#maxanon

You had played it cool for the first few weeks. This was your college roommate–if you didn’t fuck this up, she might end up being your best friend for life. It’s not like you could say, “Hi, Nancy, nice to meet you, I like girls and think you’re hot!” No. No way. And, if you were honest, you couldn’t risk isolating the only person you knew at Emerson. It was lonely in those big buildings, the bustling sounds of city life right outside every window yet feeling so far away. You wanted Nancy to be your friend, and you had thought that meant you had to pretend to be…like her. 

After a few weeks, though, you couldn’t keep it to yourself anymore. Nancy had taken to having full conversations with you while she changed in the mornings, tossing her towel on her bed when she got back from the shared bathroom. She’d hold intense eye contact with you, chattering away the entire time about her classes, and her plans for the day, and whether you wanted to go grocery shopping with her that day, and her boyfriend, always her damn boyfriend. She’d stand on the other side of your narrow bedroom, completely naked, practically daring your eyes to slip from her face, and talk at a hundred miles a minute about Jonathan, this perfect Jonathan, who was always coming to visit that weekend but never actually showed up. 

When you cracked, she didn’t even react. It was during a rare moment of silence, her back still wrapped in her towel and turned to you as she pulled a top out of her neatly-organized closet. Your eyes were fixed on the back of Nancy’s neck; her brown hair was pinned up, and the pale skin of her neck still had beads of water from the shower darkening the fine curls that lay flat against her skin. You watched a drop of water slide down her skin, tangle in that one, C-shaped piece of hair that had fallen out of the clip, and felt your eyes glaze over; you wished, desperately, to be water, to be able to slide over her porcelain body, touching without touching, and find rest in her hair. “You know I like girls, right?” You had blurted out, the words throwing themselves desperately off your tongue to land with a disgusting smack in the middle of the room, as bare and naked as Nancy tended to be. 

She turned her head over her shoulder, barely glancing away from the shirt in her hands. “Oh! No, I didn’t know that.” You stood, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for Nancy to call you names or tell you she was uncomfortable or tell you to request a room change but instead–instead, all you got was a slight blush over her cheeks when she turned back to you. “Did you–did you want me to change in the bathroom?” You shook your head, suddenly numb to the sounds of the cars in the street, the people yelling at each other on the sidewalks, the sounds of your other roommates making breakfast in the kitchen. It all disappeared when Nancy smiled at you–almost shyly, her lips only slightly tilting up at the corners before her eyes ducked down–and removed her towel. 

Afterwards, Nancy had taken it upon herself to make sure you knew you were welcome to bring over whoever you wanted. She eyed girls at the grocery store, the coffee shop, the diner the two of you frequented for late night pancakes, and nudged you, using those wide eyes to motion towards the girls she had picked out for you. She had good taste, you had to give her that–but the girls Nancy picked were always too tall, their hair too light, their bodies too full for who you really wanted. 

One night, late–or early, really–the two of you were nestled into the couch, swathed by blankets, Nancy’s pajama clad legs in your bare lap as you passed a carton of ice cream back and forth. The other roommates had gone out earlier, disappearing in a haze of hairspray and blue eyeshadow with promises to be back for lunch tomorrow. Nancy had declined their invitations, staying home and waiting for Jonathan to call. When he didn’t, you slipped downstairs, running across the street to the bodega for a can of Coke and Nancy’s favorite icecream. 

The night slipped away with the two of you there, sitting by the phone–”just in case,” Nancy said, biting her too-full bottom lip as she avoided your eyes. The conversation started innocently enough: You wanted to comfort her, and had started sharing stories of your own pathetic dating life. She laughed so hard she snorted, actually snorted, her nose wrinkling and her eyes creasing at the corners as she closed them, when you told her about the boyfriend you barely let touch you in high school, the “best friend” you had “practiced” with instead.

“I did that too!” She exclaimed, her voice high and breathless between the sweet peals of her laughter. Her feet pressed into the bare skin of your legs, toes digging against soft skin as you tried to ignore the goosebumps that raced down your arms. She was so warm, so full of light as she gazed at you, and the weight of her body, sprawled so casually over yours, felt so right, felt like home. “I did that too,” she said. “My friend, Barb–she was my first kiss. We said we were ‘practicing’ for when boys decided to date us.” 

You reeled in your shock, loosening the fingers that had immediately tightened around her ankles at the words. Nancy Wheeler–Nancy “Perfect” Wheeler, Nancy “4.0” Wheeler, Nancy fuckin Wheeler–kissed girls? Nancy eyed you from the other end of the couch, the television light flickering over her brows, still high with the glimmer of her laugh. Her cheeks were dark, a blush building there as she held your eyes with her own. “What?” She asked, her voice suddenly low. “You didn’t know I kissed girls?” She cocked her head, slightly, the movement exposing the side of her throat. You felt your heart pounding in your chest, aggressive thumps, as her eyelids lowered slightly. Her lips parted, just barely, and you watched the pink tip of her tongue wet the very edges of the lush bow. 

“Nancy,” you replied, your shaking voice betraying you, your body betraying you as it warmed under her gaze. “That’s…kinda gay.” Nancy rolled her doe eyes, smirking slightly. “Are you–Nancy, do you like girls?” She shrugged her pajama-clad shoulders, angling her head towards the TV. “Yeah,” she said, flicking a heavy-lidded glance back at you. “And guys. It’s not a big deal.” She said it so nonchalant, said it like she hadn’t just rocked your world and flipped it on its axis, like she hadn’t made your heart jump into your throat. Nancy liked girls. Nancy could like you. Hell, it almost seemed like she was flirting with you. Except–

Except for Jonathan. Fucking Jonathan, who happened to call at that exact moment, like your thought of his name summoned him from California, the earsplitting ring of the telephone making both you and Nancy jump. She grabbed, desperately, at the receiver, picking up the heavy plastic and cradling it between her strong chin and shoulder. “Hello?” She whispered, breathy with her excitement. “Yeah. No, it’s fine, it’s– I can talk.” She looked over her shoulder at you and, if you didn’t know better, you’d have thought she looked guilty. 

You smiled, bitterly aware that it didn’t meet your eyes, and slid her feet off your lap. Standing up, you stretched–the two of you had been on that couch, skin touching skin, for hours now, and your joints felt stiff. Nancy watched, either unaware or uncaring that you could see her eyes fixate on the way your oversized t-shirt lifted with your arms, the hem dancing over the edges of your underwear. Heat pulsed through your core, a sudden, desperate throbbing, as her eyes met yours from where she sat on the couch. Your breath caught, slightly, in your chest, and you turned, heading to the bathroom for a cold shower–and, if that didn’t work, a few minutes alone with your hand and the image of Nancy, eyes wide and hungry, jaw loose like it was waiting for you to guide it. 

After your shower–and, yes, a few minutes of picturing Nancy’s face, Nancy’s body, Nancy’s neck and skin and hair and lips–you headed back to your shared bedroom. Nancy was no longer in the living room, not lazed over the arm of the couch while she giggled with Jonathan on the phone. You opened the door to your bedroom quietly, hoping she’d already be asleep. She was in her bed, a small bundle of limbs and dark hair tucked in amidst the lightly colored bedding of her twin-sized mattress. 

