#kristenwrites

And god, you can hear it. How absolutely-disgustingly, filthy he’s working you over. You’ve already given him every accolade, ones he doesn’t need to know that he gives good head. Hawkins grand champion, gold medal world Olympian in the sport of pussy eating. Sometimes, you wonder if he even thinks about himself or you (or just your pussy. Like maybe it floats around without your torso, just in his dreams).

You will never complain, even with his reminders that it’s you. It is always just you. But holy hell, when he gets like this. That heady look etched into his face, moles and freckles dancing through his skin. The moss within his eyes becomes tangled into an inky black, until he’s got you where he wants you and it dissipates entirely.

If you didn’t hear Steve’s tongue working relentlessly with his fingers, you’d have assumed he died down below deck. Still… you lift the blanket to find him unresponsive, completely outer limits, gorging himself on the cum that has embarrassingly leaked into your crack. His sweats are still on, but he’s driving his cock into the bed in slow dips to match his rhythm with you. He doesn’t stop you as you reach for an arm, lifting until you see the time on his watch.

7:11 PM. Two hours?! Two fucking hours he’s had you spread out like this, not asking for anything, and not letting up. And unless you’ve just not taken the time to tally hours put in before, this is the longest he’s eaten you out. He has a strong, chiseled jaw, pearly whites, but he must be hurting in some way. His spare hand falls back and it pins your thigh open, his tongue giving a particularly hefty flick across your hood, causing your speech to stutter and become lost.

It happens before you can stop it, your thighs accidentally pressing around his ears in a clamp, hips rolling into it, muscles trembling, giving into a slack fall aside. He doesn’t stop, his pace relentless, yet gentle into taking time with you. Exploring like you’re some fucking forbidden map. It’s when he hums, blowing hot air, that you try to get out what you need to say beforehand. For his benefit.

“Steve?”

Nothing.

“Baby?”

Nadda.

“Steve Harrington?!”

That catches him, as if he cares. His head rises and you’re sure you’ll be levitating in ten seconds. Those beautiful caramel tresses are in disarray, cheeks and ears covered in flush, face soaked fo the defined bridge of his nose, his tongue coaxing out on its own accord to lick at your taste as if he cannot stand to be away from it. He’s glazed over, intoxicated from your cunt, his pupils blown so wide it looks like color will never return to them. Your fingers wiggle into sweaty strands of his hair.

“Hmm?” His voice is gravelly, hoarse, so far gone.

It breaks your heart to offer, but you wanna consider him too. “We can… Steve, your entire jaw probably hurts. You don’t have to —“

He whines. A guttural sound from his throat, his fingers pausing over your spot, pulling out seconds later. He slicks them, all big and firm across the seam of you, smacking, stretching your arousal. When his eyes meet yours, there’s literal tears. Steve finds his speaking capabilities once more to let you know, pitiful, begging, a crack in his rasp. “Jus’ a little more, baby. Please? For me?”

Your belly hatches itself onto the wings of some dramatic butterflies, clawing, tearing into your diaphragm. His pleading, his wet eyes just to have you, how giving you pleasure gets him off. You nod, reaching for another pillow behind you to prop up and see the show. This time, his eyes stay on you as he lowers his head, that sinful tongue licking its way inside of you. Your eyes roll back, a cry perching itself on your lips. Steve raises his head again, his mouth dropping open, and he spits crudely onto your pussy, lowering back between your legs as he says. “Hush, honey.”

- Reblogs are much appreciated, as is feedback! Ty! ❤️ -

Jane’s death weighs heavy in your chests, the past four years of loss, monsters, blood, tears, destruction, fear, relationships, and danger - buried so deep you know it’s always going to be hardwired into your humanity. Neither of you need to speak to communicate. It’s here. Steve’s breath is warm on your cheek, his palms trembling against your waist. You’re not sure what he’s whispering, but there’s something he’s mantraing beneath pants.

This is when your legs give way to four-hundred total feet of climbing, running - hell, standing. It’s as if that tower, rusted ash, world draped in red, like it’s crumbling beneath your combats a second time.

“No,” you whisper.

“What?” Steve’s voice is slick with emotion.

