sunshine girl

Indianapolis, Indiana — February, 1993

Steve’s first fight back in the tournament was local —a three hour drive from Hawkins that you spent with your feet tucked up and your new book propped on your knees. Steve was mostly silent other than the odd obscenity shouted through the windshield and the occasional “okay, angel?”

Now, in the arena, he was even quieter, opting for total silence as you stomped through the tunnel, finger looped around his. You scurried to keep up with his long strides, glancing at his stony expression warily. He had been training for weeks, since the moment they lined the fight up, but something about this fight felt different.

After the Canada fiasco, the phone was ringing off the hook. Apparently getting into a fight with a famous rockstar is actually good for a boxing career. It only brought more attention to Steve, who declined interviews and appearances out of fear the only thing they’d ask him about was Eddie Munson. Steve wanted to cap off that part of your lives —he wanted to move on.

He made a promise to call his therapist at least once a week while you were on the road, and whenever he felt his anger getting the best of him. She agreed to be on call for any of his needs. And Steve had been doing well —he hadn’t had outburst in weeks. But you have a feeling something about being back in the game would bring it out of him.

In the dressing room, Steve sat, hunched, on the padded leather bench with his hands extended over the arm rest. Big began to unravel the wraps around his hands, and you watched closely from your position against the wall. The endorsement was in the corner, conversing with Mikey. You hadn't spoken to either of them very much since resuming the tournament. They came to Hawkins to train with Steve, but you kept your distance —you were still flooded with embarrassment and guilt any time you saw the men.

A pair of large headphones were resting over Steve's ears, hair pushed away from his forehead, blasting a bass-heavy song that you could hear all the way over here. His Walkman sat beside his thick thigh on the bench. And Steve's dark eyes were small, narrowed on the cinderblock wall ahead in an unblinking stare. He was in his head, readying himself for the fight —you hadn't seen him like this since the beginning of his career. He self-isolated a lot then, wouldn't talk to anyone until after the fight. He said it "fucked with his concentration."

So, you kept your distance at times like this. When his jaw was clenched and his shoulders were tense, when he didn't make eye contact and his breathing was shallow. You could practically see the moment he slipped into that King Steve headspace; how he hardened and closed off.

"Alright," Big said, tapping Steve's taped fists, having him check the comfortability, before sliding off his headphones. "Protect that left side, you hear me? He's gonna go for the left —he's a notorious switch-hitter. You gotta keep those feet movin'. First few rounds I don't want you to worry about hitting, I want you to worry about blocking."

Steve nodded curtly at Big's firm direction, though their eyes never met. But Big knew Steve was listening, could see him soaking in the direction to ready himself. Big replaced Steve's headphones and turned to you, urging you off the wall. You adjusted the hem of your dress and stepped over, flashing the hulking coach a tight-lipped smile.

"Thanks, Big."

Big stepped away and placed a meaty hand on your shoulder. A small forgiveness.

"5 minutes."

You nodded, and settled in front of Steve's legs on the bench. Mikey and the endorsement slipped out with Big, and when the room was empty, you reached up to remove Steve's headphones. You placed them on the bench and switched off his Walkman, winding up the headphones to place in your bag later. When you were done, you grabbed his gloves and undid their laces. Before you, Steve's eyes slid away from the wall to your nimble fingers, working through the ties.

Before sliding the first glove over, you bent at the waist and pressed a kiss to the rough surface of his knuckle. You wiggled the glove over his hand and pulled the laces taut, securing them the way Big had taught you to. As you bent to kiss the other knuckle, Steve released his fist and caught you by the chin. You jerked in surprise, though he was quick to steady you, using his hold to pull your head up.

You met his eyes only briefly before his mouth was against yours. A firm, authoritative kiss that tasted like protein powder. When he pulled away, he bumped your chin with his knuckle and extended his arm once more, a silent order. You complied, pushing the glove over his fist, pulling the laces around his wrist.

When both gloves were on, you placed two fingers delicately beneath his chin and tipped his head back. When your eyes locked with Steve's, you were chilled by their vacancy. Your Steve was gone right now, devoured by the ruthless, blood-hungry King of the Ring.

You nodded encouragingly at him, eyes flickering between his, bouncing briefly down toward his nose. It was starting to slant slightly to the left, just in the center of the bridge. You just hoped he wouldn't come out of the ring with a bigger scar tonight.