She wasn’t asleep. Maybe you had turned the door handle too quietly. Maybe she heard you and just didn’t care. Either way, when you closed the door with a soft snick, Nancy kept her eyes closed, continued to thrust her hips lightly against, you assumed, the hand hidden under her bedspread. You felt your heart stutter in your chest, your knees suddenly weak; she was beautiful, gorgeous, somewhere between frustrated and focused as she worked against her own skin. “Nance,” you whispered, and her eyes shot open, wide and all-too-innocent as she fluttered her lashes at you across the room. “Were you just masturbating?” 

“Um,” she replied, cheeks dusting lightly with a pink blush that matched her bedspread, “U-uh…no, I was just…” Nancy’s eyes flitted nervously around the room, her lips pressing together into a hard, embarrassed line, and you watched her throat bob as she swallowed. It was the swallow that did it, of all things. Your newfound best friend, your roommate, laying in bed with her dark curls spread under her angelic face had already driven you to the edge, but watching her throat move as she swallowed, wishing you could taste that swallow, finally hurled you over the precipice you had been dancing on since the first time you had lain eyes on her. 

“Want some help?” The words burst from between your lips, your body going cold and then hot as the blush raced under your skin. But the words were out, were hanging in the air between the two of you, and all you could do now was wait, your veins full of ice. Nancy’s eyes widened, her jaw relaxing and going slack so that her lips parted. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the full, rosebud pink curves, wishing to be in between them; that’s why you couldn’t miss it when they shifted, just slightly, letting Nancy’s whispered “yes” glide under your skin. 

The ice in your veins melted, the sudden liquid rushing in your ears, as the heat you had just dulled sparked back to life in your stomach. You pushed down the excitement, the fear that swirled through your body; it was important, so, so important that you handle this right. You walked towards her tiny bed slowly, giving her plenty of time to say “I was kidding!” or “Nevermind,” as you shifted her blankets aside, sliding your half-clothed body into the bed next to her. Nancy shifted her face, just slightly, so that her oversized eyes were trained on your face when she blinked, a rush of blood rising to the surface of her cheeks. 

You looked down at Nancy’s slender body as you propped yourself up on one arm, pressing yourself closer to her under the warmth of the blankets. Jonathan–the mysterious Jonathan, who never came to visit when he said he would, who only existed to you as the framed photograph on Nancy’s desk–flashed in your mind, and you wondered if he was the reason Nancy was rutting her hips against her own hand; if he had spent those minutes you were in the shower whispering in her ear across the phone lines, making her desperate for him, for the feeling of his body pressed against hers. It doesn’t matter, you thought to yourself. I’m the one in bed with her. The thought made you blush, and your eyes skittered away from Nancy’s, floating down the outline of her body under the blankets she was covered by. 

“You don’t have to–” Nancy suddenly whispered, watching the heat building along your neck and cheeks, and you cut her off, jumping on the words and stubbing the burning embers of her rejection out before it could flame. “I want to,” you whispered back, the words shocking you as they pressed into the room, making their presence felt in your core with a brush of heat. Nancy just stared, doe eyes blinking rapidly as she pressed her lips together, swallowing again and–fuck, what you would have given to taste the inside of her mouth. She looked, pointedly, at her body, hidden under the bedspread, before flashing her eyes back to you. 

You pulled the corner of your bottom lip between your teeth, worrying it slightly, before slipping your free hand over her body, her flat stomach and soft thighs, until it was over the hand she still had wedged between her legs. “Move your hand, Nancy,” you commanded, watching the blankets so you didn’t have to look at her. When she pulled her hand away from her sex, you could have sworn that, for just a moment, she let her fingers brush against your palm. 

Slowly, your fingers cupped around Nancy’s folds, luxuriating in the heat emanating from her skin. When you slipped your middle finger in between her lips, stroking once, you kept your face carefully turned away from hers, refusing to watch the shuddering gasp fall from her lips. Your finger was poised at her entrance, ready to push inside of her–or pull back–with the slightest hint of what she wanted. “Nance,” you said, your voice low and quiet. “This is going to feel better if I get you wet first.” You let the silence build between the two of you, stretching on for what felt like an agonizing length of time. “Can I kiss you?”

“O–okay.” The voice under you was timid, shy, unlike the Nancy you had come to know in the last few months. You angled your head towards hers, desperately seeking out her face in the dim light of your shared bedroom. Nancy was watching you, eyes eager as she licked her lower lip. The warm lap of fire in your core suddenly tightened, blazing as you leaned down, ducking your head to her strong jaw. Your lips pressed against the coolness of her skin, the hard line of her angular jaw, and you felt her chest hitch under you, her body shake with the desire that buried itself in her lungs at the touch of your mouth on her body.

You pulled back, peering at Nancy’s face. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted as she lay under you, glowing in the soft beams of moonlight that slanted in through the window, radiant; she was a Renaissance painting against her pillow, a woman blissful in the throes of passion, seduced by an immortal god. Your body, your soul cried out for you to touch her, touch her, and you leaned down, pressing your lips against the long line of her throat, the column of smooth skin, before running your tongue over it. The tiniest, softest moan escaped Nancy’s lips as your tongue warmed her skin and–

You felt her body under your hand, still cupping her sex, flutter. Her walls tightened, almost imperceptibly, as your finger waited for her body to grant you entrance. When you felt the rush of slick dripping in between her folds, sliding over your hand, you slipped yourself inside of her. Nancy whimpered, eyes still closed under you as you curled your finger slightly, pressing against the warm, tight wall of her body. “Shh,” you murmured, and your free arm pressed itself into her pillow, your hand pushing her curls out of her face so you could watch her eyes tighten, her brow crease. She moaned again, barely more than a sigh, and you felt her hips tilt up, pushing your finger deeper inside of her. You couldn’t stop the grin that slipped over your lips–and she couldn’t see it, anyways, her eyes shut as her head rolled back on her pillow. 

“More,” Nancy moaned, and you ignored the spreading heat in between your legs as you bullied a second finger into her. She was tight, much tighter than you ever would have dreamed, and you could feel her clenching around the forced spread of your hand inside of her. You rotated your wrist, pulling your fingers back before slipping them in again and again, never fully pulling them out as she gasped with each thrust. “More, more,” Nancy’s voice came to you like a prayer falling from her lips, begging, pleading for you to touch her; you dipped your head, lips latching on to her exposed collarbone as she mewled. 

Nancy ground her hips against your hand, her desire coating your palm and other fingers now, desperate for more friction as you filled and stretched her. “What is it, babygirl?” You heard yourself whispering against Nancy’s throat, the words slipping out without your permission. “What do you need from mommy?” Nancy’s hips stuttered against your hand, a physical reflection of her shock at the growl in your words, the low, coaxing tone that wallowed in between your bodies. 

“Need–I want–” Nancy stuttered, and you dared to glance up at her from where you suckled on her throat.

 “Use your words.”

 “I want you to touch my clit.” 