You see no need to hide words anymore, especially after tonight. There’s strength in what you muster, however, you shake over a stiff tongue, words halfway filtering in. “You almost… Steve, if Jonathan hadn’t. You…” And fuck it you must be crying, because your jaw is tickled by the roughness of his fingertips, until it’s bounced into his palm with one smooth slide.

In that instance, it all collapses. Every year, the almosts, what-ifs, to what now is. Only when Steve’s pointer brushes across your eyelashes, do you risk a glance. There’s such an ambient glow in his tears. It’s as if something else has dawned on him. Your eyes find his lips when he wets them to speak.

“I wasted so much time thinking I loved Nancy longer than I did, and not doing what I should have done.” His shoulders are sharp, posture looking at ease.

You stare, blinking slowly, your stomach knotting, as if it’s beginning to twist into perches for rapidly growing butterflies. Inhaling so deeply that you have to gulp several more times, it takes a second, but you manage to respond. “Doing what, exactly?”

It’s automatic. “Loving you.”

He raises one bushy brow and you nod in confirmation, his mouth descending upon yours. You didn’t think you could grasp his jacket any harder, not until there’s a recoiling crack from the pressure inside your knuckle bones. It’s copper, messy, saliva stringing, and the god awful smells that the abyss bestowed (especially on poor Steve). Steve’s hips are bumping your own, everything becomes so fast. Until… it stops. You’re left chasing his mouth, confused as you tilt your head, sclera already glazed over in want.

He’s staring, a look of one thousand gazes, features dancing along his mouth in ways you’ve never seen before. His lashes are drenched, thumb wobbling as it swipes across the corner of your mouth. And it’s like he casts one giant bubbling montage of a memory array that you two have shared, maybe even before 1983. His voice is chalked full of rasp. “We don’t have to hurry or be afraid anymore. We can just take our time.”

“I wanna be close to you, Steve.” It’s an un-ashamed, raw need.

His lips find your forehead as you’re reaching to push his nearly mucus-liquified cap - off. You automatically rub your hands through the soft strands, before they station at your sides. Steve’s hands tuck in beneath your own coat, squeezing at your shoulders as he nudges it off, your bruises flooded in relief. “How about we take the world’s longest shower. And you can have me for the rest of the night. What do you think about that?”

Steve reaches for his brown suede jacket, tightening it around his slightly bulked physique, his spare hand jiggling with the walkie that went silent over thirty minutes ago.

Noticed.

You always notice.

How can you not when it comes to him?

“This is just bullshit. Total and utter fucking crap.”

Resisting the urge to snort at his ‘utter’ usage, you focus on the snow dusted cornfield you happen to be broken down by, drawing a finger through condensation. Steve reclines in his seat, one arm slinging back over the passenger side, left arm elongating to prop onto his cheek, his pointer finger poking to stroke along his beauty marks, down to the corner of his mouth. Your thoughts are automatically transported, to the point that leather is heard creaking with your legs shifting. You’re so close to the chill frosting the glass that it’s scattering across your face, sending bumps along the back of your neck.

Stop being so noticeable. Doesn’t matter how close he is to you. With no one around. You said you’d stop, avoid shit creek any further than what’s been explored.

A self-guided pep talk that’s never worked. Not when it comes to Steve Harrington, anyways. So what do you attempt? Drawing more attention to yourself by starting a conversation you didn’t intend on. Because it riles Steve up, especially with these crawls.

And you know what happens when he’s riled up.

“Get a taste of frosty’s balls over there, honey?” The smirk is practically heard dripping off his lips.

Feeding right into the energy, it’s spoken into the biting chill of the van. Steve’s fingers easily find your neck’s nape from their settled position. He steers you into looking his direction, with that bratty attitude molding into a purpose. All spice and courage, Steve closes a massive palm completely over your skin, his voice diabolically low and slick with sinful salvation.

“C’mhere.”

A click is heard as you swallow. There’s not a point in trying to resist. You’re too far gone into needing him just as much, if not more. A control you both have, yet one to lose within this town of chaos. He matches paces, seemingly connecting with your thoughts, wavelengths molding together.

