people eager to, Steven," you grumble. "Besides, I'm not even allowed to go for a walk by myself. I don't get many chances to be kissed."

"But it's not right."

"Nothing about this is right," you say. "But it's always how my life was going to be."

"That's exactly right, it's your life," he responds, his eyes going a little glossy. You sigh.

"This is how things are," you say, sitting up. "I don't like it. Of course I would like to actually know the first man I kiss."

You look down at your lap, gazing wistfully at a little cluster of daisies growing out of the ground by your knee. Steven is also deep in thought next to you, waging the proposal he's about to make until he speaks.

"I'll do it."

The words cut through the air, fizzling like red-hot iron suddenly plunged into cold water. You laugh a little in disbelief.

"Do what?" Your voice is reedy and shocked, unfamiliar to your ears.

"I'll kiss you," he says casually. "Only if you want me to, I mean, this whole conversation has been about you not having any choice. So, if you would let me, I'll kiss you."

His eyes are shiny, and you suddenly feel very aware of how close you are to him. You can see all of his pretty moles and freckles, the tiny scars that dot his face and neck from years of combat, the bit of chest hair that peeks out from under his shirt and leather tunic. He's handsome in a way that feels unfair.

"That's not funny," you say in disbelief.

"I'm not trying to be," he replies sincerely. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but you deserve to have a little life of your own before you get married."

"I want to," you blurt out before you can really consider his offer. You feel your face grow warm.

"You're sure?" He asks, moving himself closer to be in front of you instead of at your side. "Like I said, this is all for you. I only want this if you do."

You nod. "I'm sure." He smiles and exhales with a little laugh, evidently pleased. Steven reaches for your hand again, drawing it close before he presses a kiss to the center of your palm. Your breath hitches and the warmth in your face starts to grow.

"Thank you," he says softly, lowering your hand.

"What am I supposed to do?" you ask nervously.

"You don't need to be nervous," he says, shifting to be even closer. "Just follow my lead, it's not scary at all."

You nod, trying to exert a little more confidence. It doesn't necessarily work.

"Where do I put my hands?" you whisper. He laughs slightly, entirely because he is so endeared.

"My shoulders, or my face," he offers. "Whatever feels good to you."

You hesitate for a moment before you lift your hands, letting them lay flat on his chest before sliding them up to his shoulders. You give them a slight, experimental squeeze.

"Good, that's good," he says sweetly. He lifts his hands to return the touch, a hand floating above your waist.

"Can I?"

"Please," you breathe out.

Steven's warm palm rests firmly on your waist, the other hand coming to cup your cheek. Despite the callouses and hard lines from years of handling reins and swords, his touch is impossibly gentle. Even in someone else's hold, you've never felt so free.

"Close your eyes," he says in a low voice. You do. His thumb gently brushes your cheekbone for a moment before you feel his face come closer to yours. His hand lowers a little for him to tenderly swipe your upper lip. "Soft," he whispers to himself. You feel his lips ghost against the corner of your mouth, and he gently kisses.

After what feels like an eternity, Steven finally, and so sweetly, presses his lips to yours. His hands moves to cup the back of your neck, causing the warmth in your face spreads through your whole body like wildfire. He can taste the sweetness of the apple lingering in your mouth, and he presses a little harder, eager for more of it. A small noise emits from your throat and you feel him smile against your mouth. When he pulls away for you to take a breath, you chase his lips, gathering the leather at his shoulders in your hands and you kiss him again. The hand at your face moves to your waist, and he fully wraps his arms around it. When you finally pull away, you're both wide-eyed and breathless, still holding onto each other desperately.

"I-" you try to speak. "Thank you." He smiles big and releases you a little, a hand gently rubbing up and down your side.

"You're very welcome," he says, still smiling. "I hope you feel a little more…lived, I guess."

You felt extremely lived. Alive like you had never been before, like the kiss was the last click of the lock on the door that was your life. A whole new fire blossomed in your chest, a fire that longed to read every book, run as fast as you could, make friends, ride horses, fight with swords, laugh loudly, bleed, cry, kiss, make love. Your desire to live a life wholly your own fully eclipsed the resignation to your fate, like it was never there to begin with. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss him again. He kisses you back before he gently retreats.

"What was that for?" He asks, laughing a little. "Getting in all the kissing you can before you leave?"

"I'm sorry," you say, a little shy. "Just felt really good."

"Don't be sorry," he assures you. "I enjoyed myself, too."

Similar to Steven's own thoughts turning before he offered to kiss you, an idea forms in your head. Evidently, it shows on your face.

"You're back in your head," he says quietly. "C'mon, you shouldn't be lingering on those thoughts if they make you upset."

"I'm alright," you assure him. "Thinking about something else entirely, actually."

"You are?" He asks, taking your hand and kissing the back of it. "And what are you thinking about?"

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to suggest what you're thinking of.

"Kissing isn't the only thing I was going to have to do for the first time when I get married," you explain. "His parents kept going on and on about how excited they were for grandchildren, so he'll probably also be expecting me to…consummate the marriage."

Steven's expression shifts from confusion to realization, the tilt in his head disappearing as he sits up straighter.

"You mean…" he trails off.

"Yes, I mean," you say. "It's like you said, I only want to if you want to. But I trust you."

"You trust me with your… maidenhood," he says, the word tensely tumbling out of his mouth.

"Please don't say it like that," you whine, your head falling to rest on his shoulder.

"I know, I'm sorry," he says, one of his arms wrapping around your shoulders. "But you're sure you want it to be with me? I mean, you deserve to do this with someone you trust, but you're smart and beautiful, and I'm… me."

"That's exactly why I want it to be you," you insist. "My whole life, you're the only one that doesn't treat me like an ignorant child. You care, you want me to be myself. That's the sort of person I want to give it to."

Steven's brow furrows, turning the idea over in his mind.

"I won't force you, that would just be me passing along the cruelty I've been given," you say, lightly squeezing his hand. "But if you would like to, it's what I want."

He returns the squeeze.

"When do you want to?" Steven asks.

"Is tonight too soon?" You suggest shyly, looking down at the grass again.

"Tonight?" His voice nearly cracks from the surprise. "You've just been kissed for the first time, don't you think this is a little fast?"

"Trust me," you say. "I know what I want. I know I'm ready."

He sighs.

"I trust you," he promises. "I'll come to your room after shift change, a little before midnight." Your heart jumps a little and your face grows warm again as you nod. You brings your hands to his face, feeling the slight stubble and heat on his cheeks.

"Thank you," you whisper, then you lean in to give him a quick, sweet kiss goodbye that he happily reciprocates. "I need to go, I'm already in so much trouble for being out here by myself."

"I know," he replies. "I'll see you tonight, angel."

The waiting is agonizing. Having to sit through dinner as your parents happily chirp about finalizing your engagement only made the fire in your chest burn harder. Each scrape of utensil against plate chipped away at your sanity. After you finished eating hastily, you were given permission to be excused. You all but flew out of your seat in the dining room and ran clumsily through the halls and up the stairs to your chamber. After your washing basin is filled with hot water, you go absolutely overboard—dumping an entire small jug of lavender oil, most of a bottle of rose water, haphazard handfuls of chamomile flowers and orange peel. You scrub obsessively at every inch of yourself, lathering yourself in a thick layer of sweet smelling foam. Your hands rake through your hair meticulously, fixing and de-tangling everything into place. After drying off, you debate between putting a nightgown on and getting dressed in one of your finer things. As your hands reach for a chemise and deep green overdress, you remember who it is you're getting dressed for. Steven. Your Steven, that has never asked anything of you. One of the only people you don't have to perform for. You pull out a nightgown and slip it over your head.

Even with the admittedly excessive preparation, there was still another hour until midnight. You paced a little, attempted to read by the fireplace, fluffed and arranged your bed, paced again, and retreated to the balcony for some fresh air to soothe the rapidness of your thoughts. As you close and lock the balcony doors, you hear three subtle knocks on the entrance to your room. You rush over, unable to suppress your eagerness. The door opens to reveal Sir Steven, entirely stripped of armor. He wearing a shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and undone at the chest. His legs, which were always covered in either plates or leather braces, wear only simple trousers. His hair is a little more in place than usual, and he's smiling from ear to ear. He gingerly closes the door behind him and locks it, before he wraps you in his strong arms.

"Missed you," he says softly against the side of your head.

"It's been five hours," you tease, despite the feeling being mutual.

"Felt like fifty," he replies, pulling away a little to cup your face and press a kiss to your cheek, trailing down to your jaw. You giggle at the sensation as the tip of his nose drags softly over your cheekbone.

"You're sure you're ready?" he asks, taking your face into his hands. Yours find the front of his shirt, and you gently tug.

"I'm ready," you assure him.

Steven takes your hand and leads you over to your bed, pulling back the canopy for you both to crawl in. He takes in the the softness of the mattress, your thick bedcovers, feather pillows, all luxuries he never would have dreamed to indulge in. The orange candlelight bounces softly off of his features.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, pulling you close. "We're going nice and slow, alright? You can tell me you don't want this anymore any time you want." You nod, smiling sheepishly. He starts with soft, slow kisses pressed to your mouth, his hands wandering your waist and the expanse of your back. His tongue barely traces of the seam of your lips, deepening the kiss.

"Can I lay you down?" he asks softly, and you nod. He gently lowers your head onto your pillows, trying to shift so his weight would be grounding on top of you and not overwhelming. His lips are on yours again, then they shift to the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, and finally onto your neck. You gasp a little, the feeling unfamiliar and thrilling. Soft kisses pepper across your throat and collarbone, and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to stifle the sounds that threaten to spill from your mouth. Steven lifts his head up, frowning a little when he sees that you're embarrassed. His thumb gently tugs at your bottom lip, and he gives it a sweet kiss.

"You don't need to hide anything, angel," He says softly, gently rubbing your upper arm. "I want you to feel everything, you deserve that." His lips find your neck again.

"I know you would make the prettiest sounds if you let yourself," he murmurs into your collarbone and you shudder, letting out a voiced sigh.

"Knew it," Steven says, smiling as his reaches for the ties at the front of your nightgown. His big dark eyes blink up at you, silently asking for permission and you nod. You feel the pull of the cotton ties loosening, as your nightgown reveals your sternum and the very top of your breasts. His thumb brushes over the soft skin, and he plants a kiss on the right, then the left. He slowly tugs the fabric down further, leaving all of your chest on display for him. Your nipples pebble from the sudden, cool air.

"You're so gorgeous," he whispers, his words full of longing and reverence. You feel his warm, big palm come up and gently squeeze, feeling the suppleness of your breast. His thumb brushes across your nipple with intention and you whimper, too caught in the feeling of his touch to muffle yourself. He kisses the top of your left breast again, then trails his lips down to your nipple. Carefully, he pulls it into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the peak as he applies the slightest pressure with his teeth. Your hand reaches into his hair involuntarily.