“Good girl,” you whispered, and Nancy whimpered, a high-pitched sound that scratched itself out a home in your heart as it fell from her lips. You let your thumb push in between her folds, seeking out the swollen bud above her opening. Pushing into it, you reveled in the sound of Nancy’s breathing, harsh pants now as her hips lifted again and again. “You’re doing so good, sweet girl,” you breathed into her skin, fingers curling inside of her as your thumb rubbed harsh, fierce circles. “Keep going. Keep going until you cum for me, baby.” 

Nancy whined at your words, and you felt her suddenly clench around you, drawing your fingers even deeper into her body. You moved your thumb faster, whispering “that’s my girl, that’s my girl, go ahead, baby,” as her panting turned into soft cries, little moans that elevated in pitch as her body pulled, tightening and releasing in short spasms. When she stopped, her hips slowing, her muscles loosening around you suddenly, you kept your fingers resting in her warmth. Pulling your face back from her neck, you carefully avoided Nancy’s eyes, avoided seeking out the sweat and blush on her face that was meant to be your reward, and carefully pulled your hand from her body, gentle as her walls twitched. 

Your hand came up from under the blankets, dripping and coated in the clear expression of Nancy’s satisfaction, of what you had to assume was her enjoyment of your touch. You chanced a glance back at her, still lying on the pillows. Nancy’s eyes were on your hands, the corners of her eyes tight as her mouth pressed into a hard line; you felt the burn of rejection simmer in your gut, a byproduct of the guilt and shame you read in her face. “I’m just–I’m going to go to the bathroom,” you said, flipping Nancy’s blanket back and standing up suddenly, desperately hoping she couldn’t see the discoloration where your underwear was soaked through, couldn’t see the glimmer of slick dripping down your own thighs. 

******************************************************************************

The two of you never spoke about it. Never, not once, over the next few months did you bring it up–and there were chances to. When you brought a girl home from a Halloween party, Nancy didn’t ask if you got her off the same way you did her; when she left to go back to Hawkins for Thanksgiving, you didn’t ask if her own hand would satisfy her the way yours had; and when either of you entered your room late at night, you both always knocked first, giving the other time to whip their hand out from their underwear and feign sleep. 

It almost felt like you had made it up, like it was some too-vivid dream. Like you had dreamt what Nancy’s throat tasted like, like you had dreamt how her hair smelled like jasmine, like you had dreamt that her fingers had tightened in the fabric of your shirt as she came, like you had dreamt of her face cradled so gently in your palm while you pushed her hair out of her face. 

Or worse–like you had dreamt up the little glances she shot you in the kitchen as you poured coffee, her eyes darting away nervously as soon as they met yours; had dreamt the way her eyes pulled together with hurt when you had walked the girl from the Halloween party out of your apartment, ducking slightly to avoid the kiss the girl had tried to press to your mouth at the front door, aware of Nancy’s gaze on the back of your head; had dreamt the blush that darkened her cheeks as she took calls from Jonathan in your living room, the phone ringing for her less and less often. 

The one thing that you knew you weren’t creating in your own head was the silence. Because Nancy still changed in your shared room, exposing her full body–the soft, pale thighs your hand had parted, the pert, firm breasts you had felt against your torso when you leaned into her–to you as she pulled her clothes, but now she did it without speaking. 

You would have let the silence go on forever, would have lived in quiet for the rest of the year and moved out in the spring and spent the rest of your life pushing thoughts of Nancy Wheeler, Nancy Fuckin’ Wheeler, out of your head for the rest of your life. Would have never spoken to her again, if that’s what she wanted, until December. 

She had packed her bags, chattering at top speed to all of the roommates: Jonathan had called, had made plans for the two of them, had booked her a flight–she was going to California for Christmas. She’d spend the holidays wrapped around the boy you resented, snuggled warm under his blankets, his hand between her thighs instead of yours, exchanging presents and kisses, while you sat alone in the drafty apartment you all shared. The other roommates were going out of town, too, with promises to bring back their family’s cookies and cakes for you since you were the only one not planning on leaving for the month of break. 

When Nancy left, she had flung an arm around the neck of each girl; had hugged them quickly, but fiercely, like she wanted them to know that she loved them but not enough to stay. When she walked up to you, her arms were slower–she wrapped both of the thin, long limbs around your waist instead of your neck, pulling you in tightly. Her lips ghosted over your racing pulse in your throat, a gentle brush that could have been mistaken for an accident, before she pulled back. “Bye!” She chirped, her voice as bright as her welling eyes. “See you in a month!” 

The next few weeks were a haze. A disorienting blur of the other roommates leaving, of rides to the airport and lonely trips to the grocery store. Of waking up in an empty bedroom, no sounds of soft sighs and sleepy, content breaths from the other side of the room. You settled into a routine: Wake up, make breakfast, bundle up in your warmest coat and a thick scarf to go for a walk, come home, flick through TV while you snacked, make dinner, go to bed. It was boring, yes, but the routine settled you, and when thoughts of Nancy, images of her wide eyes and wider grin, her sharp brows and strong jaw, her long fingers and dark curls, danced across your retinas, you could shake your head and refocus on the task at hand. There was no space for the lingering hurt in your heart with your routine, no space to bemoan the state of your life and loneliness as you sat on the couch on Christmas Eve. 

The routine was familiar at this point, comforting in the way it surrounded you with people and distractions while you were entirely alone. The routine is why it was so alarming when the front door swung open, accompanied by the loud thumps of a heavy suitcase hitting the floor. The routine was the reason you looked up so slowly, why it took your brain so long to process the small woman in your doorway wearing a skirt and t-shirt, shivering aggressively as tears slid down her face. “N–Nancy?” You asked, feeling your eyebrows draw together in confusion. She opened her mouth, the only thing coming out of it a wail. 

“Nancy,” you said, standing up suddenly. You rushed to the door, wrapping your arms around her slender, icy frame. “Nancy, what’s wrong? What–Why are you here? Where is your fucking jacket?” You asked, your head turning quickly to look at the frozen flurries frolicking past your window, snowflakes glinting in the light of the streetlamps. A watery laugh burst from the chest wrapped under your arms. 

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Nancy asked, tilting her head slightly to peer up at you from watery lashes. “I come home,” she sniffed, wiping her nose as you relinquished your grip on her, “crying,” she said, emphasizing the word, “and you’re worried about me not having a coat?” She laughed again, the sound broken and making your heart ache. 

“It’s freezing outside, Nance. You–come on, you need to get wrapped up. Come sit on the couch.” You pushed her farther into the apartment, following behind to swaddle her in the blankets, still warm from your own body heat, that were piled on the couch. “What are you doing here? You were supposed to be in California with Jonathan until January.” 

She sniffed, running a finger under her eyes. “We broke up,” she said, her voice catching on the words. The story burbled out of her in stops and starts, tears and shuddering gasps interrupting her words as she recounted the morning’s conversation, how Jonathan had sat her down at the breakfast table, how he had explained that he wasn’t sure he could give her the life she wanted, she deserved, he said, and how, eventually, it had come down to the simplest words possible: We just don’t love each other anymore.” 