You taste the cinnamon gum on his breath before the bridge of his nose even smudges yours, before his lips press an ever-so-light kiss to the side of your mouth. He’s got putty, begging in translation. With the other remaining arm, he lets it toss out, wrapping around your waist, squeezing the flesh of your ass. Your lashes flutter, eyes already glazed over with tears that decipher a yearning so strong your legs sway open upon impact. Steve’s breath fans your cheekbones, hot and welcomed.

“Figure we’ve got about ten to fifteen more minutes before someone’s here to jump this hunk of junk.” He pecks your upper lip. “Gives me time to get us both warm.” Your head lolls into his grip as he cups, massaging the back of your scalp. “One out of two for the night. Not bad, right?”

You can do nothing but nod. A consent. Still, Steve is the gentleman. He’s never not needed a verbal.

“Yeah?” It’s said with such a pronounced creation that it cannot be ignored.

With your voice winded and hoarse, breath fogged, you let him know. “Whatever you need to do to shut yourself up and make it warm in here, Harrington.”

A bite back. Helps him swell into his already tight jeans. He finds you, a caramel tress caressing your browbone. His mouth nips you for a kiss, covers yours to share in some knowledge that only he is privy to. “I hear the forecast is calling for a one-hundred percent chance of wetness. We’re talking slick conditions here, baby.”

“Steve…” A warning, a command. Just… something to get him to satiate the accumulating burn.

His teeth scrape your earlobe, blowing enough air to make you whine, arching into him. His hand slides slowly down its former place on your waist, tucking cool fingers beneath, idling along your jean waistband. Every touch feels like a connective sparking, burning Steve-etched scars into your skin. He doesn’t tease any longer, five minutes having been taken off the fifteen guess. You’re shaking your head in automatic agreement.

Pushing your coat aside, you lift your shirt as his fingers pop your button and undo your zipper with familiar ease. The temperature in the van isn’t the only thing making you shiver in anticipation. Steve’s knuckles drag along your jawline first. “Shh, just relax, okay? All you gotta do is come for me, honey. And I know you’ll do that.”

“Steve, hurry up, before anyone —“

Oh. Yeah. There’s that. How does he do it?

Steve’s fingers glide seamlessly through your soaked cunt, using the lubrication to push inside, crooking with ease, barely letting you feel a thumb-pad graze your spot. And then he’s reversing, all the way to your clit, pressing in hard. You dive into his mouth without care, sounding like some wanton animal. Anything to lick inside, taste your shared airspace. It’s like coming home.

Comfort and vulnerability, risking it all the more that you both let this happen.

There’s a thumping in your ear, a static, rhythmic beat. It tangles in tune to the second finger Steve adds. His thumb settles in on your clit, giving a steady and directive set of circles. His fingers moving gently enough to keep you mewling, as if your insides are being tickled to the nerve endings. Right there. More. It’s like you wanna cry, letting him coach you into rocking over his mashed hand, those knuckles sticky with the slick crotch of your panties, trapped inside your warmth.

Steve is panting rapidly when that ringing briefly pauses, as you become aware. He’s watching you, your eyes locking. Those mossy shards scattered around a black abyss. His mouth soaked from where’s he licking his lips, turned on by how wet you are for him, from your pleasure. That band is tugged to its fullest, brought back hard by the universe, some force stronger than Vecna.

Steve increases his pace, not letting you dare to look away. The way you want to as heat floods your features, your soaked pussy a backing track. How you can smell your arousal. His lips find yours, wrist snapping to meet your greedy chase. Time running out, not enough, reality too much. You reach to fist his perfect hair into your grip, whimpering, fading.

You start to tighten around Steve, and he knows it’s over. There’s thoughts not about to be spoken, happening in rapid flash flips throughout one another’s heads.

Don’t stop, Steve. Don’t ever.

Warm my hand, honey. Just wanna taste you.

So good.

Fuck.

I wanna —

I need to —

That tickle settles in between your legs, led by Steve’s fingers, all in his powers. Like a puppet to his strings, he brings you there. Toes first, your whole body warms with a coolness that quickly blazes to an inferno - exploding inside of you. Steve licks his way into your mouth as if he’s tasting the mess he’s made. Keeping himself at bay, he rears to watch you fall apart.