"S-Steven," you moan. "I- it feels…God…" He pulls off of your breast with a quiet 'pop' and pulls himself to kiss your lips again, breathless and needy.

"You're perfect," he mumbles against your lips. Steven grabs the bottom of his shirt and lifts, exposing his torso. You had seen Sir Steven shirtless before, especially during the hot summer months, when training outside is unbearable in heavy armor, but this was different. His shoulders were broad, dotted with delicate spots that trailed down his arms. You reach for him, your palms making contact with the dark hair that covers the broadest plains of it. A pretty line of finer hair extends from the bottom of his navel to the top of his trousers. You feel your mouth water a little as you feel the warmth of him under your palm, the strength of his heartbeat. He takes the hands on your chest and brings them to his lips.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he says, lowering your hands to his chest again. Woman. Everyone else in your life saw you as a little girl, a maiden, and you would be until you had your first child. Your access to womanhood was behind the door of motherhood—to most people around you, they were one in the same. Not to Sir Steven. To him, your maturity, your intelligence, the way you understood yourself; these were the things that determined what you were. Your eyelids flutter a little, and you reach for a shoulder to pull him down again. His chest hair brushes against the nakedness of your own breasts, and you sigh at the sensation. A hand trails downward and grasps the fabric covering your thighs. He looks at you before he pulls upward.

"I'll be gentle," he promises, with a kiss to your cheek. "Just let yourself feel it, sweetheart."

"I trust you," you say, cradling his cheek. He turns his face to kiss your palm. Your nightgown moves up your thighs and your legs start to cross on instinct until his big hand coaxes them open again.

"You're beautiful," he reminds you. "Every part."

Fingers skim up your thigh, tenderly grasping the flesh until the pad of his thumb slowly swipes from your cunt to your clit, smearing the wetness that had accumulated there. You mewl, burying your face in his shoulder. You had touched yourself before, but the way you felt in Steven's hands was something entirely different. He rubs slow circles, tenderly stroking your hair off your face with his other hand.

"I need more," you whine into his neck, eager to chase the feeling. He obliges your words, lowering his hand to press two fingers at the opening of your pussy. They press in slowly, and the stretch stings before it quickly melts into goodness. Fullness. His thumb continues its attention on your clit, causing your back to lift off the mattress for a moment.

"Feels good?" He looks down at you with eager eyes.

"It feels wonderful," you say, your voice breathy and light. His fingers pump in and out, in and out until you've fully relaxed in his hold again and you no longer need adjustment. Steven thinks for a moment before he removes his hand. He brings the hand that was inside of you to his mouth, and sucks at the fingers that were pleasuring you. A low moan vibrates around his hand. Your eyes widen at the sight and your tummy starts to swim, seeing him so shameless. Steven leaves your side and shuffles down, pressing a kiss to your knee before he fully lowers himself, chest flush with the mattress. You feel more kisses trail up your thighs.

"What are you-"

"Just trust me."

The next thing you fill is his lips on your clit, sweet and brief before he gives an experimental lick. The sensation shoots up your body, straight to your tummy.

"Please," you moan out, unsure of what it is you're exactly asking for. Steven flattens his tongue, dragging a long lick from your hole back up to your clit, and he gently suckles at it. His tongue flicks back and forth across the sensitive bud and your hands rake into his hair again, tugging a little at the strands.

"Pull as hard as you need, angel," he says looking up only for a moment before going back, arms wrapping around the backs of your thighs to keep them spread. He sucks and licks and kisses at your pussy, and you feel a hand leave your thigh.

"So sweet," he whines against your cunt.

Fingers press against your entrance again and push in, curling slightly to reach the most sensitive spot. The gentle waves of pleasure in your belly churn harder and faster. You can feel yourself gushing against Steven's hand and face, too caught up in pleasure to be self conscious about. The heat in your stomach isn't entirely unfamiliar, but the sensation of him so shamelessly adoring you, making you feel good—it gave the heat an entirely new presence in your body. You feel beautiful. Powerful. Loved.

"I think I'm close," you mumble, your mouth struggling around the words as more cries of pleasure rise in your throat.

"Let go, angel," he replies, briefly replacing his tongue with his fingers. "This is all yours. All for you." The second he's finished speaking, his tongue is back on you. The coil in your tummy winds and builds until it finally snaps, sending shock waves of real, relaxed pleasure throughout every inch of you. Steven tongue slows, working you through the intensity after your orgasm. Pulling away from you entirely would just be cruel. Once he hears your breaths even out, he presses a final kiss to your clit before bringing himself back up to you. His mouth presses against yours tenderly, licking into it a little. He's right, you think. Sweet.

"How do you feel?" he asks, cupping your cheek.

"Amazing," you sigh, trying to catch your breath before pressing a kiss to his palm this time. "You're so good to me."

"You deserve it," he replies with a smile. "You deserve everything."

You smile and kiss him again, pressing your hand against his heart, pounding strongly. As you kiss him, your hand travels from his chest, down the softness of his stomach to his pelvis. You hesitate before you gently press your palm against his clothed cock. He bucks into you involuntarily, eager for stimulation.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he groans. "You just sounded so pretty, and you're so beautiful, and I-"

"It's alright," you giggle, hand on the swell of his tummy. "I"m actually flattered."

He laughs, giving you a kiss.

"I want to touch you," you say. "Can I?"

"Oh God, please," he breathes out.

You lower your hand again, gently cupping at the bulge in his trousers. You haven't seen anything yet, but you can feel that he's huge. His breath hitches as you tenderly squeeze and palm at him a little. He grinds back against you ever-so-slightly, pressing a long kiss to your lips.

"I'm ready," you pull away to tell him. When your hand closes around the waist of his trousers, you can feel smooth skin and coarse hair. He nods and you pull the tie, releasing his pants from around his hips. Steven sits back on his heels and takes hold of your nightgown again, pulling it up and over your head. He eases himself out of his trousers, leaving both of you entirely bare before each other for the first time.

"You're unbelievable," he says, drinking you in with his eyes. You look back at him with glossy, wanting eyes, gaze moving from the broadness of his torso to his now naked lower half. You never imagined a man's cock to be pretty. You had seen vague, unappealing drawings before in some health journals, but Steven's couldn't be more different. Long, and curved upward towards his stomach. He's thick, too—when you wrap your hand around, the tips of your middle finger and thumb barely meet. Your hand moves up and down, giving tentative strokes to feel the warmth and thickness of him. He groans above you, desperately grasping at the tops of your thighs. Steven lowers himself to kiss you, causing his cock to prod at your clit and you moan into his mouth. He wraps a hand around himself, gently stroking up and down your cunt with the tip. When he shallowly nudges the tip inside of you, you whine. This was an entirely new stretch, feeling fullness in a way you never had before, even on his thick fingers.

"I know, angel," he says against your neck. "I know, just breathe. I'll be so gentle. I've got you."

You nod, trying to best to take in a deep breath as he pushes in a little further, about halfway. His hand gently rubs at the side of your hip and your thigh, soothing you and bringing you back to your body. Another hand gently rests flat on your tummy, the warmth of it helping to soothe the subtle sting that lingers.

"I want more," you say after another deep breath. "I want to feel you, all of you." He gives a final swipe of his thumb over your tummy, then he pushes all the way in. You gasp as a whole new rush of warmth flows through you. You had never felt so full before, so wanted before.

"Gripping me so much," he mumbles lowering his face to your neck to press a soft, open mouthed kiss to it. "You're doing so well, angel. Taking me so good." Your arms wind around his shoulders, desperate for any closeness you can get. He thrusts shallowly, giving you a taste of how it feels for him to move inside of you. The rocking of his hips and press of his cock against your walls is intoxicating, causing your hips to jolt upwards.

"More?" He asks, rubbing at your side again. You give him a lazy smile and nod. He pulls out, leaving a little less than half his cock inside of you before pushing in again. The pad of his thumb finds your clit, and the last lingering sting dissipates into pure warmth, pulsing gentle and strong in your belly. When he pulls out again, you feel your pussy empty entirely. He doesn't give you the chance to whine at the emptiness before pushing in again, nestling his face against your neck.

"Feels so full," you pant, raking down his back with your fingernails. "God, Steven, n-need you so bad."

"You have me, lovely," he says through heavy breaths, lifting his head up to look into your eyes as he thrusts. "I'm yours. Yours always. I don't care what shit-hole corner of the world they send you to, there's nowhere you could go that I wouldn't belong to you."

His words pierce straight to your heart, instantly sending a mist of tears to your eyes.

"I swore myself to you," he says, rocking into you slowly. "I swore I'd never let anything hurt you. I plan on keeping that promise."

You pull him down to kiss you, trying to convey everything you feel into the kiss. Longing, gratitude, need.

"I love you," you say against his lips. He smiles wide, his shoulders shaking with happy laughter and he presses his forehead to your sternum for a moment.

"I love you," he replies, moving his hips again. "As long as I've known anything, I've known that. Fuck, I love you so much."

He thrusts into you with renewed purpose, the motion of pelvis continuing to pulse pleasure throughout your body. A familiar feeling arises in your tummy again, and you drag hand up from his back to the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Your cunt pulses around him and he moans, sensing your approaching orgasm.

"Come on, angel," he says tenderly. "Fall apart for me, I'm right here." The sweetness of his words combined with the grind of his hips into yours is all it takes to send you over the edge again. The fluttering feeling in your body bursts again, filling you with a fuzzy euphoria.

"Feels so good," you sigh, grinding your heels against the mattress, desperate for something ground you.

He gives you a final, long kiss before pulling out, starting to stroke himself above you.

"So perfect," he says through gritted teeth. "So fucking beautiful, can't believe you wanted me to do this. I'm the luckiest fucking bastard alive."

He grabs at one of your hands with his free one, interlacing the fingers. After a few more strokes up and down his cock, he finishes, painting the soft skin of your tummy with creamy white cum. His chest rises and falls in panting breaths until they eventually slow, and he leans down to kiss your lips.

"I love you," Steven says again, kissing your forehead. "You were perfect." He stands from the bed and searches around the room until he locates a basket of handkerchiefs. When he returns, he wipes your tummy clean. He lays back against the mattress, pulling you into his side. Your arms wind around him instantly, relishing in the closeness. He presses a long kiss to your sweaty hairline.

"I'm getting you out of here," he says after a short silence.

"What?"

"I don't know what I have to do, but they're not sending you away like that," his voice is firm and final. "I meant what I said. As long as you'll have me, I won't let anyone or anything hurt you. This choice they made for you, it hurts doesn't it?"

"It does," you whisper.

"Then it's my job to stop it," he insists. "I'll figure something out."