Her hands reached out, sliding over the blankets to wind her fingers in between the spaces of yours. “He was right,” Nancy said, her voice more even now as the tears stopped. “He was right, we just–we don’t love each other anymore. I don’t think we have for a while. But I just–I wasn’t expecting it, you know? I thought–” she shook her head, a trickle of laughter flowing from her lips. “I thought I would just get through the next four years, and then I would marry Jonathan, and we’d have a couple of kids, and we would be normal. I wanted to be normal.” Her eyes met yours, sending a shiver down your spine before she shifted her gaze to your interlocked fingers. “I don’t think I can be normal, though. I think–I think I want something else for myself now.” Nancy’s fingers tightened, a shot of adrenaline coursing through your veins at the touch. 

When she leaned forward, pressing her wide lips to yours, it caught you off guard. You jolted backwards, breaking the first real kiss the two of you had ever had. “Nance,” you whispered. “I’m– I don’t think we should–” 

“Please.” 

“You just broke up–”

“I don’t care. I don’t care about him like that anymore. I haven’t since–since before we–please, I just want you to touch me.” 

You bit back the words that had been pushing for space on your tongue, the denials and the rebuffs that were rational and responsible. “Say that again.”

“I want you to touch me. Please.” The last word was a whimper, soft and quiet like she was ashamed of it, but it melted whatever lingering resolve was buried in your chest. You moved quickly, bringing your mouth to Nancy’s again, pressing lips together as you tilted your head, pressing hers back so that your tongue was able to slip easily into the space between her lips. She gasped, quietly, against your mouth, and you felt your heart rattle in your chest, chaotic and longing to be closer to her. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” you whispered, moving your mouth to press harsh, hot kisses into her chin, her jawline, her neck, her throat, “until you forget that asshole’s name. Understood?” The whimper that fell from Nancy’s lips was your only verbal response, but she nodded her head vigorously, her brown curls shifting out of place with the motion; the way her fingers tightened around your arms, her nails digging into your skin as her head tilted back, a moan falling from her mouth, confirmed it for you as well. 

Your fingers flew to her waistline and were met by her hands; you pulled her skirt down as she pushed her shirt up (a trickle of annoyance in the back of your mind that Jonathan, fucking Jonathan who’s been an invisible presence between the two of you for so long, let her come back here in the dead of winter wearing a t-shirt and a skirt). Your fingers find bare skin, exposed paleness dappled with large freckles here and there. It’s the first time you’ve seen her like this–the last time you touched her, she was covered the entire time, keeping herself hidden away from your prying eyes like a sacred relic, like she knew that you were greedy and would take as much of her as you could and would never, never give up what you held in your hand at that moment. 

You wrapped your fingers around her waist, pressing your hands into the lines of muscle and sinew that separated you from her bones. Overcome, you dipped your head, pressing your nose flat into the soft padding above her belly button. The weight of your face pushed Nancy back onto the arm of the couch, her legs sprawling open as you fit your body between them so you could continue to touch the parts of her that reclined backwards. You dragged your nose up, letting your skin burn a path across her stomach as your nose and chin pushed up, up, until your chin was resting on the very bottom line of her bra. You settled your face there, Nancy’s fingers winding through your hair as she gripped your scalp, and blinked at her, a slow smile turning your lips as you took in her disheveled hair, pink cheeks, panting breaths. “Hi,” you whispered. 

“Hi yourself,” she whispered back, a gentle smile settling over her face. She loosened her grip on your hair, and the long fingers brushed against your forehead. Nancy tilted her head, slightly, watching her own hands trace patterns over your skin. When her eyes drifted back to yours, you couldn’t help but see the warmness in them, the distant echo of a centuries old fireside that represented home. “Are you done? Or do I get more?” She asked, and you had to stop yourself from practically purring at the simplicity of her request, of the implication that she was just waiting this whole time for you to decide to give her more. 

“Depends,” you said, smirking. “What’s your ex’s name?” 

“Jonathan,” Nancy replied immediately, eyebrows pulling together. 

“Must need more then,” you said, and turned your head abruptly to nip at the swell of the breast that threatened to spill out of the cup of her bra. Nancy’s sharp gasp was finished with a laugh, and your hands slipped under her torso to unclasp her bra, pulling the straps down her arms as you moved the material away from her skin. Her breasts fell free of the enclosure, the pink rosebuds already hard and drawn in the coolness of the air. You bite, playfully, at the curving line of her chest, soothing the small mark from your teeth with your tongue as Nancy whimpers. “Shh,” you whisper, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” 

Your mouth moves, slowly and sloppily, to the hardened perk of her nipple, and you’re quick to take it in between your lips, sliding your tongue over it, around it, all but rolling it in your mouth. Nancy is gasping, little “yes”s bursting from her lips as your hands wander down from her sides, skimming over her narrow hips to clench the tops of her thighs that your body presses between. All she’s wearing underneath you is a pair of the satin panties you’ve spent the last semester watching her shimmy over her hips, wishing desperately to touch. 

You lean back, letting your eyes wander over the expanse of her body as Nancy catches her breath. Her chest heaves under your eyes, her pulse throbbing in the column of her throat. “God,” you hear yourself whisper, voice rasping. “You are so fucking pretty for me, baby girl.” Nancy’s eyes widen, her lower lip wobbling as she takes in your words. Her arm extends, grabbing your wrist tightly as she pulls your fingers to her skin. 

Nancy places the palm of your hand against her throat, your fingers instinctually wrapping around the slender column. You feel your eyes widen slightly, shocked by the unspoken request; her brows arc, right at the narrow ends, and you feel your face press into a grin. “Words,” you whisper, and Nancy’s eyes slip closed, a tiny smile playing at the curve of her full, swollen mouth. 

“Please.”

“Please what?” 

“Please choke me. Please. I need you to–” 

Her words end abruptly, a gentle sigh replacing her voice as your fingers tighten, pressing into the harsh pulse on the sides of her throat. Your other hand slips between her legs, finding the skin of her inner thighs slick with longing. “Oh, you’re such a good girl,” you whisper, and Nancy’s moan makes your stomach tighten, your core throb. Your fingers slide the soft fabric of her underwear to the side, pushing in between the folds to seek out her center. 

“Wait,” Nancy huffs, and you loosen your fingers around her throat, eyes flashing to her face with concern. You look over her, eyes darting for signs of distress, for too-red cheeks or teary eyes. “I just–you already–please, just let me go down on you.” You lean back, feeling your eyebrows climb over your face as your lips part slightly. “Please. Mommy.” The words are stilted, falling from her mouth like bricks, but the light blush snaking over her cheeks tells you that Nancy knows, she knows what she wants, and she wants you. 

You nod, the movement subtle. “Okay, baby girl. Whatever you want.” She preens under your words, her eyelashes fluttering as a soft smile highlights the apples in her cheeks. Nancy’s fingers are gentle, slow where yours were quick, as they grab the hem of your night shirt; she pulls it over your head carefully, eyes on yours until your skin is exposed. The cool air of the apartment hits you, causing goosebumps to rise on your soft form.