Shaking maddeningly, you let his name spill off your lips without regret. It damn near gets him close to tears. And they’re already matting his lash line. It’s always intense with you. Steve gives a nuzzle, working his hand out of your underwear, and as he suspects, upon observing, it’s stringing with fresh shine, damp with you to his wrist.

Steve doesn’t give a millisecond before he’s cleaning himself, weaving his tongue in between his fingers to get it all. And it’s still, taking it in after. He helps you by holding your shirt up as you adjust your pants. You know you’ll definitely need to clean yourself later, because damn. When the heat clears in the clutter of the van, you both do sample a look at one another, leaning, close enough to kiss one more time. Your lips smack, divulging, just holding one another now - your hands having moved to his jaw, finger tips tapping a stroking beat, his on your cheeks, tracing, trailing.

Headlights reflect off the windshield, a moment broken. And the globe you’ve perfected is back to loss of control and this current reality. You look away as Steve hops out, adjusting himself. He meets Jonathan and Lucas, looking back at you as they grab a set of cables, a soft, reserved half-smirk.

Yep. One step closer to shit creek.

“Look, honey —“ a rather poisonous curl of his tongue around what’s usually meant to be sweet. He’s attempting (and failing at patience) — “you’re not the only one who hasn’t gotten any in a while.”

You have a zero enthusiastic comeback, just a ‘shut up’. And the bastard does his trademark smirk, hauling in his last roll of wires into the radio van. It’s quiet, except for the crickets and the scents of burning fires wafting off the breeze. Your hand raises to trace absent minded circles across the license plate on your side of the open door. Steve is staring, you know he is.

It’s like he’s waiting, well aware you have a sentence to form, be observant until its arrival. It doesn’t take long. You’re a little toned down now, however, you still don’t look at him.

“I know it’s stupid, especially with the whole world ending. But I just… I feel crazy sometimes. Deprived. Alone. Like I could claw through my drywall if someone doesn’t put their hands on me. And not in a long-nailed-spider-monster, or a slimy thing that’s face likes to open into the world’s most fucked up flower shape-kinda looking thing…”

Your chest is heaving as you finish your statement. Guilt immediately settles in. And this time, when you do meet Steve’s gaze, there’s that need again. He’s all long legs in Levi jeans, newest Nike shoes on his big feet. His red jacket has been left in the station, and he wears a simple crisp white undershirt beneath his plain and navy long sleeved. You can see beneath the cover of starlight that isn’t clouded amongst a neon red smoke, the glittering silver of Steve’s chain.

You’ve seen how it lays, you know it settles against his chest hair. Hell, you’ve dressed his wounds more times than you can count since he’s had it, changed in front of one another since everything happened nearly two Springs prior. Every freckle, every mole, it’s prominent to you… even in the darkness. His hair is a mess tonight, having run his fingers until it’s tousled. And you, it causes you to shiver a little into night time’s coolness.

Steve notices, and his stubble works into a harsh swallow. “You alright?”

There’s a crackling that has zilch to do with the underworld, an electricity so woven deep into the air, that it’s hanging off your mutual confession. Logic leaps, slamming into the wavering of your voice. “Steve… I — “

At this point in time, you're sure that not even Vecna could keep you two apart if he appeared. It's as if some musical ensemble has dropped off a thumping vibration, that engulfs you and your best-friend towards a point that you know you will not return from. His side of the van door slams closed, one arm elongates, toned forearm stretching beneath bunched fabric. And then he's grabbing you, one massive palm gripping your waist and digging in, jerking you up until sneaker clad toes tip into the dirt and settle again. His mossy eyes have given way to a black abyss, blown into shards.

Your body runs hot, pulse thrumming wherever it can be taken, felt. And God, does Steve take advantage of that. He waits with a heaving chest, tongue pressing into the corner of his mouth. But you don't stop him, and he goes ahead. That defined nose bridge pathing down your jawline, inhaling you like some wild animal.