His hand gently strokes up and down your bare back, lulling you to rest. You know he'll be gone when you wake in the morning, out on the early morning watch near the castle walls. You know that as the months leading up to your wedding go by, you'll only be under more scrutiny and pressure. For now, you let the tender stroking up and down your back soothe those thoughts away. You trust him to figure this out with you. Sir Steven has yet to break a promise.

author's note: thank you for reading!! This is my first effortful attempt at writing smut and I hope I at all succeeded. Knight!Steve has always been so near and dear to my heart, and I absolutely want to write more about him and you (because you're literally a princess)

So when he presses you into an unlit corner in the radio station's basement—facing away from him, wedged between unfinished drywall and dust-coated shelves, whispering about how tight your pussy feels—bet it'd get even tighter if someone walked in, huh? you want that, baby? want someone to see how good you take this cock?—fucking you so hard until you have to bite down on the meat of his palm to keep from screaming—it isn't really because he wants an audience.

If anything, the possibility of one is secondary.

What he wants is proof.

Proof that you're still here, that you still want him. Proof that, out of everything happening around you, you're still choosing him.

The tangible, undeniable affirmation that, even as the world is ending around him, there's still this: your hands on him, his hands on you, the two of you choosing each other in spite of everything.

For a few stolen moments, there's physical evidence of something good still existing in his life. Something worth fighting for. Something that belongs to him just as much as he belongs to it.

And of course, it’s not something he’d ever say out loud—because naming it would mean having to sit with where it actually comes from.

What? It's hot, he'll say, the next time he pulls you into the tiny bathroom in the sqwk basement, smirking in the mirror as he bends you over the sink, shoving his pants down and stroking his cock; it's been hard the last half hour, straining against his jeans while he sat on the couch with his legs crossed, watching the group busy themselves with strategizing about tonight’s crawl, trying to figure out how to stop the world from ending—or at least pretend they can.

He'll insist it's about the thrill.

You look so good, honey, can't help myself.

What he'll never say is that it goes deeper than that.

He'll never admit that those reckless, impulsive moments are rooted in the same fear he's been carrying inside him for years. The fear of loss. The fear of loving people so completely and still being unable to keep them. He's spent his life watching people disappear, leave, die, or slip beyond his reach.

So he finds whatever excuse he can to steal a few minutes alone with you in a world that never seems to stop demanding something from him.

And for a man who's spent so much of his life losing things, those few minutes of certainty are intoxicating.

The irony of I-don't-give-a-fuck-anymore Steve is that, in some ways, he's the most frightened version of himself.

Your job, as it has been for a few months, continues to be the physical blockade between the warring friends. To be Switzerland, the Demilitarization Zone of conflict, the human embodiment of a white flag. Your role is to never spill your own personal opinions on the arguments that you’re caught between, because if you did, the scale would absolutely tip in Steve’s favor — you’ve heard quite enough of Dustin’s barbed insults in the past year, thank you very much — but as the it was, you haven’t been around the rest of the monster hunting crew long enough for your thoughts to be valued by the wider circle.

(You do like to give Steve a reassuring shoulder squeeze from time to time though, especially whenever Dustin starts insulting him outright. You’re not sure it helps, but the soft smile you get in return is enough to settle some of the lingering guilt over not being able to do more.)

But still, you fall in step next to Steve just as Dustin surges forward, catching Nancy’s attention as he asks a question you can’t quite hear. You take the moment to cast a sidelong glance towards Steve, quietly asking, “Everything alright? You hit your head pretty hard back there when the car crashed.”

He sighs, passing the flashlight back and forth between his hands. “Yeah, I’m fine. More worried about…”

His face tilts up, and you follow his gaze forward. 

Dustin.

“I think if there were any lasting damage, he would’ve complained by now,” you offer. 

“Fair enough,” he says. A beat passes before he asks, “And you? I know you were in the backseat with Nance and Jonathan, but…”

You blink in surprise. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just got a face full of your headrest. No biggie.”

A hushed laugh escapes him, and for the first time since the crawl that got you all in this mess in the first place, the tension in his shoulders loosens incrementally, and he turns to look at you fully. “Well, if it starts to hurt, let me know, okay? I can try and scrounge around for—”

“Steve!”

Dustin’s voice cuts across your conversation, and you both turn to where he’s waiting impatiently by the entrance to the lab, hands planted on his hips as though he’s a beleaguered mother and not a sixteen year old boy.

Steve lets out another sigh, and with a nod towards the kid, settles a hand on your back as he guides you forward. Dustin disappears inside, clearly not wanting to wait for the two of you to catch up. You get to the door first, but Steve’s quick to dart forward, yanking the door open and gesturing you through with a flourish.

You smile despite yourself.

Nancy and Jonathan are already in deep conversation by the time you catch up, and you bite back a laugh when Steve gestures to the space around you, saying, “Wow, this looks promising.”

Dustin shoots back a comment you don’t quite hear as you take in your surroundings, eyeing the vines wrapping around every surface that you can see. Hesitantly, you reach over, fingers outstretched towards a thick tendril on the wall, but before you can make contact, Steve’s at your side, intercepting your hand.

You blink up at him owlishly.

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” he offers in way of explanation.

“Is it dangerous?” you ask.

He shrugs and gestures towards the faded scar around his neck. “Remind me to tell you about ’86 later.”

You nod and follow him back to the rest of the group, confused to find them in an intense discussion about a movie plot of all things (Is this really the right time? you wonder) and Steve calls across the lobby, “Why are you explaining the plot of a movie that we all know, Henderson?”

“Because, Steven, Return of the Jedi is an oddly relevant movie!” Dustin snaps.

“Yeah, and we’ve all seen it,” Steve retorts.

You frown. “I’ve never seen a Star Wars film.”

Steve winces. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say.

“Anyway,” Dustin interjects. “As I was saying…”

You listen attentively as Dustin explains his theory — even if you’re only half following it, because you’re not quite sure what a shield generator even is — and brush your hand against Steve’s wrist after Dustin once again shoots the guy a snarky comment, sticking close by as you follow the group into a staircase.

Which, in turn, causes another debate when Steve points out, “Henderson and I need some space. New groups?”

“Are you serious right now?” Jonathan demands. “Who exactly are you planning on going with, Steve?”

Steve opens his mouth, incensed and ready to retort, but you quickly draw everyone’s attention towards you when you say, “Steve and I’ll go down, and Dustin can go up with you and Nancy, alright?”

Nancy shrugs, Jonathan nods, but Dustin only shoots you a scornful look.“Really? Send the two idiots downstairs? You don’t even know what you’re looking for, much less Steve.”

“Henderson!” comes Steve’s sharp admonishment. “Seriously, man?”

You breathe in and out of your nose slowly, tamping down your annoyance. “Steve and I know enough to not touch anything suspicious and radio if we see something. That’s the point, right? Radio if we see something odd?”

Nancy, thankfully, nods, and draws Dustin’s attention away. “Come on, Dust. There’ll probably be more interesting stuff upstairs anyway.” With one more sweeping look towards Steve, she adds, “Make sure to call the second you see something.”

“We will,” he promises, lifting up his walkie as if to make his point, and without another word, he steps off the landing and onto the staircase leading down.

You offer the rest of the group a silent wave and quickly follow after.

The two of walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s not until everyone else’s footsteps have fully receded into the distance that Steve speaks up.

“Hey, about what I said back there, in the lobby,” he begins, clearly uncomfortable. You pause on the steps, taking in the shape of his shoulders tensing up beneath his suede coat. “About, uh, the movie. I’m sorry. If I’d known you hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have—”

“Steve,” you cut him off gently, closing the gap between you to grab his arm. “I’m not offended by it.”

But he refuses to meet your eye. “It’s not that, it’s just — that was totally rude and I shouldn’t have—”

“How could you have known that I haven’t seen a movie literally everyone else has seen?” you ask. “Trust me, I know I’m the outlier. I didn’t think anything of it.”

And finally, finally, he turns to look at you. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you say. “Maybe being stuck down here will give me the motivation to catch up on pop culture.”

His lips quirk up, and for a moment, he looks like the twenty-one year old man he is and not the more worn version of himself you’ve become acquainted with through months of working alongside him at the station. “Maybe.”

“Anyway, I feel like I should’ve brought a flashlight with me,” you say, ducking around him. “Feels kinda stupid that I didn’t in retrospect.”

He shines the light on the next set of stairs. “Well, in your defense, it’s not like you could’ve known we would’ve gotten stuck down here when you got into my backseat. Hard to prepare for that kind of thing.”

Your laugh rings around the otherwise empty halls, and the two of you settle into an easy conversation as you go round and round, losing count of how many steps you’ve descended. 

It’s always been easy being around Steve, ever since the day that he and Robin showed up at the Squawk and announced that they were there to work at the station. You hadn’t argued — honestly, it was kind of nice to have someone else helping you out — and Steve is the kind of person who can make hours melt by in seconds. Whether he was cracking a joke to try and make you laugh, sliding a sandwich across across your desk when you forget your lunch, or seeking you out by the coffee machine for a chat between sets, time always passed a little too quickly when you were with him.

It’s, like, the one normal part of my day, he’d admitted to you once, his fingers brushing against your own as he passed over a mug. I love Rob, but her head’s in the clouds most of the time.

By the time you touch down on the bottom floor, your sweater is sticking uncomfortably to your chest and Steve, panting, says, “Jesus, that was way too many stairs.”

“What the hell even is this place?” you ask, because despite getting inadvertently roped into the group’s tenuously illegal activities, no one ever really bothered to fill you in on the finer details.

You turn in time to find Steve grimacing, face shining from sweat, and he says, “To be honest, no one’s ever really told memuch, but they were doing a bunch of experiments on kids here. It’s where El was raised, actually.”

“Oh.”

You think back to the quiet girl you’d only met a handful of times — always under the watchful eye of the former police chief, always hand in hand with Mike Wheeler — and take in your environment just a bit more closely.

It’s dreary, honestly. No windows, no way of getting natural light in at any point, and the electronic locks affixed to every door leaves no room for doubt as to how little freedom El and the other kids were given when moving about.

You take a few steps forward, pushing open a set of double doors to your left and immediately freeze at the sight in front of you. 

Steve crashes into your back, his hands immediately finding your waist to steady you, muttering, “What the hell is this place?”

Because surrounding the two of you is the starkest playroom you’ve ever seen: All white, with a rather unnerving rainbow painted across the wall. Toys are organized and put away neatly, and you can imagine that the real life version of this place smelled of harsh antiseptics.

In short, no place a kid should be raised in.

“This is creepy,” you whisper. “Like…”

“I get what you mean,” Steve says. “It’s like the set of a horror movie in here.”

You nod in agreement, reaching back until your hand makes contact with the hem of his coat. For all of your bravado and confidence walking into this situation, it’s definitely reassuring to have someone else with you as you explore this place.

Carefully, he leads the two of you around the room, shining his flashlight in every which direction as you search for… 

Something.

(A shield generator? Whatever the hell that is?)