"You've got this," you murmured, and in your small palm, Steve nodded once again in affirmative.

A rapid knock at the door broke you from your trance, and the door swung open a moment later.

"It's time."

**

After a kiss to his knuckles directed your way, Steve went in heavy. You couldn't recall the last time you'd seen him this bestial. You could see every cord of muscle in the expanse of his broad back, stretched to their limit as his arms came sailing down against his opponent's face, swinging in circular motions to aim toward his ribs. His opponent was frequently cornered against the ropes, despite his coach's heavy screams to "get off the ropes," and "block his head."

Big bellowed encouragements from his corner, slamming a heavy palm on the mat with vigor every time Steve had his opponent swaying. When the bell rang and the fighters stalked off to the respective corners for the fifth round, his opponent limped — beaten, blood pouring in heavy streams from his nose and mouth— while Steve came away clean.

He slumped down into his chair and opened his mouth for Big to remove the mouthguard, holding his jaw apart for a stream of water that he bent to spit out. You craned to inspect his face, though there seemed to only be the smallest mark against his left cheek. A haloed, violet bruise was already beginning to form against his right rib, but Steve was otherwise blank. He flipped his hair back, damp with sweat, and turned briefly to glance your way. Your presence held him at bay, kept him grounded. The sight of your figure in the front row, your cute little coat, your pom-pom boots, the swell of heat on the apples of your cheeks —his guardian angel, keeping him safe, keeping him sane.

He tore his gaze away when he felt his heart rate slow. His body's natural reaction to the sight of you was to ease, calm into a state of relaxation. But right now, he had to be pumped up. He had to be that version of himself that you were wary of.

When the bell rang, Steve pounded his chest with his gloves, effectively kickstarting his heart and increasing his adrenaline, and bounced to the balls of his feet. You watched from your position in the front as he danced around his opponent in the center of the ring, head bobbing, fists at the ready to block, an emphasis you were certain only you could notice on his left side.

His opponent's fist darted out for a punch to the jaw, but Steve swerved, arm quickly coming down to block the second shot aimed at his side. When his opponent's arms came down from his head, Steve took the opportunity to breach the pocket created and knocked is head back with a shot to the jaw. The arena collectively groaned at the obscenity of it —blood spraying, sweat flying, his body slowly sailing toward the mat. He fell with a heavy thud that made you wince.

Steve waited, heaving, over his limp body as they counted down. You clasped your hands nervously beneath your chin and bounced your legs, thrumming with every number chanted by the arena.

"6....7....8—"

The bell dinged, signaling Steve's victory, and you leapt to your feet with a squeal. Your hands immediately came to clap together, bouncing on the tops of your toes with delight. When they held his arm up and waved his gloved fist, Steve immediately searched for you in the crowd. When he found you he waved you over, and you took off in a sprint.

You scaled the ropes and shoved yourself against his corner, clinging to the side of the ring as Steve tucked his glove under your chin. The metallic scent of blood and the musky scent of sweat washed over you immediately, sprinkled with wet dollops when Steve flicked his chin to move his hair out of his eyes. He dipped down and slotted his mouth over yours, devouring you with warm, chapped lips. When your hands slid against his cheeks, you could feel his skin buzzing with adrenaline. The energy he worked up during a fight came alive in his bones, making them vibrate, making them hum —he was scorching hot to the touch and couldn't keep still.

The moment he pulled away, the roar of the crowd came rushing back to you and left your ears ringing. Steve's lips slid into a sideways smile, his silent thank you, still floating in that King Steve headspace, only half lucid and aware. But you were patient, smiling sweetly in return.

Steve snatched your arm by the wrist and lifted it into the air, turning to face the crowd behind you. Their volume only increased at the affection, whistles and screams now at a deafening pitch. You giggled, cheeks swelling with heat, and Steve waved his free hand, encouraging their celebratory chanting.

Crowding in close, Steve wedged himself between your palms and pressed the warmth of his forehead to yours, coating it in slick sweat.

"They love you, baby!" he shouted over their screams.

You smiled.

"It's you they love!"

And they did. The writhing and chanting masses adored Steve Harrington, The King of the Ring. But standing here, between your hands, slumped against the ropes, Steve still didn't believe it.