His lips that find the ridge of your pulse point, securing. Steve's tongue follows suit, licking the remains of your perfume, the salty sweat of you, twisting his maneuver until his tongue is flicking your earlobe. Your fingers ball into his shirt and twist, wrinkling his collar, nipples hardening beneath your bra. Just this... after so long, you're too far gone to say anything but 'harder'. He tries to, though, still remaining that Harrington chivalry.

"Maybe we shouldn't. Maybe it's selfish, right?"

The pain between your legs has you a lot uncaring about anything other than being with him. Years of built-up need, love, trust. And the opportunity to have this peace of paradise with Steve. You reach out and cup him by his neck's nape, fingertips tapping, both of you already moving towards the van's bumper, the backs of your thighs hitting. "Do I feel selfish to you, Steve?"

He's shaking his head like some dog that's done with its bath, his next words let off so slow that you don't have to identify the swell at his crotch. "No, but letting me inside of your pussy might be."

That one filthy reference. Yeah, it's over.

"Steve?"

He's panting by now, waiting for instruction. "Honey?"

"Better make it count then."

He's on your mouth in an instant, the spark that neither one of you expected - exploding. He is grabbing at you, both of you uncoordinated, acting as if you're unexperienced in movement. An urgency like never before breaks through the surface and Steve's hand is across your spine, encouraging, sliding to your ass and smacking hard across your deep wash denim, as you clamber into the van, falling onto your back. He easily raises into the van and the doors slam behind him, his hands pushing equipment askew, bumping his head on the roof. You're struggling to get your shoes off, jeans a damn task that tickles your stomach with a frustrated pattering ache.

Shirts are forgone, Steve's belt clanking as it comes open, giving you a fresh, onset fury to finally get your jeans to your ankles, ass lifting to take down your panties. Modesty is gone, caring about sexy underclothing doesn't exist. Steve briefly pauses on himself, bending to wrap his fingers around your ankles, and he yanks the fabric so hard that it causes him to growl. Your legs spread automatically, elbows planted in the carpet, and you do not take your glassy vision off this man. He gives a knuckle-deep tuck into the tiny waist of his jeans, and they lower.

More freckles. More moles. Hidden secrets you're privy to now. His hipbones dip into that happy trail, which you aren't surprised connects to his cock. A dark, thick, full bush of hair at the base.

You whine when your eyes find the prize (an honest to fuck whimper that crooks Steve's mouth into a smirk). Red, swollen, leaking rapidly at the tip, vein protruding underneath, thicker than anyone or anything you've had inside, long, completed by full balls on either side. Fuck, he is gonna have a lot to give. Your legs sway, cunt sticking together from how ridiculously you're leaking. Steve licks a stripe down his hand and grips his sack, rolling it up with his cock.

"Turn over," he commands, that slick sound of him pleasuring himself echoing all over these walls.

You comply, arching without being told - all spread wide open for your best-friend. And you feel too fucked out for shame to appear, not even as you look beneath and between your thighs to see your arousal string from your pussy to the floorboard.

"Because I can promise you, that if I look at you while we're doing this, we'll be out here all night - FUCK! Baby," he rasps, "you have the prettiest pussy I've ever seen."

"And you have the biggest damn dick. It's gonna be hard to walk after this."

He knees closer, draping himself across your sweat slick back. "Yeah? Well, you don't have to walk, can jus' have you sit on my cock."

You push back into him, edging across his hips. "Steve, goddammit, do it!"

"Mind if I borrow some of this?" He's ignoring you as he asks, fingers dipping into your cunt to gather a little wetness (not that he needs it with how hard he's leaking), jerking himself into his own arching stance.

Your jaw becomes unhinged to the point you're sure it might dislocate. Steve buries his face in your ass, licking, sucking, tongue immediately dipping inside of you, dragging your cum to circle your clit. You reach to meet the hand that finds your covered breast, digging into his wrist and shoving it beneath your shirt and bra. He pinches and twists your nipple like he's trained too, circling your areola with tickling tips. By the time he's starting to hump the air and you're riding his face, calling out his name twenty different ways - he can't keep teasing.

He resurfaces, gripping your neck with his free hand, bringing you up and against him, your scent all over his sinful mouth. He's vulgar in it forcing your lips open, licking into your mouth, whispering. "Yeah, honey. Fucking taste it." You barely have time to try to respond, then Steve is dropping you back into position, heavy head nudging you open, pressing. He keeps one hand at your tailbone, the other wrapped around your thigh as leverage.