Steve’s starting to glance towards the entrance, clearly ready to search other rooms in the basement, when your eyes catch on the open window along the back wall. More specifically, an odd bump in the wall, one that has you moving to climb through the window before you can think twice about it, ignoring Steve’s protests.

“There’s something back here,” you call out, feeling your way along the wall as he grunts behind you, the sound of his feet slipping along the floor as he catches up echoing through the room. “It’s like—”

A hidden latch pops, and the wall beneath your hands opening up enough to reveal an office tucked neatly behind it. You frown at the grime left on your hand and quickly wipe it against your jeans.

“That’s creepy as hell,” Steve comments, turning the light inside and gently stepping around you to go inside first.

“I bet that hole in the wall was, like, one-way glass or something,” you say, creeping inside. “So whoever could observe the kids.”

“Like I said,” he replies. “Creepy.”

He sets the flashlight down on the desk, dropping the walkie down next to it, and letting the glow illuminate the room as you separate. Steve goes to inspect the wall as you leaf through the sprawl of papers and notebooks on the desk, carefully setting aside anything that looks vaguely important to carry back upstairs. 

“This map looks exactly like Henderson’s,” Steve announces. “That’s weird, right? And this — this diagram thing. It’s, like…”

But before he can finish his thought, you lean down to open a drawer, seeing if you can find anything else of import, when it happens.

Something explodes in your face — some sort of dust, maybe? — and you stagger away, wheezing and coughing and choking as it settles across your skin, infiltrates your lungs, and within seconds Steve makes his way through the cloud, his hands hovering over your body as he asks, “Holy shit, are you okay?”

You hunch over, bracing your hands against your knees as you force out, “Fuck — just — breathed all that in—”

He thumps your back, which does little to help the aching in your chest, but the heat emanating from his hand feels nice even through the thick sweater draped across your torso. 

“Just get it out,” he murmurs gently. “There you go, get it all out.”

“Fuck,” you say again, tears welling in the corners of your eyes. “Fuck, that was awful. What was that stuff anyway?”

“Not sure,” he says, helping you stand back up. His fingers linger on your arms just a little longer than they ever have, and he looks almost… pained when he finally pulls away, turning back to inspect the open drawer. “I’ve seen a lot of floating dust and shit down here, but never anything like that. Whatever, it’s gone now and there’s nothing inside here.”

“Great,” you say, leaning against the wall, rubbing your chest as an odd warmth settles in your lungs. “I probably just got lung cancer or something.”

“It didn’t look like asbestos,” he says. “Though it did kind of just… disappear. So who knows.”

You draw in a shaky lungful of air. “How do you know what asbestos looks like?”

“My dad’s work — he owns some construction company,” Steve explains. “So when all those studies about asbestos came out in the seventies, I saw a bunch of pamphlets at home about what it looks like and what to avoid. Dad had to distribute them to the guys building houses.”

You blink in surprise. Steve’s never talked much about his parents, not in the year you’ve known him. You don’t think there’s really any tragic backstory hiding around the corner or anything; You’ve heard him on the phone with his mother, soft and affectionate in a way that an only child can be with the person who raised him, but he’s always seemed like the kind of person who grew out of the need for his parents’ involvement in his life far younger than other people. Independent in a way you’re not quite sure you’ve ever managed. 

And clearly not, because your lungs are still burning from whatever it was you inhaled (and you’re not quite sure that you believe it wasn’t asbestos, even with Steve’s expert opinion) and the burning is quickly morphing into something else. Something more, something you can’t quite put your finger on as you watch Steve hop up on the desk, legs swinging.

“So—” you begin, grasping at anything to fill the silence, to distract you from the heaviness tugging at your bones. “Your dad owns a company?”

“Oh, yeah.” There’s an odd note to Steve’s tone, one you can’t quite parse out. “My grandpa owned this, like, pet grooming business after the war. Successful as hell, and Dad went to Kelley down in Bloomington, got an MBA, started a construction business. I think originally he owned some realty thing, but there was more money in building or whatever.”

“That’s nice,” you say. “And your mom?”

“She stayed at home. Did a bunch of volunteer work around Hawkins, and, uh…”

He trails off, and you jump onto the next question. “Where are they now?”

“North Carolina,” he says. “They own a beach house there. Told them to evacuate Hawkins before lockdown, and they’ve been there ever since.”

Sweat beads at your temples, slipping down your face, and you can feel moisture gathering on the back of your neck as well. “Oh, wow, uh… and—”

“No offense, but,” he interrupts, strained. “Not sure I want to talk about my parents right now.”

You nod and continue to rub the space just above your breasts, feeling rather lightheaded over the lack of oxygen from your coughing fit. You press your eyelids shut, willing the dizziness to pass, but it only molds, intensifying.

It crawls down your spine, a heaviness you’ve never felt before, a heat creeping slowly through your body, from the top of your head to the tip of your toes. Honestly, you must’ve spent longer coughing than you’d thought, because you’ve never felt like this before, never felt anything like this grip all your senses to firmly, swirling around your tummy as the warmth turns up, up, up—

An uncomfortable noise echoes through the room, and it takes a moment for you to parse out that it came from Steve.

You force your eyes open, noting in an almost detached manner just how sweaty he looks. Which is odd, because it was really, really cold when the two of you descended into the basement, but now that you think about it, you’re also feeling rather flushed, aren’t you? 

His gaze meets yours, and the heat inside of you feels like it explodes, and you realize, startled, that it’s not warmth, per se, but—

“Steve.” Your voice is hoarser than you intended. “Do you feel weird?”

“Weird how?”

You swallow once, heavily, suddenly woozy from just how overpowering the feeling burning through your veins is. A feeling that you’re now able to identify with an uncomfortable clarity. “Did that dust make you unrelentingly horny too?”

There’s a sound that escapes his chest — something between a whimper and a groan, the noise of a man who prides himself on self-restraint beginning to fracture — and you blink blearily at him to find him still sitting on the desk, fingers digging into his thighs, looking just as wrecked as you feel. You glance down, unbidden, to see a rather obvious bulge in his jeans.

“Don’t ask me that,” he croaks pathetically.

“Steve,” you say. “I think we might’ve — I think we might have to—”

“No.” It comes out firm despite everything, despite the fact that the cotton bra against your breasts feels so restricting that you think you might suffocate. “I don’t care that what that shit did, I’m not — I won’t—”

“But you feel it too, right?” you ask, suddenly desperate to know. “It’s not just me, right?”

“I — yes, but—”

“Then shouldn’t we do something—?”

“No!” Sweat glistens across his forehead, and you watch with fascination as a droplet slides down his cheek, dripping onto his sweater. “I’m not going to — to take advantage of you, not like this, not when—”

“Steve.” It comes out pathetic, a whimper you can’t help as the feeling swells inside you, becoming too much for you to not do something. “Please.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, though it comes out less certain than you’re sure he intends it to. 

“Fine then,” you say, fumbling with the button of your jeans. “You won’t mind if I take care of myself, will you?”

He chokes. “What?”

You don’t bother responding though, and there’s no time for embarrassment as you shove your jeans down just far enough that you can slip a hand into your panties, finding yourself already drenched. Your heart is pounding erratically against your ribcage at the first swipe against your clit, and your knees buckle from how overwhelmingly good it feels, and you know for a fact that if you were in a more solid state of mind — if every conscious thought in your brain wasn’t slowly being eroded by the heady pressure of arousal — you’d be more concerned by how quickly the pleasure is building up in your core with only the lightest touch.

But you’re not in that state of mind. You’re here, burning up from the inside out, the fire of desperation and debauchery consuming you until it’s almost painful, as you circle your fingers faster, faster, faster until—

And as abruptly as your orgasm built, it stops dead in its tracks.

“No, no, no, no, no.” Your breath catches as your fingers slip against your clit to no avail. The pleasure refuses to grow, refuses to tip over into what you want most, refuses to let you into the sweet embrace of your orgasm. It dances teasingly just far enough out of reach to keep you on the precipice, to drive you mad with want. To drive you mad with need.

You tilt your head up, finding Steve’s gaze searing into your body, his hands still gripping his thighs tightly, and another heaving cry billows from your lips as you utter, “Please.”

He goes very, very still.

“Please, Steve,” you beg, uncaring of how you sound — not when he looks just as wrecked as you feel, not when he still hasn’t moved a single muscle. “Please, please, please help me, please — it hurts so much, I can’t — I can’t—”

Slowly, he slips from the desk and makes his way to you with controlled, even steps, and you watch as he sinks to his knees before you, his voice completely torn with need as he murmurs, “Let’s get your shoes off, yeah?”

“Steve,” you plead again. “I need you to touch me.”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, hands shaking as they find their way to the laces of your tennis shoes. “I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

The sentiment rings hollow in your ears.

“You’re not taking advantage of me,” you insist, tears spilling from your eyes. “I want this, I want you—”

“Whatever we breathed in, that’s making you feel this way,” he insists, and you don’t understand. You don’t understand how he’s still so in control when you’re ready to burst at the seams, ready to fall apart into a million pieces at the feeling of his breath on your thighs. “But I can — I’ll help.”

He slips one of your shoes off, then the next, stacking them neatly somewhere you don’t bother to look, and with a firm grasp, he slides the denim down your legs, helping you step out. Your panties are tugged down next, and you watch somewhat deliriously as he tucks them into his back pocket. Your brain struggles to catch up as he draws your leg up and over his shoulder, tilting his head up to meet your gaze, his fingers tracing through the thatch of hair on your mound. 

His eyes burn into yours when he says, "I need to hear it."

You whimper. “Please, Steve. I need you.”

Seconds later, you're roughly pulled down on to his face.

And as it turns out, truly all you needed was him. His nose brushing against your clit is all it takes before you clench around nothing, waves of pleasure crashing into you as you come harder than you ever have in your life. Your chest heaves as you grip onto Steve, shaking and trembling and crying until your knees buckle.

He’s quick to catch you before you fall to the ground, grabbing your hips as he slowly lowers you down onto his lap. “Did that help?” he asks, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweater.

“Yes — no,” you whimper, your head so full of everything that you can’t think straight. “It hurts so bad, Steve, I need — need more — not enough, it’s not enough—”

“Okay, okay,” he soothes, even if he sounds a little broken as he says it. “Let me put my jacket down for you, yeah?”

You shake your head because you need it now, but Steve ignores it — ignores you — and groans loudly when you grind down into his erection, desperate and chasing any form of relief you can get as he slides his jacket off. You don’t care though, burying your face into his shoulder and breathing in the intoxicating scent of some woodsy cologne and human musk underneath, the smell of a man who has worked hard to be where he’s at right in this moment, and you roll your clit against the zipper on his jeans even harder, not paying attention when Steve lowers you to the ground, your back hitting his coat that he laid out without your notice.

It feels like it takes ages for him to settle between your legs, spreading your pussy open carefully, as if it were made of something precious, and you twitch up pathetically as his breath ghosting against where you ache the most.