**

Steve rushed everyone out of the dressing room after the fight, and it only took a few moments for you to figure out why. The second the door was shut, Steve was on you, plowing you into the leather bench with an eager kiss. You giggled against his mouth, hands flying to his slick shoulders. They were still hot, still pulsing under your hand.

"St-Stevie," you mumbled, pushing at his arms.

You gasped when his teeth sank into your bottom lip, tugging, releasing only when a metallic taste filled his mouth again. Your head went flying back when he pulled at your hair, baring your throat, latching onto your favorite spot. You groaned at the tingling sparks of pleasure that erupted through your body, the pressure of his mouth and his teeth; his wet, hot tongue on your skin making your thighs close around his hips. Your fingers feathered their way through the damp mop of his hair as he moved his open mouth along your throat, blowing hot air and eliciting goosebumps along the way.

You shivered when he kissed the juncture between your ear and jaw and heard him chuckle.

"So sensitive tonight, hmm?" he grumbled against your neck, evoking another shudder at the low rumble of his voice.

Your head bobbed mutely, conditioned to respond. Steve's taped hands were rough against your waist, rubbing through the fabric of your dress. Your head tipped involuntarily toward his mouth when he latched on again, fingers curling around the damp strands of hair in reach as your eyes pinched closed. Your cunt throbbed with need where it was pressed against his clothed cock, and your heels dug into the bottom of his spine where your legs were wrapped tightly around his hips.

"Gonna have to be fast," Steve muttered gruffly, and then his hand was descending beneath your dress to push your panties aside.

When you slid your thighs apart, hips tilting, the fabric of your dress gathered at the tops of your thighs and around your hips; bearing yourself to him. He pulled away from your neck to get a look, groaning at the sight of your slick, puffy lips waiting for him. His hair dangled in his eyes when he tipped his head down, and you marveled at the sight of him looming over you —his splotchy pink cheeks, his glistening skin, his rosy, swollen lips, the curve in his nose.

Steve lifted his eyes back to yours again, inching forward until your lips melded together once more. His gauzed fingers scraped your thighs as he slid your panties from your hips and down your legs, letting them dangle like a lacey anklet around your foot. He swiped the callused pads of his fingertips through your wet heat, pulling a hiss from your mouth, smushed against his. Steve’s breathing was shallow, hot and heavy on your tongue.

“Think you can be quiet f’ me?” he mumbled into your mouth.

You nodded, and though he was doubtful, Steve removed his fingers from your slick and reached for the waistband of his shorts. But, impatient and needy, you batted his hands away, pulling blindly at the familiar ties, tugging at the silky red material. Steve chuckled, lips sliding against your cheek, hands coming to brace your waist.

"Someone's eager, hmm? You need me that bad, angel?"

Your nod was accompanied by a breathy whimper, and Steve cooed at the sweet sound. He pulled back, an inch of space between your bodies. His lips were swollen where they brushed against yours, and you could feel him pulsing against your hand as you slid your palm down the trail of dark hair from his navel to his crotch. He seemed unaffected by your touch, transfixed on your eyes, tunnel-visioned by your gaze. And you were peering back, hypnotized by his godly glory, looming over you.

The room seemed to fall to silence, the fluorescents darkening like a halo around Steve. Nothing mattered but him.

When he spoke, his voice was a warm whisper. "Ask me for it."

The soft demand was like a punch to your heart; a jolt of excitement sparked through your chest. You swallowed, and Steve watched your eyes round wantingly, your lips part into the softest circle.

"Please, Steve," you whispered in return.

Steve's eyes flickered between yours, wonderment touching his features beautifully.

"Please what?" That same hushed voice seemed to crawl from his mouth and trickle down your spine like a shiver.

You inhaled sharply through your open mouth, running a finger through the patch of hair beneath your hand. Steve's jaw clenched, muscle bouncing with the tightness of his teeth. A bead of sweat rolled down a blue vein in his forehead. You slid your free hand away from his bicep to wipe it away, thumb brushing his hot skin tenderly.

"Please fuck me."

And though it wasn't a question like he had asked for, Steve was more than willing to oblige.

He tore his hands away from your waist and shoved at his shorts, tugging you by the backs of your thighs to sit flush against him. You flattened against the leather bench, smooth and plush against your spine, and tipped your head down to watch him approach you. His cock, hard and fisted in his veined hand, tickled your slick folds for a moment before he was plunging in.