The finale, the complete line crossing. Sporadic breathing is heard, everything for years is experienced, suspended, painstakingly waiting.

"S’ this okay?" He is soft, quiet, hips shaking into yours as he struggles not to take, pause right at your opening, which he can feel trying to take him inside on its own accord.

You don't talk; you surprise the both of you by slamming yourself back on him, taking his entire length with a huge stinging fullness. You yell his name into the van's expanse, hoping the radios are off. Your head falls forward, nails digging into the carpet, wetness spilling out from where you're joined. Steve's teeth grit and he momentarily drifts atop your back. That doesn't last long, however, not when he raises. Your thighs widen, back points, and you're fucking yourself back onto his cock with everything you have in you.

There's nothing you can see through the haze of your vision, just taste, smell. Yourself, Steve's cologne, sweat of two bodies, and your arousal getting strong as you near your orgasm. His hands find your hips, lips parting to manage to let him speak, though it's strangled within the depth of his tone. "So, it's like this, baby? Good girl, use your best-friend's dick."

Skin slapping skin, his balls bouncing off your cheeks as they ripple off his thighs. Steve shifts a little, one hand running back through his hair, one leg propping, and the direction you hit next causes you to see stars.

"Oh. MY - Steve?"

"Yeah, honey. I'm right here."

No warning, stability snaps, and you hold, being captured by the band as it comes from your toes to the top of your head. Blood rushing, sounds drown out, and you're cumming around Steve. Hard. A torrential flow of flood squirting out with every thrust. In awe and confessed shame.

"Steve. Steve, I'm pissing. Wait -" You stop yourself, moans louder when you hear his followed reaction.

He falls over you, face buries itself into your neck, gives one final thrust, and you're stimulated by that pulse as he fills you full. Neither one of you moves after this, panting to catch yourselves. Steve is the first to speak, cheshire grinning when he helps you turn around. There's a soaked puddle beneath where you were. It's different, fresh, odd, yet everything that's been missing as you two observe one another.

Pent up feelings far from over. But doing what you just did.

"I can't believe you were so pent up that I fucked you until you pissed. Holy shit. And you pissed a lot; all over me and my new jeans. These cost me a lot, you know."

But he's not mad, and you know you aren't. He grins, you reciprocate, kneeing across to kiss one another. You break reluctantly. "We better clean this place up."

"Nah," Steve whispers, "was kinda hoping I could make you do it again."

Reblog, like, comment - support the author if you like the story!!!! Steve says so!

You permit him to sniff around, hovering like you’re his prey. All hair gel, chew, and that thick leather jacket. His trigger finger tickles its way beneath your camisole strap. Like a good lick to a wound, the purpling bruise is kissed from his touch. Generally, that is what happens when you miss the bed and land in a pile of limbs on a cheap hotel floor. His massive hand dusts around your flesh until those damn goosebumps appear.

Like a live wire, you spark into a charge.

“Somethin’ about bein’ married to you just makes me so fuckin’ hard.”

Oh… you’re positive he felt you react to his embrace now. A nursed hangover having passed this morning, your drunken decisions are no longer able to be avoided. Unanswered texts, ignored calls, and you in bed sleeping to calm your entire nervous system - it vanishes. You turn into his full hold, sighing, his silhouette absolutely radiating in the low light.

“Gator… this is ridiculous. We were drunk —“

He’s reaching for your left hand, raising it to adjust into his open palm, petting over the simple, silver band on your ring finger.

“Why you still wearin’ this if you’re so scared then?”

And god, open that heavy book, chapter one. You are terrified. Because your feelings run too deep to risk. With your choosing to remain silent, he continues. “On paper, you belong to me. You’re mine now, darlin’.”

He lets your hand go briefly, only to flash you his matching band, placed the same. Picking yours back up, he laces his fingers tightly, bending to meet you, his lips grazing your earlobe, nose near the side of your temple in a nudge. “You have my name now, baby. And I wanna hear you moan the first fuckin’ part of it.”