“Steve,” you whine, your own hands sliding up under your sweater and beneath your bra, rolling your nipples between your fingers.

“Don’t worry, honey,” he murmurs. You meet his eyes and your arousal grows at just how big his pupils are, wide with desire as a flush spreads across his cheeks. “I’ll take care of you.”

That’s all the warning you get before he dives in once more, lapping up your wetness like a starving man. You squirm, and his grip against your thighs is bruising as he holds you in place. It’s an exhilarating dichotomy: Commanding yet so at odds with how soft he speaks to you, gentle in every word. 

And when he presses his fingers into your skin just a bit deeper, you know for a fact that his composure is cracking the tiniest bit more.

Just like with your first orgasm, it doesn’t take long for the second one to build, cresting until it washes over you with an urgency. But instead of relief, the only thing you feel is a hungry need for more — more of his tongue against your clit, more of his fingers plunging into your pussy, curling up until they hit the spongy spot that makes you feel stars, more of him — and you cry out, not bothering to wipe the tears spilling down your face as you twist your nipples, trying to extend your orgasm a little longer. 

And yet, somehow, the need that has taken over every one of your sense, the fire of arousal caused by whatever it was you stumbled into, it only grows hotter, burns brighter, and within seconds after your orgasm abates you’re reaching down, winding your fingers into his hair and begging, “More.”

Steve glances up at you, his nose still firmly pressed into the seam of your pussy, and the only response you get is one long, languid lick from your entrance up to your clit. 

A shiver runs down your spine at just how ravished he looks with his hair askew and eyes blown wide. Fucked out of his mind, even, despite the fact he's been so entirely focused on your own pleasure that you're pretty sure he's ignoring just how much the pollen's affected him.

(How does he manage to do that?)

You moan raggedly, louder than any sound you’re sure you’ve ever made before, and within seconds his head lifts from your core. A pathetic sound escapes you at the loss of touch, but he doesn’t leave you wanting long. One big hand comes up to grip the hem of your sweater, tugging it up and shoving the fabric into your mouth, hoarsely saying, “They’re going to hear you upstairs if you don’t quiet down.”

Privately, you think that you don’t actually care who hears you, but clearly Steve is still managing a level of sense that completely abandoned, because he only tucks the sweater more firmly against your tongue. Your teeth scrape against his fingers and he groans, wanton but quiet.

“Bite down,” he tells you as his hand retreats, commanding but in a way that doesn’t feel like a demand. Your pussy clenches at the tone, and you're pretty sure you'd do anything as long as he keeps looking at you like that.

So you do as told, and his throat bobs as your mouth closes around the woven yarn, his gaze lingering on your lips. He's trembling with barely restrained desire, and just as you get the bright idea to try and convince him to do something about it, your bra gets roughly yanked down, your breasts spilling into the cold air. Your nipples peak, and Steve’s mouth is on them before you can even blink, sucking one into his mouth while his hand dips back down to your pussy, gathering wetness on his fingers before dipping inside where you ache the most.

The effect is instantaneous. Fireworks explode under your skin, growing bigger and brighter when he slips a third finger inside. He moves at a slow and methodical rhythm, and entirely at odds with how he ravishes your chest, and you can’t help the pathetic mewl that escapes your throat, tears slipping down the side of your face.

He releases your nipple with a wet pop, and immediately delves into the valley of your breasts, sucking spots into your skin that should be painful, but the only thing you can think is that you want the marks to be tattooed into your skin forever, a permanent mark of the pleasure he’s giving you.

Spit trails from his mouth as he makes his way to your other breast, giving it the same ministrations. Sucking, teasing, biting until you yelp through the cloth in your mouth, and you can feel rather than hear the vibration of his laughter, even as he grinds the heel of his palm into your clit.

The third orgasm doesn’t sneak up on you as much as it consumes you, forcing more tears from your eyes as you shake and shake and shake, clenching down on Steve’s fingers as he works you through it, low, soothing noises murmured into your skin as he makes his way down.

If you were in a more coherent state, you’d recognize his actions for what they were: The further fraying of carefully kept control, because he doesn’t skip a beat as his mouth makes contact with your pussy once more, not bothering to stop and check in, to make sure you still want this.

At this point, you’re both completely aware of what you want, even if he’s still refusing to fully give into the lewdness of the situation.

You, on the other hand, let the fever consume you entirely as he sucks your clit into his mouth, cheeks hollowing, fingers pumping in and out at a steady pace, driving you completely and utterly insane.

You wonder, in a vague, abstract way, if he’s this good even without the added effects of whatever it was that infected the two of you, and you know instinctively that you’d give anything to find out. Especially when his teeth graze across your clit in a way that should be painful but just has your hips jerking against the arm wrapped around your leg. 

“So good for me, honey,” he murmurs into your pussy, twisting his hand to find that sweet spot inside you once more. “Come on, come for me, honey — come for—”

Your fourth orgasm leaves you thrashing against his hold.

Stars burst behind your eyelids as waves of pleasure crash over you, ebbing and flowing but never quite stopping, and somehow — somehow — the heat only builds, consuming the very essence of your being until you’re sobbing in earnest. You scrabble to pull Steve up, up, up until he’s hovering over you. His chin glistens with your arousal, and your chest cracks open as you weep, “Don’t you want me?”

His face cracks at your words, and all at once, you’re able to see everything that he’s been holding back: Fear, confusion, and without a doubt, complete and unadulterated desire.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, honey, I don’t—”

He cuts himself off by burying his face into your neck, the scratchy feeling of his wool sweater against your pebbled nipples doing nothing to tame the arousal burning inside you. And you realize, suddenly, that you asking for it isn’t enough, because it’s Steve — sweet, understanding Steve — who never fails to make you laugh, who always makes sure you’re safely inside after a crawl before going in himself, who has shown up time and time again in such small ways for the duration of your friendship that you know, without a doubt, that asking for it will never convince him of what you want, of your feelings.

“Steve,” you whisper, capturing his face beneath your palms and forcing him to look you in the eye. “I’m glad this was you.”

His brows furrow and his eyes tighten — once, small, pain seeping through his expression — and he throatily says, “What?”

“I’m glad it’s you here and not anyone else,” you say. “If I had to be in this situation with anyone, I’d want it to be you.”

He licks his lips, and his expression blooms into something more hopeful. “Do you really mean that?”

“Steve,” you say softly, full of affection. “I would’ve done this without the crazy dust. Just, you know, maybe not in a random office.”

He searches your face for a moment before finally breathing out, “Okay.”

You freeze, not sure you're hearing him correctly. “Okay?”

He nods, and you watch the feeling swell in him, his composure finally disintegrating in the sureness of your fingers skimming down your side, sliding under your knee to press you open just a bit more. “If you’re — are you sure that you want this? You’re completely—?”

“I want this,” you say again, firm in your conviction. “I want this with you, and I’ll want this with you even once we’re out of here, Steve.”

You watch as your confession hits him: First quietly, then all at once. He looks at you with so much affection that for the first time since you opened that drawer, your chest aches with something other than arousal. Through the haze of pleasure, he looks down at you tenderly, brushing your hair plastered to your face away and, with more regret than you expected, “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

But he doesn’t give you any time to question what he means before he’s surging forward, self-restraint in tatters around the two of you as his mouth crashes into yours. You taste yourself on his tongue, and as his forearms bracket your head, you reach down, scrambling to unbutton his jeans and shove them as far down as you can reach. They barely make it to the top of his thighs before you’re taking him in hand, gasping with pleasure at how big and heavy and warm he feels in your fingers and give a few, lazy pumps. He shudders against your hold but doesn’t fight when you line him up against your entrance and look up at him through hooded eyes, asking one more time, “Please, Steve? I need you.”

This is all he needs to finally snap.

You can feel the last remnants of sense leave his body as his hips thrust forward, his cock pressing entirely inside you in one swift, fluid motion, punching the air from your lungs. He doesn’t give you any time to recover before he’s dragging himself out slowly before pushing back in, and he sets a brutal pace that has any last coherent thought driven from your head as he tends to the fire that’s been coursing throughout your veins. 

And that fire — it changes. Whereas every orgasm he’d drawn out of you with his mouth and fingers had only left you aching, left you wanting for more, with his cock bullying its way in and out of your cunt, you can only feel the fuzzy pleasure of contentment, like there’s been a piece of you missing your entire life that’s finally found its way home.

You think he feels the same when he gazes at you with such adoration, such fondness as he presses your leg even higher, hitting a new, deeper spot within you that has you gasping for more, more, more.

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Steve throughout this whole thing, is that he is nothing if not a giving lover.

He snakes a hand back down to your core, fingers slipping over your sensitive core as he breathes, “One more for me, honey?”

(Could you ever deny a request made so lovingly?)

Despite how he pounds into your pussy with reckless abandon, he’s effervescently gentle in how he circles your clit, like he’s aware of just how sore you’re absolutely going to be when all of this is said and done. 

His teeth scrape down your neck as he continues his ministrations, fingers flexing over your most sensitive spot, and it’s as he sucks a hickey into your skin that he coaxes one final orgasm from your worn body.

Your cries come out quieter this time, more exhausted as you clench down on his cock, and within seconds his hips stutter as he spills warmth inside you, and finally, finally, the fever inside you dissipates.

Steve practically collapses on top of you, only just cognizant enough to keep the worst of his weight off of your body as the remnants of whatever infected you both tapers off until the flame is extinguished entirely, leaving you sweaty and spent yet somehow feeling better than you’ve ever felt in your entire life.

The two of you stay like that for a few minutes, chests heaving as you catch your breath. You stroke a hand down his back, watching his face carefully as his eyes flutter open, exhausted but happy as he meets your gaze.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay? That was…”

Intense.

It doesn’t need to be said though. You nod, dragging your hand up to his face to push his bangs from his eyes. “I’m fine. How about you? You held out super long.”

He huffs out a laugh and presses his cheek a little firmer unto your palm. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. Promise. Better than I’ve felt in a long while.”

You open your mouth to say something — to confess something — though what, you aren’t quite sure, then the walkie across the room crackles to life, and Dustin Henderson’s panicked voice comes through. “Steve? Steve, are you there? We found something and it’s—”

Steve pushes off of your prone body in seconds, and you’re left achingly empty as he stumbles over to the walkie, snatching it off the table it’s rested on next to the flashlight, calling into it, “Henderson, what’s going on?”

Sticky come slips from your core, wetting your thighs.

“Don’t touch anything!” Dustin demands through the walkie. “It isn’t a shield generator, and Nancy wanted to shoot it—”

“Hey!”

“Have you found anything?” Dustin asks, ignoring Nancy’s protest.

Steve sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and spares you a sidelong glance as you sit up, righting your bra and sweater. “Yeah, I think we found Brenner’s office. Don’t come down here, though. We’ll meet you in the lobby.”