“You’re so…” Nancy’s voice trails off, quiet as her doe eyes roam over your skin. “Beautiful,” she says, the word hanging in the air between the two of you, glimmering with traces of months worth of pent-up longing. “You’re so beautiful.” Her eyes meet yours, a spark of electricity bouncing from her to tighten your heart in your chest. Nancy leaned forward, pressing her mouth to yours as you fell back against the worn couch. Her delicate hands guide you to lie down on your back, the top of your head pressing into the bottom of the arm of the couch. “Beautiful,” she whispers, pressing her mouth into your throat; “Beautiful,” she says again, her lips cloying at your collarbone; “Beautiful,” hushed, like a prayer, at the curve of your breast; “Beautiful,” louder now, spoken into the softness of your stomach; “Beautiful,” a moan, this time, as you slip your underwear down your legs, exposing your heat to her mouth. 

Nancy is quick now, her lips pressing once to the skin above your already-damp folds. You feel her fingers spread you, her body tightening with anticipation in between your clenched thighs. A finger pushes against your opening, the muscles fluttering at the slight pressure. “Is this okay?” Nancy asks, and she pulls her eyes away from your body to gaze up at you. You nod, aware that any words from your lips would come out cracked, broken, as pathetic as you’ve felt dreaming of this moment for the last few months. 

Nancy’s finger slides into your core, and a soft sigh falls from your lips. She’s gentle, caring with her hand already up to the palm inside of you. The finger curls, just slightly, as she pulls it back, and your eyelids flicker at the pressure against your walls. She pushes a second finger in, stretching you just slightly as she works her hand against you, forcing a small whine from your lips. “You’re okay?” She says, the end of the sentence rising like a question as her eyes meet yours again. You nod, your eyes already feeling hazy as you watch her watch you. “Can I…use my mouth?” The question is hesitant, tentative, shy. 

“Don’t ask so many questions, Wheeler,” you mutter, cheeks burning as your voice shakes. A slow smile spreads over her face, and Nancy pulls her fingers from your warmth and dips her face to the space between your thighs. You can feel her tongue, flat and wide, licking a stripe between your lips; when it passes your gaping hole, you whimper and lift your hips, trying to grind into her face. Her tongue whisks over your clit, barely more than a fleeting brush, but it makes you gasp, the sound echoing through the empty apartment. 

“Oh,” Nancy sighs, and her eyes are narrowed, quizzical as she looks at you again. “You want both? Want to be filled and licked?” You nod again, the desire to mock her endless questions dying on your tongue as her fingers slide back in, quickly now that she’s in familiar territory. Your head rolls back on the couch under you, and your eyelids slide closed. When her tongue returns to the swollen burst of nerves, you whimper–the sound is long, loud, ludacris when coupled with the sound of her fingers thrusting into your wetness. “Oh,” Nancy moans–really, truly, moans, into your dripping cunt, and the vibrations send shockwaves through your skin. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, and your hands are suddenly wound in her hair, giving you something to hold on to as you rut your hips against her face. Her nose, her tiny, perfect nose, is pressing against your skin, her tongue lapping fast, wide strokes at your clit, and her fingers are starting to relax, to spread from each other and stretch where you’re tightest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you whimper, and Nancy’s fingers are faster, harder, while she lets you use her face for friction. “Oh, Nance–Nancy–Don’t–Please don’t–stop–” The words are coming out of your mouth in between hitched breaths, breaking in little gasps and cracks as you force them out, desperate to tell her that if she stops–if her tongue slows, if her fingers disappear, if any of it goes–you’re pretty sure you’ll die on the spot. 

“Nance,” you mewl, the word falling from your full lips like a prayer, “Nance, I’m gonna–don’t stop, I’m gonna c–” It’s the last word you get out before your back arches, body tightening around her fingers, a sharpness in your spine curving in on itself until it’s unleashed, the arrow of your desire loosed from the bow of Nancy’s lips. The sound that drips from your mouth is high pitched, cradled on each end by gasps, and you swear you can feel Nancy grinning into your body as she continues, relentlessly fucking you through your freefall. 

When you finish, she sits up and pulls her hand from you. You watch as Nancy sits back on her knees, slips her fingers into her mouth. Any thought you would have had at that moment–what does this mean, are we together now, are we going to talk about this, holy shit that was the best orgasm of my fucking life–dissapear from your head as you watch Nancy’s eyes close, an expression of bliss on her features as her mouth cleans you from her hand. She removes her fingers with a subtle pop, and you try to bring your gaze from her lips back to her eyes unsuccessfully. Your eyes are still on her lips, which is why you can’t miss when she says it. 

“Jonathan.” 

“What?” You ask, eyebrows jumping together in confusion and shock. 

“Jonathan,” Nancy repeats, shrugging her shoulders slightly. “I still remember his name.” 

You had screwed up tonight. Screwed up bad. It was one of the rare times Steve’s parents were actually in town, actually staying longer than the few days it would take before his father would get assigned his next trip, and he had begged you to come to their dinner with him. 

“Please?” He had whined, his lips leaving a trail of goosebumps up the back of your neck. He had pressed himself to your back as you filled your mug with coffee in the small apartment kitchen, eyes bleary and hips aching from the night before. “No way,” you had snickered. You knew, at some point, you’d have to meet his parents, but the longer you could go without it, the better. 

“Come on, baby,” Steve had whispered, pressing his lips right to the soft shell of your ear. You had tilted your neck, your eyes slipping closed as your hand slid up his neck, tangling behind you in his hair. His hand had ghosted down from your waist, fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear. “I don’t want to be alone with them if I don’t have to be. I’d rather be with you,” he murmured. 

That was all it took. You were a pushover when it came to Steve, too quick to cave to every request. All Steve had to say was “I want to see you,” or “Do you really have to go now?” and you’d give him whatever he asked for. As hesitant as you were to finally meet the Harrington’s, Steve had asked you so nicely (and rewarded you even better once you agreed); that’s why you felt so guilty now. 

The dinner had been…alright. Steve’s mother had hauled you into the kitchen almost immediately, insisting that “the girls” would cook while “the men” talked. What that had really meant, apparently, was that she would drink so many martinis she could barely walk to the dining room table while Steve and his father sipped scotch in silence. The actual meal had been fine–although you hadn’t been able to stop yourself from narrowing your eyes when Mrs. Harrington had called the meal “Steve’s favorite”--and you had been able to make polite conversation, keeping the discussion from lulling too often or for too long by pretending to be interested in Mr. Harrington’s work. 

Dessert, however, was when it all went to hell. Mrs. Harrington was carrying out the tiramisu she had transferred from the Enzo’s delivery box to a serving dish, and you heard heated conversation as the door swung shut. You bit your lip, listening intently as you waited for the coffeepot to stop dripping, catching snatches of conversation as voices rose. 

When you finally walked back into the dining room, glass coffee pot in hand, you almost froze. Steve’s eyes were closed, his head tilted down towards the table. His father’s face was pink high in the cheeks, anger burning behind his eyes as spit flew from his mouth. He wasn’t shouting, not quite, but the tone he was speaking to Steve in raised the hairs on the back of your neck, set your heartrate up a notch.