Your head fell back like a heavy weight, smacking the bench noisily. Steve's fingers found purchase on the fat of your hips, using his grip to finish pulling you down to impale you completely. When he was nestled deep in your cunt, a throaty groan left him. This was relief —this was victory. Stretching your sweet cunt, feeling your walls conform to the shape of him, your warm slick drenching him. He was content just standing here, being squeezed by you, feeling your soft skin, watching you writhe and sweat just from him.

But he began to rock, shaking the bench on its metal legs, pulling squeaks from your throat. Steve tipped his chin down to watch your face twist with agonizing pleasure, your jaw hang open with heavy breaths echoed through swollen lips. Your eyes pinched closed and Steve's hand shot out to wrap around your jaw, pulling your head down, centering it again. The pads of his fingers bit into the bone and caused your eyes to pop open.

"Eyes on me, baby —yeah, there you go," he cooed, lip quirking at your eager submission.

You were practically going crosseyed beneath him as he fucked into you steadily, slowly, rhythmically. Each push and pull into your cunt made a wet, slick squelch. The dressing room took on your scent —your sweet, syrupy, salty scent. He felt his chest constrict when it washed over him, felt his heart stutter when you cried out and tightened your legs around his hips. The bluntness of his nails dug into your hip, pulling another cry that Steve silenced by slotting his mouth over yours.

"Shh, shh," he admonished softly, lips smushed against yours.

And his hips never stopped moving, the bulbous tip of his cock brushing your gummy walls in smooth glides each time he retreated, only to be sucked back in by your tightness. His fingers tightened around your jaw again, squishing your cheeks together, puckering your lips. Using his grip on your face, Steve shoved your head aside, baring your throat to him once more. He dipped to your warm, inviting skin, and latched on. You squealed, toes curling in your heels around Steve's back.

His teeth sank into the crook of your shoulder and you pinched your eyes closed, letting your hands sink into his damp hair. You fisted the strands desperately, evoking a sting in his scalp that made him grunt against your neck. The sound rumbled through you and caused you to pulse around him. Only the loud grunt roared from his throat warned you before he was slamming into you hard, bumping you up the leather bench, knocking it off balance momentarily. His cock lodged itself as far as it could go, bulging the pouch beneath your navel, brushing your furthest pleasure point.

Your mouth hung open in a silent cry at the pressure gathering in your belly, the sting in your walls, being stretched to their limit. Steve released the skin of your throat with a wet pop, the patch where his teeth left their mark now slick and cool. He crowded you, loosening his grip around your jaw, and pulled your chin down to lock eyes.

"Breathe, baby, breathe," he murmured softly, and he waited until you sucked in a sharp breath to shift his hips.

You whined, hand flying to his bicep to grip it tight. Your nails bit into the firm muscle and he nodded, hand sliding from your jaw to your forehead, where he smoothed away your hair. He cradled it, arm crowding your head, hot breath fanned across your face as he gently fucked into you, never straying far from that deep pit he had discovered. He wished he could pull back and admire the bulge of your belly, the outline of his cock against your muscles, but then he'd break this trance that the two of you seemed to be put into.

You blinked up dazedly at him, entirely gone, completely fucked out. And Steve admired that drunk haze that glossed over your eyes, flushed your cheeks, rendered you stupid and useless. He smiled at it, a soft and sideways quirk of his lip.

"Yeah, feel me in there, angel?"

You blinked in acknowledgement —it was all you could manage. Steve inspected your gaze and nodded again. He nipped absently at your lip, ran his wet mouth over your jawbone. He smeared your lipstick and smudged your concealer, made your mascara flake and all the product in your hair tangle into a matted mess. But you didn't care.

He was claiming you, and that was all that mattered.

A few more humps and your legs were shaking, but Steve wasn't satisfied enough. He slid his hand from your hip to the apex of your thighs, locating your soft nub immediately. A hiccuped cry ripped from your throat when his thumb began working over your clit, rubbing around slick, stinging sensitive nerves.

"Shh, shh," Steve admonished again, pressing a chaste kiss to your mouth, sticky and hot. "Y' wanna cum? Hmm? Y' gonna cum, angel?"

Your heavy panting was enough of an answer, and Steve nosed your head aside again.

"Go on," he mumbled into your jaw, lips pressing firmly after. "Gimme it, angel, wanna feel it."