Dustin calls his confirmation, and Steve’s quick to drop the walkie back on top of the table. He makes his way back to you in two, long strides, and kneels down.

“Let me do it,” he says, batting you away and replacing them with your own as he tucks your breasts back into the cups of your bra, gently pulling your sweater down. 

You don’t quite manage to choke down a laugh when he helps you stand up and frowns at the cum dripping down your thighs, looking around to find something to clean it up and coming up short.

“It’s okay,” you say, and Steve nods as he’s forced to accept the situation.

He doesn’t bother giving you your panties back as he draws your jeans back up your legs, holding you steady as you step into each of your shoes that he insists on tying.

He’s quiet, and it takes you a few minutes too long to realize that he’s embarrassed, like you caught him doing something that he wasn’t meant to do. It doesn’t sit well with you.

But he pushes forward with methodical ease, gathering his coat and all of the notebooks that you picked out before the two of you got into this mess, and leads you from the office with the stride of a man used to performing confidence.

Except—

You know it’s an act. You’ve seen him soft, you’ve seen him pushed to the edge, and you now know the way it feels to be the center of his universe, even if only for a singular moment, and you know that you want more.

You jog forward to catch up to him just as he hits the staircase, grasping his arm and force him to look at you.

“Steve,” you gently say. “When all of this is done — when we’re back in Hawkins and — whatever — would you go on a date with me?”

He freezes, but hope still blooms on his face. “I — what?”

“Would you go on a date with me?” you ask again, firmer this time. “Maybe you can show me Star Wars and I can finally see what I’ve been missing this whole time.”

“Really?” You can tell that the question slips out without him meaning to by how quickly his face flushes, but he barrels forward. “You’d really want to go on a date with me?”

“Of course I would,” you say with a smile. “I wasn’t lying when I said that I wanted this when we were out of here. And I didn’t just mean sex, I — I want everything, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, honey.” It comes out breathless, and in the next second he’s leaning down, pressing the softest kiss against your swollen lips. “Of course I’ll have you. I just didn’t want to assume…”

“You can assume,” you reassure. “With me, you can assume.”

Your boyfriend spills into the condom, with a loud grunt of your name—pressing his face right into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered against yours.

You keep your hands on his shoulders, trying to keep the disappointed look off your face as James pulls his softening cock out of you.

James was—well, he was objectively a perfect boyfriend. He was kind, attentive, always there when you needed him. He loved your family and in return, your family loved him. But in the bedroom? He left you pretty high and dry.

He never took his time—seemed to look at foreplay as an obligation rather than something to be enjoyed. He never spent more than a few minutes with his mouth between your legs. He never let you set the pace, never made sex about you. It was always about him. And after care? Well, that was a foreign concept to James. He tended to fall asleep less than five minutes after finishing.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care about your pleasure because he did—for all of ten seconds before his own needs started to outweigh yours. He’d press his fingers inside you and the moment it started to feel good for you—when you would let out a few soft moans or start to move your hips, he’d take it as a job well done. Or worse—instead he would start pumping his fingers too quickly, pistoning them in and out of you as fast as he could. As if it did anything for you.

You had tried to tell him this—gently, of course. Trying to let him know what felt good for you but he just wouldn’t retain the information. Or perhaps, when it came to your pleasure over his, he didn’t want to listen. You had tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the latter.

As James rolled over in bed—you felt that familiar sense of guilt build. The one that reminded you of the date he had taken you on tonight. How much money the fancy dinner had cost and how he had refused to let you pay for it. The guilt was a reminder how lucky you were to have a guy like James. In the past, guys weren't so great to you. In fact, you had dated some downright assholes. Guys who weren’t kind. Guys who didn’t respect you. Hell, some guys you were sure didn’t even really like you. And James was great. Really—he was. You were sure you loved him—sure that he was the kind of man you could marry. The kind of man who was a smart, sensible choice.

But as you looked over at the man you should love unconditionally—already falling asleep with the condom still on—you were beginning to question whether smart and sensible was the right choice.

A year ago, you had been in dire need of a roommate. Your previous roommate, Rachel, had moved out after landing her dream job in a different city. You had been happy for her but it had left you with a two bed apartment that you could not afford on your own.

James hadn’t wanted to move in at that point—you had only been together for a few months back then and neither of you were ready to take that big step yet. And so, you were without a roommate and a monthly rent that was haemorrhaging money from you.

That was until your co-worker Robin Buckley told you about Steve Harrington.

“Wait, Steve as in Steve?” You had asked her, a skeptical look on your face. “As in your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend—that Steve?”

Robin had rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the mug of coffee she had been in the middle of making. The sound of Every Breath You Take by The Police drifting into the radio station kitchen from the booth. You still had two minutes and a couple of ad breaks before you needed to be back inside for the remainder of the Rockin’ Robin breakfast show. You were tired from the early morning but mostly, you were stressed out about your current living situation and Robin could tell.

“Yes—that Steve,” she says, stirring in an unholy amount of sugar. “C’mon, it’s not weird. We’re like best friends. I can vouch for him. I’m like ninety eight percent sure he isn’t a murderer.”

You grimace a little, tired eyes flickering over to Robin. “Ninety eight percent isn’t enough for me.”

Robin huffs, turning to face you fully now with her hands on her hips. “C’mon (y/n)—you trust me right? You can trust him.”

You think about it, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet.

“But he’s a guy, Robs,” you say finally. “I don’t want to live with a guy.”

Robin lets out a snort of laughter despite herself.

“Point taken,” she says before looking at you again carefully. “Just—just think about it, yeah? His parents just kicked him out and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s been sleeping on my couch for the past week and I gotta say, I don’t think it’s good for mine and Nance’s sex life if her ex-boyfriend is snoring in the other room every night.”

You falter—make the mistake of looking at her face—at her big blue eyes that looked just the right amount of pleading to make you reconsider.

“I’ll think about it,” you told her.

Steve had moved in that Friday.

The first week had been a little awkward—tiptoeing around each other in the hallway and trying to keep out of each other’s space. But after Steve had returned from picking up the last few bits from his parents house—coming back empty handed with red rimmed eyes—you had wordlessly handed him a bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese and suggested watching a movie together.

After that, you stopped tiptoeing.

And living with him? It was pretty great. He was surprisingly neat and an excellent cook. He always took the initiative to go out and do the food shopping when you were running low on the necessities. He didn’t mind that you had way too many houseplants, that the refrigerator had too many magnets on it or that the couch was baby pink—Steve was just happy to be living with you.

Somewhere between making coffees for each other in the morning and watching old movies together on the couch—you had formed a friendship that was built out of a genuine connection to each other rather than out of convenience like it had with Rachel. You had even finally accepted Robin’s offer of going out with her friends now that you lived with Steve. You had met her girlfriend Nancy in the past but Jonathan Byers and Eddie Munson had been complete mysteries to you. They turned out to be just as Robin had described—Jonathan a little quiet but once you got to know him wouldn’t shut up about his short films when you asked how they were going. And Eddie was—well, Eddie was the kind of person who people noticed when he walked into a room. 

In time, they had met James. You had a feeling that they didn’t think much of him. The way Eddie rolled his eyes when James started talking about sports. How Robin would yawn when he bought up his job as a stock broker. How Nancy would bristle when James tried to explain the stock market to her as though she was stupid. How Jonathan would go quiet around him. How Steve glared at James when he would talk over you and would interject to say “actually, (y/n) was talking”.

And so, you had never told your friends about your borderline terrible sex life. Never told them that James had only made you come once. Never told them you had to get yourself off in the bathroom after he had gone to sleep. And you probably never would tell them.

“You know what I love?” Eddie asks the group one Friday night at your and Steve’s local bar. It was grimy, located only a few yards from your apartment—hence why it was your local haunt—but it was yours. Warts and all.

“Weed?” suggests Jonathan.

Eddie clicks his fingers, smiling at Jonathan.

“You know me, Byers,” Eddie says but shakes his head. “But no—that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Something Eddie Munson loves,” Robin muses, tapping the table gently as she considers the question.

“D&D?” Steve puts forward.

“Nancy’s mom?” You say with a wry smile—Nancy shooting you a glare as Steve tries to hide his laughter.

“That deli shop by the record store that is totally going to get shut down for health violations?” Robin offers.

Eddie groans, looking pained as he looks over at Robin.

“Why do you have to remind me?”

“Eddie, that place has given you food poisoning like five times,” Nancy points out.

“And it was worth it. Every damn time.”

You laugh, smiling at Eddie’s dramatics. Sometimes you wondered why he had never considered theatre.

“So what is it you love Eddie?” Steve asks, leaning back in the booth beside you. His arm resting behind your head—comfortable, easy, just like it always was between you two.

“Oral sex,” Eddie says simply.

You choke on your drink while your friends laugh at Eddie’s admission.

“Giving or receiving?” Steve asks while you try to regain composure, face warm and looking anywhere but at your friends. Any talk about sex you tended to not engage in—not wanting to admit to your friends that you rarely enjoyed sex with your own boyfriend.

“Both,” Eddie says, smiling. 

You tried your best to keep a neutral expression—to not involve yourself too much with the conversation. Trying not to recall the last time James had gone down on you—how it had lasted barely two minutes. How you had been thankful it was over. How you had ‘returned’ the favour with all the enthusiasm that James didn’t possess.

“What about you, (y/n)?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows wiggling as you look up at him.

“About me, what?” you ask, because you hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation for the past two minutes, too busy thinking of anything beside how terrible your boyfriend was at giving head.

Eddie laughs—loud and without much care who heard. “Oral—do you prefer giving or receiving?”

Your face warms—you’re sure that your friends can all tell how flustered you were by the question. 

“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells you, glaring at Eddie as he pats your shoulder gently. “Eddie’s just being intrusive—”

“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans and nudges your knee under the table with his. “We never hear about your sex life, (y/n).”

“Not everyone is as open as you, Munson,” Nancy says.

Eddie huffs—grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I’m just curious to know which she prefers,” Eddie says innocently, hands up in surrender.

Your leg bounces beneath the table as you consider giving Eddie an answer or not. Generally, you didn’t discuss your sex life with James with anyone. You were too scared to give away your dissatisfaction with it. It made you feel shameful for even thinking of complaining. To actually voice those complaints? Well—that felt like opening Pandora’s Box. But there was a large part of you that couldn’t help but feel left out.

“Giving,” you say finally without looking up. It was the honest truth. You don’t tell them that the reason for this was because you hated when James tried going down on you. Hated to pretend he was good at it. Hated how much he clearly disliked doing it. “I-I prefer giving.”

You were not sure why you felt the need to answer anyway. Maybe it was how left out you felt during these conversations. How much you wished you were having as good sex as all your friends were. Maybe because you just wanted to be included for once. You feel your face warm but you try not to shy away as you look up at your friends—all looking at you in slight disbelief.

“What?” You ask, eyes flickering between each of your friends before landing finally on Steve.