 “You need to get your life together, Steven,” he was saying. “You can not keep working these–these little, insignificant jobs, like you’re some insignificant man. You need to come work for me. You’ll be my assistant, and it’ll be hard, but you’ll travel with me and your mother and you’ll make a decent name for yourself. You’re going to end up like the people in this town–” Mr. Harrington rolled his eyes, “The men I work with think you’re the only failure to our family name. Everything I touch turned to gold, except you. If you don’t–” 

“Stop it,” you had hissed, the words sliding out from between your clenched teeth. Steve’s head had shot up, his eyes wide as he looked at you. 

“Excuse me?” His father had said, a look of mirth on his face as his eyebrows slid together. “I think you’d do better to keep your mouth shut, girl.” 

The coffee pot in your hands had started to shake, your hands vibrating as anger coursed through your veins. “He is not ‘insignificant,’” you had spit, eyes narrowing as your lip pulled back from your teeth. “No one in this town gives a damn about your family name, but they know your son is a good man.” 

Mr. Harrington scoffed, waving a hand towards you as he looked back at Steve. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Steven,” he said, and you let yourself look at Steve. He was watching you, eyes wide and jaw slack. “People in this town–people like her–aren’t the kind of people you should be spending time with. Sure, you can keep your bed warm with whatever kind of slut you want, but–” 

“That’s enough,” Steve said, his voice a whisper. You blinked, suddenly, pushing back the wetness that was threatening to flood your eyes as Steve stared at you. “That’s enough,” he repeated as his father continued to talk like he hadn’t heard him, and Steve stood up, pushing his chair back from the table so suddenly it hit the floor. 

“Steven,” his mother admonished. He shook his head, not taking his eyes off you long enough to even acknowledge that she had spoken to him. “We’re leaving,” Steve said. 

“What?” His mother asked. “But–there’s dessert. Stevie, your favorite–” He strode across the room to you, taking the coffee pot out of your hands and setting it down on the table with a thud. “Leaving now,” he said again, so quietly you could barely make it out as he stood right beside you. He took your hands in one of his, tugging you slightly behind him as he barrelled to the front door, a bullet that had been fired from the barrel of a gun without regard for where it was aimed. 

He had opened the passenger door of his car, helped you tuck yourself away into the seat before closing the door and crossing to the driver’s side. His mother had appeared at the window, begging the two of you to come back inside and talk, but he had simply put the car into drive, eyes unflinching. 

Neither of you had said a single word the entire drive back to your apartment. The radio was off, leaving no sound to stop the replaying loop of what you had said to Steve’s father. Next to you, Steve sighed (for the fourth time since you had gotten in the car) and you flinched, slightly. You took a deep breath, trying not to notice as your lungs shuddered. 

This was the end. You were sure of it. Steve had wanted, had needed, you to come to dinner with his parents tonight; he had needed you to be there with him, offer him some comfort. You were supposed to sit next to him, squeeze his hand under the table, give him a gentle smile–not pick a fight with his father. You had broken Steve’s trust, had made an ass of yourself in front of his parents; worse, you weren’t even sure you had spoken for anyone but yourself. 

It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t care if Steve’s parents thought you were some Hawkins bimbo, some stupid slut who would warm his bed until the “real” thing came along, but you couldn’t stomach the idea of him leaving. His dad wanted him to go with him–wanted to take him on those business trips that rarely brought him back home. They could talk however they wanted to about Hawkins and the people who lived there, but the thought of Steve disappearing, not even seeing him for fleeting moments in the grocery store or at basketball games, made you sick. 

The car glided to a smooth stop, Steve putting it into park before getting out, coming around to your side, and opening the door. You got out of the car, following behind him as he walked to the door; your hand was cold, lonely without Steve’s fingers between yours, and you tried not to think about the conversation you were sure was going to happen once you got behind closed doors. 

You could hear his keys jingling, the thick metal of the key to the apartment door sliding in, the lock thudding back out of its slot before the door fell open. Steve stood back, angling himself to the side so you could pass and walk in front of him into your shared home. Your home, you thought, and the words stopped you in your tracks, frozen in the entryway. It’s your home, and it’s Steve’s home, but really your home was Steve, and you knew, deep in your bones, that he was about to leave you, about to take your home away before he packed his bags and left, went to work with his father and find someone his parent’s would be proud of him for loving. 

You kicked your shoes off as you heard the door close behind you, heard Steve’s steps come closer in the dark apartment. He didn’t say a word–you didn’t either–and when he pressed the broad planes of his chest against your back, his forearms wrapping over your hips to pull you tightly against him, you felt your eyes widen, your lips pop open in surprise. “Steve?” You whispered. 

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he spun you around, bringing the two of you face to face. “Steve,” you whispered again, face registering shock as you saw the glint in his eyes, the slight curl to his lips. “Steve, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have–” 

“Shh,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. His eyes moved up and down your body, lingering over your throat, the way the dress you had bought for tonight hugged your hips, the skin of your thighs exposed by the skirt. He looked at you like it was the last time he was ever going to look at you, and it made your throat close up suddenly. 

“Steve, I’m sorry, please, I didn’t mean to, I just–” 

“Babygirl,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “Please stop talking.” Your lips came together in surprise, your head pulling back slightly. This wasn’t like him, this tone–even though he was begging, it sounded strange and foreign on his lips like this.

“Steve–” you tried, one last time, desperate to make your case, to plead for your boyfriend to understand that you’d do better in the future if he just gave you a chance. His long fingers came up, suddenly, wrapping around your chin; he held your jaw tightly, and you felt tears spring to your eyes. 

“Stop trying to apologize, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, leaning into your throat so the words danced over your skin. “I’m the one who should apologize.” His mouth opened, slightly, letting his tongue ghost around the small spot of skin he was pressing his face into. “I didn’t–I shouldn’t have asked you to come with me tonight. I’m sorry. But…sweetheart…” You waited, breath tight in your throat for his next words. 

“You–fuck, babygirl, that was–God, you’re just so hot.” You felt your eyebrows come together over your eyes, your jaw tightening against his fingers. His lips pressed into the side of your throat, hot and aggressive as you gasped at the touch.  

You stepped back, out of Steve’s hands, and he froze. “What? What’s wrong?” He asked, his eyes hazy with desire as he stared at you in the darkness. When he caught the glimmering tear tracks on your face, heard the shaking breath that pressed out of your chest, he came towards you quickly, hands rising to grasp your face between them. “Baby, baby,” he whined, eyes widening as he tilted his head, hair falling to the side, “What’s the matter?” His fingers stroked the side of your face, wiping away the dampness there. “Talk to me, please.”

“I thought–” You started, eyes slipping closed as you took in a too-quick breath. “I thought you were going to–to break up with me. I thought you were going to go with your dad, and you were going to–” 

“Fuck no,” Steve hisses, shaking his head rapidly. “No. No way, sweetheart. First of all,” he said, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, “I’m not leaving you. Second of all, my dad–” Steve let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “He’s wrong. I’ve always known he was wrong about most things, but I didn’t know until I heard him talking about you how fucking wrong he was.” Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes wide as you stared at Steve. His eyes fell, gentle, across your face as he watched your expression change. “I didn’t–” he started, pausing to clear his throat. “I didn’t know he was wrong about me either. Until I heard you say it.” 