Like your body had been trained to follow his command, you spasmed around him. His thumb continued its ministrations, forming circles on your puffy clit, pulling convulsions from your tired limbs. Steve steadied you with his hand against the crown of your head, soft shushes whispered from his mouth, gentle guidances through your orgasm. He stopped only when you pushed at his arm, eyes squeezed shut, face twisted with misery.

He escaped your cunt with a noisy squelch, dripping cum against the leather, coating his palm when he fisted his cock and tugged.

In another conditioned response, you slithered from the bench and sank to your knees, mouth finding home over his slick cock. It tasted entirely of yourself, and if only in search of his familiar musky, salty taste, you began to suck the creamy spend from his length with vigor. His hands flew to your hair, fingers burrowing in its heap, tightening when your cheeks hollowed and your suction intensified.

"Fuck, angel. Such a good girl, look a' you."

Steve watched your lashes flutter, your thighs clench and shake, still entirely unsteady from having been fucked. Your swollen lips were wrapped beautifully around him, his cock lodged in the tight channel of your throat like it belonged there. You looked as pleased to have him in your mouth as he was to be there. He fisted your hair and watched your brows furrow at the sting. But his hips were moving on their own, fucking up into your mouth, searching for his release.

"Fuck, fuck, so good —gonna-gonna c-cum —shit!"

His milky spend coated your throat like cough medicine, thick and tangy. You suckled absently until he softened against your tongue, and when he slipped from your lips, your head followed. Steve chuckled, loosening his hand to smooth it over your hair. He nudged your head back with his knuckles beneath your chin, and your lips parted without instruction.

Steve hummed at the sight of his cum on your tongue, pooling in the back of your throat. Your tongue trembled with eagerness, and he slid his forefinger along the wet muscle just to feel its warmth.

"Swallow for me, angel."

Your lips closed and your throat bobbed as you gulped it down nosily, and when you were done, you held your tongue out for inspection. Steve's thumb pressed into your chin, giving it a little shake. His eyes were hooded, narrowed with exhaustion, though smug satisfaction lied clear on his face.

It was at times like these that he really felt like King Steve.

Steve helped you to your feet, bringing your limp arms to loop around his neck. You leaned into him and sighed dreamily, a heavy breath echoed against his neck that made Steve rumble with laughter. You were too fucked out to even hold on, so loose and limp that he had to carry you to the shower.

"Did s' good, Stevie," you mumbled against his chest as he turned the knob for the shower.

Steve chuckled again, shifting you to one side so he could pull at your zipper.

"Yeah? At which part —fighting, or fucking you?"

Your eyes were firmly closed, but a dopey smile spread across your lips.

"Both."

**

"Steve! Steve, put me down!"

Your voice shook with laughter as Steve sprinted through the parking lot, escaping Big and Mikey and the gaggle of security that had been hired for the event. You were slung over his shoulder, muscular arm wrapped around the back of your thighs to keep you latched on. Your forehead bumped his butt with every leap toward the Cadillac, and you were a fit of limbs and giggles as he continued on.

"See you tomorrow, Harrington! Bright and early!" Big bellowed from across the lot.

"Yeah!" Steve called back in affirmative.

He shuffled to a stop, sneakers crunching against the asphalt as he came to the car. You heard his keys jingling and then the click of the door unlocking. You squeaked at the sting that suddenly gathered in your asscheek, lifting your head.

"Hey!" you protested playfully.

Steve grunted as he hoisted you off and set you down, hands grasping your hips to slam you into the door. You giggled at the keys dangling between his teeth, held by the tiger keychain. He waggled his brows, hands gliding up and down your sides. You reached up and snatched the keys from his mouth, holding them in a closed fist. With his mouth freed, Steve grinned and dipped down, closing the distance between you with a gentle kiss to your mouth. You let your head fall back against the roof of the car when he pulled away, blinking dazedly at him.

"What d'ya say we take this party somewhere quieter, champ?"

Steve's eyes bulged with delight at your seductive inquiry, bending again to snap at your lips. He pulled away with a sharp smack, rolling his lip between his teeth. When he spoke, his voice had a gravely rasp to it that made you shiver. It usually came when he was issuing a warning.

"I'd say you're crazy, baby. You know I've still got six rounds left in me."

**

Ah, simple Steve fic. I missed the times of fight, fuck, repeat. A little palate cleanser that no one is going to read because no one reads my stuff anymore 💗