“Nothing,” Steve says, blinking in apparent shock at your admission. “It’s just—”

“I’ve never known a girl who would choose giving head over receiving it,” Eddie interjects before glancing at Robin and Nancy. “Not a straight one anyway.”

Your face warms, taking a long swig of your drink and wishing you could blend into the furniture.

“I just—prefer doing it, I guess,” you say quietly with a small shrug.

“Well,” Eddie begins with a small smile and a wink sent your way. “Either you’re incredibly giving or James isn’t doing a good enough job.”

Everyone laughs and you know you should stand up for James—for your boyfriend, the man you supposedly loved—but instead, you go quiet. Your face somehow feeling even hotter than before. You seem to shrink back further in the booth. No one seems to notice how you don’t defend your boyfriend—Eddie was too busy already recounting the tales from his latest hookup with a bartender. But Steve’s eyes linger on you for a moment. Noticing the way your jaw tenses, your fingers flexing as though wishing to grip onto the table.

He doesn’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.

At one in the morning, you walk back with Steve to the apartment as you always did. Both a little bit tipsy and laughing at things that weren’t that funny—the fact Steve had been wearing his shirt inside out the entire evening, how you had tripped over the curb outside the bar.

“Careful,” Steve warns you, laughing as his hands gently steer you away from the curb for a third time. “What would you do without me, huh?”

“Be miserable,” you reply with a tipsy giggle. Steve smiles, hooking an arm around your shoulders as you approach your apartment building. Being the slightly more sober one—Steve is the one to fish out the key from his pocket and open the door. He’s the one to drag you away from the front desk before you could get too distracted by the notice board (“but Steve apartment 9A is selling their microwave!”). He’s the one to manoeuvre you into the elevator and to stop you from pressing all the buttons.

“Okay—next week, I’m the one who is getting drunk and you can take care of me,” Steve huffs as he guides you down the hallway towards your apartment. One arm around your shoulders so you don’t try to escape.

“M’kay,” you murmur as you watch Steve unlock the door. 

Once you’re in the safety of your apartment, Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He watches as you wonder over to that damn pink couch—flop down onto it and kick off your shoes. 

“I’m going to get you some water,” Steve announces, taking off his own shoes and leaving them carefully by the front door before heading into the kitchen.

You simply hum in acknowledgement, head titled back and staring up at the ceiling.

Steve returns with two glasses of water a few moments later. He sets them down on the coffee table before leaning down to pick up your discarded shoes. You bite back a smile as you watch him place them neatly down beside his own shoes near the front door. 

“I was going to put them back eventually,” you tell him as he sits down on the couch beside you, the couch dipping a little under his weight.

Steve shrugs, as though it wasn’t a big deal before he picks up your glass of water and hands it to you.

“Drink,” he tells you gently. You send a small, grateful smile before you take the glass from him and take a generous gulp of water. Steve watches, amused before he sips from his own glass.

It’s quiet then between the pair of you—you tilting your head back up to glance at the ceiling while Steve thoughtfully taps his fingers against the glass in his hands.

“Hey, (y/n)?”

“Yeah?” You ask, turning your head to look at Steve.

He looks back at you, a slightly apprehensive look on his face—one that indicated that he was carefully considering his next words.

“I just—I noticed that you—that you didn’t say anything back to Eddie earlier.”

Even though you were still a little tipsy, still feeling the alcohol hum through your veins—Steve’s words cut through you. Instantly, you knew what he was referring to. That little comment Eddie had made about why you had said you preferred giving oral over opposed to receiving it. You swallow—you knew you had to play dumb. The truth was too embarrassing. It made that guilt take residence in your chest again.

“When?” You ask finally. “Eddie talks so much shit that it all kind of…blurs into one.”

Steve chuckles, leaning back against the sofa—his elbow knocking against yours. “Yeah, no—you got that right,” he says with a quick nod and another glance at you. “I just—it was that dig at James he made. You didn’t—you didn’t say anything. You didn’t—I dunno, stick up for him, I guess.”

You don’t say anything, you just stare wordlessly down at your lap as you try not to react.

When you say nothing, Steve hesitates for a split second before he presses on, “I just—I wanted to check if—you know, if everything was okay between the two of you?”

 “Yeah,” you say, a beat too quickly as you look down at the glass of water in your hands. “We’re good. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Steve doesn’t look convinced. He looks back at you with an expression that plainly told you that he did not believe a damn word you were saying.

“Because you just let Eddie say…what he said,” Steve says. “That James isn’t good in bed.”

Again—you say nothing. Not for any other reason than because you suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be honest. To tell Steve everything. How James couldn’t make you come. How he no longer seemed to care if you finished. How his pleasure was always placed above yours.

Steve seems to understand something in your silence—his eyes on you, watching you with careful consideration, as though he was choosing his next words carefully.

“You know you deserve better, right?”

The words pull at something deep in your chest. The alcohol makes it difficult to control the cocktail of guilt, shame and embarrassment swirling in your gut.

“I don’t,” you murmur finally—the words that deep down, you didn’t really believe. Because you didn’t truly feel as though you deserved James. He was good—not like the assholes you had dated in the past and you felt immensely guilty that you were doubting him all because he couldn’t make you come.

Steve looks at you in utter disbelief, opening his mouth as if he was ready to argue but you silence him by unsteadily getting to your feet.

“M’going bed,” you tell him, clumsily making your way into the kitchen with your glass of half-drunk water. Steve follows—just to make sure that you didn’t break anything (whether that be the glass in your hand or even an arm or a leg).

He watches you tip the last of the water into the sink and he continues to watch as you leave the empty glass on the drying rack.

“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” Steve suddenly says, making you turn to look at him—eyes unfocused due to the alcohol and your world just a little bit wobbly. “Like seriously. Even if it’s about—you know.”

Your face warms, you avert your eyes.

“Just drop it, yeah?” You murmur back, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine—I’m fine, Steve.”

Despite how tipsy you were—the words were final and Steve understood that. He looked at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay,” he says simply before he forces a smile. “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll make sure to have a hangover breakfast ready for you.”

You manage a smile—a genuine smile—because Steve always did thoughtful things like this. Even if you were drawing a clear line in the sand on the conversation. 

“Thank you,” you say, finally looking at Steve’s face and seeing the concern in his eyes which did not help the guilt you felt deep in your gut. Because now you felt awful for not being honest with Steve. And so—before you head to your room, you give Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

You slip away before you see how Steve’s face flushes. 

The thing about living with Steve Harrington meant that you heard him have sex. Like, a lot.

The moment you heard loud moans coming from his bedroom, you would grab your walk-man, some headphones and drown out whatever unholy sounds were coming from the other side of the wall.

Tonight was no different. It was a week after that evening at the bar and after a long day at work, you were in your room when the moaning started. You knew he had been out on a date and you also knew—judging by the giggling that you had heard when Steve had returned ten minutes ago—that him and his date had retreated to his room. And so, what you heard next was inevitable. Your hands reached for your walk-man and—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” you hear Steve say in a low voice. “Soak my fingers—just like that. Do you hear how fucking wet you are for me?”

The words shock you. Hearing Steve say such filthy words makes your breath hitch and then—

To your absolute horror—the words go straight to your core.

Your thighs squeeze together without permission.

Holy fuck.

This is wrong. This was so fucking wrong—

“That’s it. God—keep squeezing my fingers just like that, baby. You’re going to feel incredible around my cock.”

You bite the inside of your mouth. Your fingers closing around the walkman, eyes on the headphones and—

“You want my mouth?”

“Yes, Steve—please—oh, oh god—oh—”

The moans coming from behind the wall had become obscene. High pitched, mixed with Steve’s own muffled groans.

You closed your eyes, imagining Steve’s thick head of hair between your thighs as he sucked on your clit, your slick dripping down his chin—

Oh god, no. You couldn’t fantasise about that, about him—it was wrong, it was—

“You taste so fucking good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt warmth spread through you at those words. Hot—like lava seeping through your veins.

You felt an ache between your legs you hadn’t felt in a long time. As you squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the feeling, you let out a small gasp when you realised you were wet. Like really fucking wet.

Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own—dancing down your thighs until you feel your own slick coating your inner thigh from where it had trickled down from your cunt.

The urge to move your fingers higher was overwhelming. To plunge your fingers into your aching cunt and get off like you desperately needed to. The moans coming from the woman who was being eaten out by Steve Harrington was all you could hear. 

And that mental image of Steve—your roommate, your friend, the guy who was most certainly not your boyfriend—lapping at your soaked cunt was too much.

Your fingertips danced over the delicate lace of your panties before you knew what you were doing. That tiny bit of pressure was enough to make your hips buck up instinctively, stopping the whimper that threatened to fall out. You repeated the action, moving your finger around the damp spot in your panties and focusing only on Steve’s muffled groans. You have to bite down on your free hand to stop yourself from moaning as your fingers begin to circle your sensitive bud over the lace.

The nameless woman’s moans were only getting louder and louder.

And that’s when you gave in.

Your fingers slipped beneath the lace material of your panties. The first contact with your bare, wet pussy sent shock waves of pleasure through your body. You try not to think about how James never made you this wet as you slide your index and middle finger through your wetness.

You try to imagine James—your sweet, caring boyfriend between your legs. How his big blue-green eyes would look up at you sweetly. You wished it was enough to get you off. You wished he was good. As good as—

“Steve! Oh—fuck—don’t stop!”

And that was it—all thoughts of your boyfriend gone. The image of James replaced by Steve. And the thought of Steve using his mouth on you was enough to make your head fall back in ecstasy as your fingers worked faster—using your wet slick to coat your clit. The sensation sent a surge of white hot pleasure through you. You bit back a moan—your first orgasm in weeks right there. You were so close, you just need a little more—

“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve’s voice rumbles through the wall. “Come for me.”

That voice—that fucking voice—is what pushes you over the edge. The wave of pleasure was so intense, so sudden that you almost failed to muffle your moan with your hand. You feel it in every nerve in your body. Your legs shake and you feel your release dripping onto the sheets beneath you.

You lay there, chest heaving, the bliss you felt moments before slowly slipping away as the sounds of Steve and the nameless women were drowned out by the shame that had started to creep through your body. You felt it in your very bones—you had just gotten off (for the first time in a long, long time) by thinking of someone other than your boyfriend. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Steve. Your roommate. Your friend. Sweet, kind and caring Steve.

You shouldn’t have done it—you know you shouldn’t have. And yet—you already want to do it again. Especially when you could hear the sound of skin slapping against each other in the next room. It made that feeling in your gut return. Hot, aching where your fingers had just been.

No. You couldn’t. It was wrong. So very wrong.

One time. You told yourself. Just one time.

The next time James went down on you, you were determined to come.

You had decided that the morning after you had been listening to Steve and that woman.

James’ roommates were out and that meant you weren’t confined to his room as you usually were.