Your lips fall open, your eyes narrowing as you stare at him. At Steve. The kindest, gentlest man you’ve ever met, the man who was always giving Dustin and Mike rides to the arcade, the man who never missed a single one of Lucas’ home games, who took Max out to dinner on Friday nights because he wasn’t sure if her mom would remember to leave anything in the fridge for her. There was no way he could believe the things his father had said about him–

“Steve,” you whisper, your voice crackling in the light slanting through the windows, over the darkness between your two bodies. “He–You’re not–” 

The words don’t have a chance to fall from your lips. Steve is too quick, too fast to duck his head and press his mouth against yours, his perfectly curved lips pressing against yours with need. His face slides up, slightly, tilting your head back to keep your lips together. Steve’s jaw loosens slightly, his mouth opening so that his tongue can press against the tight seal of your lips. When his tongue slips into your mouth, tasting you like he’s been desperate for this moment, you whimper into him, rewarded by a soft grunt reverberating in the fingers you have pressed to his chest. 

Your body tightens, heat immediately flooding your core as his long fingers slip around your waist, gripping to press his fingerprints into your curves. Your hands come up to his chest, pushing against his muscles just hard enough to break the kiss. Steve lets out a confused sound, his eyes still closed as your faces part. “Bedroom,” you whisper, and he opens his eyes long enough for you to see a wicked glint in his wide eyes. 

Before you can question him, tilting your head slightly with the beginning of “What’s that look for?” playing on your lips, Steve’s hands snake along your back; one hand comes to your low back, the other under your thighs, and you’re momentarily weightless as he knocks you off of your feet. Steve pulls you against him, cradling you against his chest like a bride crossing a threshold, and your breath catches in your throat before bursting out in a giggle. You tilt your head back with the laugh, bringing your hands up to wrap around Steve’s neck as he carries you down the hall. 

In the bedroom, he tosses you onto your shared sleeping space. Your body bounces on the plush mattress, the cloud-soft bedspread the two of you had picked out together under your hands as you push yourself up to sitting. Steve undoes the top button of his dress shirt, the green one you had insisted on because it matches the tiny line of color around his pupils before they turn brown, and pulls it by the collar over his head. He tosses it to the floor, fingers immediately going to the button of his pants. “C’mere,” you say, voice thick with the desire flooding your veins. 

Steve takes a step towards you, a grin starting to turn up the edges of his lips as he tilts his head, and your hands replace his on his pants. Quickly, you push the fabric to the floor, leaving him exposed in front of you. Steve’s wide hands find your thighs as he leans forward over you, pushing the fabric of your dress up, up, up as his fingers skim your skin. He pulls the dress over your head, tossing it behind him as you fall to the bed and he climbs over you. 

Steve presses his lips against yours again, finding them already open as you moan into his mouth. Your hands slide up his muscled back, coming to knot in the hair at the nape of his neck. When you pull, slightly, he whimpers, letting your hands tilt his face up so that his damp lips slide up your face. “On your back,” you whisper, and Steve is quick to obey, throwing himself down beside you as you sit up. You sling a leg over his waist, settling yourself over his hips as you press against him. Steve’s hands coast over your thighs, your hips, your waist, coming to rest at the band of your bra before he quickly unclasps it, pulling the straps from your shoulders. When your skin is exposed, nipples tightening in the chill air of the room, Steve smirks at you–a hint of King Steve present tonight–before he tosses your bra over your shoulder. 

His hands are warm, rough as they come to your exposed skin, gripping and kneading against your sensitive breasts. His thumbs glide over your nipples, raising them, before he grasps them between his fingers, twisting the tender skin as you gasp. Your eyes slide shut of their own volition, your head tilting back as you try to suppress a moan. “Harrington,” you whisper, your hands resting on his chest. You can feel your core throbbing, absolutely aching already with how badly you need him, how badly you need Steve to reassure you that he’s still here, that he’s not leaving, and the wetness of your underwear has to be noticeable to him by now. 

You grind your hips, slightly, over his, and are rewarded with a soft groan from beneath you. Desperate to hear him again, your fingers tighten over Steve’s chest, fingertips burying into the dark hair there as your nails press into his skin. He whimpers, a soft sound that breaks free from his lips as his head presses backwards into the mattress under him, and you feel your face break into a grin. His erection is pressing into you, under you, as you grind your hips against him again, his exposed member pressing into your clothed heat. “Please,” he whispers, and you sigh at the sound. “Please, babygirl, I–come on. Please.” 

You tilt your head to look at him beneath you, batting your eyelashes innocently. He groans as you cast a faux innocence over your face, uncomfortably aware of the swelling in between his bare thighs. You lean down, pressing your torso to his before you slide your mouth over his warm skin; you mouth at his collarbone, lips growing wet with your own spit as they slip down, down over his large chest muscles, brushing against the dark hair there. Your mouth, slippery and spit soaked, covers his nipple, pulling it in between your teeth. You nip, eliciting a yelp from the chest under you, and pull back, a satisfied grin on your face. 

As you sit back, Steve’s eyes watch you carefully. His amber eyes grow wide as you dip your hand between where your bodies press together, throbbing skin against throbbing skin. You wrap your fingers around his length and navigate him to the space between your thighs, using your fingers to push your underwear aside. You raise your hips, positioning him between your damp folds, before you slide down over him; he moans, long and loud, as his head tilts back. His length fills you, pushes deep into you as you carefully take him inside inch by inch. 

When you’re finally sitting against his base, you lean over his torso, letting your lips flutter over his stomach, his chest. Your tongue slips between your lips, delicately tracing over the still-pink crescent moons your nails have left on his skin, and his fingers clench at your thighs. When he ruts his hips, just slightly, into you, you gasp at the sudden movement, pulling your head back as you push yourself up from his body. “Stevie,” you say, voice half-choked. “No. Be good.” You feel him twitch inside of you at your words, his eyes clenched shut as he fights the urge to press into you while you let your body adjust to the sheer size of him. 

But you’re craving motion too, craving friction and stretching and gasps, and you start to pull away from him, letting his length slide partially out of your body before settling back down onto him. Steve grunts, the pads of his fingers digging into the skin of your backside hard enough to bruise, and he sounds so pretty you’re desperate to hear him again. “Talk to me, baby,” you command, and Steve’s lips pop open as you lift over him again. 

“You feel so good,” he says, immediately, desperate to give you whatever you ask for. “You’re so good, so fucking wet, and so tight, God, I don’t–” his breath hitches as you roll your hips over his, changing the pace so that your head falls back with a moan, “God, fuck, I don’t know how you’re still so tight when you take me like this.” He’s panting between the words, his breathing jagged as he lifts his hips up to rock you as you roll your hips over him. 