He had laid you down on the couch—his shirt half off and belt unbuckled. You could tell he just wanted to fuck you. But you just wanted to see if he could—

“Eat me out,” you murmur against the skin of his neck. “James—please.”

James wasn’t one for talking dirty. Not because he disliked it but because it seemed to affect him too much. At your words he groaned and his hand that had been massaging one of your breasts stilled. You could feel his hardened cock through his jeans pressed against your thigh—swear you felt it twitch at your words alone. Admittedly, it turned you on. That was a start.

“Okay,” James says, leaning back to look at your face. “Okay—I can do that.”

You try not to think that he sounds like he’s talking business. As though going down on you was a meeting—an afternoon meeting? ‘Sure, I can do that’. Need that report by Monday? ‘Sure, I can do that’.

James didn’t take his time—you knew he was aching painfully from how hard he was—and so he just pushed up the skirt of your dress, hastily tugged down your panties before his mouth met your barely soaked folds. You felt his tongue slide between them and you let out a breathy moan. It was nice—not unpleasant just…nice.

His mouth is working overtime, altering between kitten licks and slow, languid licks at your entrance. Again, it’s nice but you get this feeling that he isn’t as into it as you want him to be. It takes you out of the experience entirely. You know he’s just doing it because you asked—that he’d rather be fucking with you with his cock rather than his tongue. He’s not moaning and groaning between your legs like Steve had been with that woman. The memory of your roommates’ groans was still hot in your mind and you were trying not to think about it, trying not to—

But when you look down, you find yourself imagining that James’ shaggy blonde hair was a mop of thick brown locks.

No, no, no—you shouldn’t be thinking about Steve right now. You should be focusing on your lovely, caring boyfriend who has his head between your legs. Not Steve—not Steve. 

But your mind went there anyway. Thinking of Steve’s moans, those filthy words you had heard him whisper. The way the woman he was with had reacted—

And suddenly, your hips were moving. Chasing friction, needing more. Bucking up to meet James’ mouth. Your fingers sunk into James’ hair and he groaned against you—sending a vibration through you that made you feel a spark of something. It was all the encouragement you needed, you moved his head slightly so that his nose would brush against your clit and the effect was instant.

You moaned out, unabashed and barely recognisable from your lips. Not exaggerated for once.

Again, you moved his head so his nose nuzzled your clit as his tongue continued to work in and out of you at a torturous pace. It worked—oh, god it was starting to work. Your head tilted back and moans fell from your lips without your say so. Hips following the movement of his tongue. Heat building in your gut, James’ own groans vibrating in a way that only added to the white hot pleasure that was building, building and—

James lets out a strangled moan against you that could only mean one thing. You blink as he pulls his mouth away from you. A hot look of embarrassment on his face as he glances down at his lap—a damp spot beginning to spread on his jeans.

“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly, breathless as you try to take his hand. “James, it’s—”

But he’s already pulling away from you entirely, face warm and determinedly not looking at you. 

You don’t try to stop him as he gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom.

You should go after him. Reassure him it was okay. But part of you—the part that had been so desperate to finish—was tired of pretending it was okay. 

And so, for the second time in a week, your fingers slip down between your folds—soaked from a mix of your wetness and your boyfriend’s saliva and think of Steve Harrington. You came right there on James’ sofa in less than three minutes.

Never again, you told yourself. Never again.

But it happens. More than you care to admit.

The next time it happened, it had been while James was inside you.

Your legs were thrown over his shoulders as his cock thrust in and out of you in a polite manner. He was holding back on his groans—his roommates were in the living room watching some ice hockey game. You wished that he didn’t give a fuck when his roommates were home. Wished he was proud to fuck you.

You tried not to notice how quiet it was in the room. The only sound being the squelching between your bodies—not due to your wetness but due to the lube you had needed to use. The sounds of his roommates jeering at the TV in the living room was distracting. And the fact James was making next to no noise while fucking you left you feeling a type of way. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong—the angle should be enough to make you feel good. But it was everything else.

And it was enough for your mind to wander into dangerous territory. Back to the guy you lived with who you shouldn’t be thinking about—shouldn’t be—

But of course, you do. You think of Steve as your boyfriend fucks you. It shouldn’t turn you on but it does. Shouldn’t make your walls clench around James’ cock. Shouldn’t make you moan out and claw at your boyfriend’s back.

“Oh fuck,” James groans out quietly, still mindful of his roommates as you lost your ability to keep quiet. “Sweetheart, you need to be quiet—”

But you don’t hear him over the moans you were now letting out. Too in your own head as you imagined Steve slamming his cock in and out of you—imagining him calling you pretty girl and telling you how fucking good you felt.

You should stop, you knew it was wrong. But as you felt that white hot pleasure build and build in a way it had never with James, you didn’t have it in you to stop.

And when it was over and James was looking at you in awe, you felt good. Confident. Sexy. Things you hadn’t felt before. James had even managed to fuck you a second time that night.

You’re aware you shouldn’t be thinking of someone else when you’re being intimate with your boyfriend. But it was the only way you could finish with James. It made you feel guilty after—immensely so. But it was the only thing that worked.

You were also painfully aware that you were fantasying about your roommate—of all people. But things between you and Steve remained normal. He still made you coffee every morning, still sat beside you on the couch while eating dinner and brushing his teeth by your side, completely unaware that you were fantasying about him during sex in order to get off.

You didn’t even feel awkward about it—not really. Not when your sex life was finally good. Not when you finally had your own fun sex stories to tell your friends.

And so, you didn’t stop. Weeks passed and you kept thinking about Steve as your boyfriend fucked you. Kept choosing not to put the headphones on when Steve had a girl over—your fingers pumping in and out of you as you listened to his moans and occasional whimpers. Your juices soaking your sheets and your body practically thrumming with pleasure. And then—the next morning you would accept a hot mug of coffee from your roommate.

And he had no idea what you had been doing the night before.

Steve was out—you think he was at baseball practice—and you had decided to make the most of it.

You invited James over and it didn’t take long before clothes were shed. You were on top for once, moving yourself up and down on his cock at a rhythm that had your head thrown back and listening to James’ muffled groans—his lips busy with your breasts that he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from as they bounced in his face.

Your hands were in his hair, his cock was inside you and yet—your mind was on Steve. Again. You found yourself wondering how big Steve was. You remember Nancy once being so drunk that she had told you just how big Steve was. “Monster cock,” Nancy had giggled to you as she poured herself another shot. Had told you how during her first time with him she had briefly wondered if he was going to split her in half with his cock.

The knowledge was coming back to you now—imagining Steve’s cock filling you so well that you would feel it in your stomach. Even imagined the stomach bulge it was cause—the outline of his cock nearly visible as he fucked up into you.

The mental image had your walls squeezing James’ not-so monster cock—a shameless, wanton moan falling from your lips as you grew closer and closer—

“I’m gonna come,” you gasp out, fingers gripping onto James’ shoulder as you try to keep yourself tethered to the image of Steve—of his cock splitting you open as he whispers the dirtiest words imaginable into your ear. “Steve, I’m gonna come.”

Your orgasm hits you hard. It hits you so hard in fact that you don’t feel how James’ thrusts cease entirely. How his hands fall from your hips. You don’t notice as your head falls into the crook of his neck, your body thrumming, legs shaking.

But you certainly notice how quick he was to pull out. How he didn’t finish.

You blink—heart still hammering, still a little blissed out from your orgasm—as you let him lift you off him a little more hastily than you were used to. You watch James, confused, as he hastily grabs his boxers and begins to tug them up his legs.

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” He snapped suddenly. “No, (y/n). I don’t want you to do anything.”

Bewildered, you began to grab your own items of clothing from the floor and started to dress. James had never snapped at you before and you were utterly confused at the sudden change of tone.

“What—what did I do? Is something wrong—”

“Gee, I don’t know, (y/n),” James resorts, a derisive laugh falling from his lips as he pulls up his jeans. “Does moaning out your male roommate's name while I’m inside of you count as something wrong?”

“I don’t—”

“Cut the bullshit ignorant act,” James interjects harshly as he looks at your face. “You just moaned out Steve’s name. Not my name. Steve’s.”

For a moment, there’s utter confusion. You don’t remember what you had said while you were mid orgasm. You want to deny it, laugh even but you can’t. You knew exactly what you had been thinking about, about Steve and you knew it was entirely possible you had accidentally moaned out Steve’s name in your moment of ecstasy.

“James, I’m sorry. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. It was—”

“Bullshit!” James cuts across you, his voice slightly raised. His face was flushed in anger—you could see that he was still hard through his jeans. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him and you couldn’t really blame him. You feel awful—truly awful, feeling as though you wanted to be sick. “You don’t just accidentally say someone else’s name during sex. Especially Steve’s.”

You swallow, your face hot with embarrassment, shame and a growing sense of panic that you couldn’t control. You try to conceal it by pulling on your t-shirt over your head before you look at James again.

“James, I—”

“Save it,” James mutters, pulling on his shirt and not even bothering to button it up before grabbing his jacket and shoes by the front door. “I’m not going to embarrass myself a moment longer. We’re done.”

“James—”

But your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend now, rather—was already slamming the door to your apartment behind him.

What shocked you most was that you didn’t cry. You had the overwhelming urge to but not because James had left, not because he had just dumped you but because felt so embarrassed by the situation—by the fact you had moaned out Steve’s name instead of James’. Too deep in fantasies about your roommate. And so—when you began to cry you told yourself it was because you were sad. That it was because you had just been dumped by your boyfriend of nearly two years and you were heartbroken. But you were far from it—in fact, there was a part of you that felt relieved.

The tears of embarrassment—now mixed with a sick feeling of shame—had only just started falling when the apartment door opened again. You turned around, a small part of you hoping it was James who was returning to tell you it was all some stupid joke—but of course, it wasn’t.

Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of you crying on the couch—only in a t-shirt and panties, your jeans slung over a nearby chair, your bra hanging over a lamp. But your state of undress doesn’t even seem to cross Steve’s mind as he rushes over to you—the bag he took with him to baseball practice falling to the floor beside him in his haste to reach you.

“Hey, hey—I saw James storming out—he looked—oh honey, what happened?”

The shock of Steve walking in at precisely this moment had left you lost for words. Tears flowed down your cheeks, your face still felt hot from embarrassment but you couldn’t speak. And Steve, seemingly taking your lack of being able to talk as heartbreak, gathers you into his arm and shushes you gently while you cry into his chest.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, his hand cupping the back of your head in an effort to soothe you. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

And because you felt too much shame and guilt to be honest with Steve, you simply nodded. Clinging to Steve as though your heart was shattered into a million pieces—as though James leaving have devastated you. When in actuality, you were making a silent promise to yourself. A promise to never—never ever tell a soul about what had just transpired between you and James. To never reveal the name you had subconsciously moaned out during your moment of bliss. 

Especially not Steve.

Especially not Steve.

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