You whimper, needing more, and grab one of his hands from your hips. You bring it up to your face, setting his palm so that it cradles your cheek and moving his thumb over your lips. Steve pushes his digit between your lips, letting you suck his thumb into your wet mouth as your eyes slide shut. “Fuck, you’re so hot, baby. I–I love–fuck” he whimpers, “I love when you need me like this. Love when you want me so bad, sweet girl.”

You moan at the pet name, clenching slightly around him, and feel his hips thrust into yours harder than he probably intended to. You open your mouth, letting Steve slide his thumb out from between your lips. “Such a good boy for me, baby,” you say, turning your head slightly to nuzzle into the palm of his hand. “You’re my good boy, aren’t you, Stevie?” You ask, blinking at his sweet, sweat soaked face under you. 

“Yes, mommy,” he whimpers. You freeze, your body immediately stilling on top of his as your hands loosen. You blink slowly, once, twice. “What?” Steve asks, his eyebrows coming together in confusion. “What’s wrong, baby?” 

“You–Steve, you called me mommy.” Your voice is neutral, borderline casual, despite the way your heart is racing in your chest, the painful throb of it echoing in your throat. 

“What? No, I didn’t,” he says, his cheeks immediately flushing a dark shade of red. “No, that’s–that’s weird. I didn’t–wouldn’t–say that.” 

“Stevie,” you whisper, hand coming to his face to gently brush over his cheekbone. “Remember what we talked about? ‘S not weird. Just different.” His eyes shift, looking away from you as he grimaces. “Steve do you–” You swallow, the words suddenly feeling swollen in your throat. “Do you want to call me mommy?” 

His eyes snap back to yours, a clanging echoing in your head as you see the hopeful look there, see him pull his lower lip in between his teeth. “I mean–maybe? Unless it freaks you out?” He’s shy, bashful as the words leave his mouth, and you know he’d be running a hand through his hair now if they weren’t both on your skin so you do it for him, brushing his chestnut colored strands of hair off his face. 

You shake your head, leaning over him slowly. You place a kiss to his wide mouth, gentle, before pulling back slightly. “Doesn’t freak me out.” When you kiss him again it’s harder, more aggressive, and you slip his mouth open with your lips. “Say it again,” you order, pressing the words against his open mouth. 

“Mommy,” Steve whispers, fingers tightening against your skin. His voice is quiet, easily mistakable for just a whimper if it hadn’t been spoken into your lips, if your mouth hadn’t moved with his. A rational part of your brain tells you this is odd, him calling you mommy when you just saw how his mother let his father treat him–but your core clenches around him at the word, and the less-rational part of your brain (the part of your brain that Steve Harrington already controls) doesn’t really give a shit. Maybe it’s because you’d spent the night ready to defend him, trying to protect Steve from the awful things his parents said to him, but the word makes you feel like you get to keep him safe, like you get to comfort him and care for him, and it’s driving you wild to know that Steve wants you to do that for him. 

“Mommy,” Steve says again, his voice louder now, more confident as he feels you respond. You’re launched, suddenly, into a feeling of euphoria, of bliss, at the words, and you wrap your hands around the back of his neck, lifting him with you as you start to sit back up. He takes his hands from around you, pushing them into the mattress to support himself as he sits up, still buried deep inside of you. When you’re upright together, you push Steve’s head, slightly, to your chest, and he takes his cue immediately, cupping your breasts and bringing his lips to a nipple. 

“Mommy,” he moans against your skin as you start to rock your hips against his again. You gasp, your fingers gripping his hair as you lean back, slightly, giving him better access to your chest. “Fuck, Stevie,” you moan as his teeth scrape your sensitive bud, “You’re such a good boy. Such a good boy for mommy,” and his hips thrust into yours, hard. His thrust brought him against your wall, almost painful as he pushes against the one part of you that can’t stretch or move for him.

You cry out, your face twisting to the side, and his hands take advantage of the way your throat is suddenly exposed to wrap his fingers around your neck. He brushes his thumb down the side of your throat, pressing into your pulse, and you whimper as the rough pad of his finger presses into the pulsing vein. Still deep inside of you, Steve rocks his hips again, brushing his head against your wall; you feel your stomach muscles clench, your fingers tighten as you jerk forward against him, tiny sounds falling from your lips like dust from the stars you see shimmering in the edges of your vision.

The way he’s buried inside of you right now almost hurts, the intensity of the pleasure so overwhelming it starts to feel like pain. You pull back, just slightly, shifting your hips so that–if he wanted to–Steve could force himself to that point again, could fuck you until you feel like your heart might stop. He looks up at you, his face pressed against the breast his tongue is roaming, and you see in his eyes that he understands; he could fuck you like that, but you want to finish with him tonight, want to take your time with him inside of you. “Sweet baby,” you whisper, slipping your fingers through his hair, and he moans. He pushes, gently, into you again and the room is suddenly silent except for your gasping breaths, the sound of your bodies meeting again and again, and Steve’s occasional cry of “Mommy.”

You feel yourself starting to tighten around him, making him work harder to push his length entirely into you, and you smile, slightly, at the promise of your release. “Fucking me so good, Stevie,” you whisper, “Wanna cum with you, my sweet boy.” You let your fingers slip through his hair, ready to pull at it when the tightening band in your stomach snaps, ready to force him over the edge with you. 

Steve’s hips suddenly still under yours. “Want to–” he gasps, his face buried in the skin of your chest as he mouths, desperately, at your warm skin, “want to make you a mommy.” You feel your body pull back, your eyes narrowed as you look at him in shock. 

“Let me, please,” he whines, “Let me try. I want to make you a mommy.” You consider him, taking in the desperate shine in his eye, the way his hair is sticking to his forehead, the beads of sweat slipping where the two of you have been pressed skin to skin. “You’re such a good mommy,” Steve says, and you feel something inside of you give in, overcome with the image of Steve Harrington pumping you full of himself.

You nod, pulling your bottom teeth between your lips, and he suddenly tightens his arms around your waist, rolling so that your back is against the bed and he’s over you. For a moment, Steve’s full weight is on top of you, pressing every line, every arch, every freckle and scar and sensitive space into the mattress under you; he’s pinning you, accidentally, and you let your eyes slip shut, a soft sigh floating out of your mouth. He’s here, he’s right here, you think. 

Steve pushes himself up, taking some of his weight from you as his mouth comes to your neck, warm and sticky with spit as he pulls the skin of your throat in between his teeth. His fingers work at your waist, pulling your soaked underwear down your hips. Your hands immediately find his shoulder blades, nails pressing along his back. Steve loosens his teeth, letting blood rush to the spot he’s just bruised into your throat, and presses his nose along the hard line of your neck before slipping your underwear off and tossing them to the floor. 

His thrusts are gentle at first, loving and tender as he slips himself along your walls. Your fingers tighten around his back, gripping him closer to you, and you try to pull more of his weight back onto your body; Steve pulls his head back from your throat, glancing down at you with an eyebrow lifted. “I need to feel you, Stevie,” you murmur, lips swollen and eyes hazy as you gaze at him above you. 

Those words are all it takes for Steve to pull back, slipping your knees over his shoulders before you have time to ask him where he’s going, what he’s doing. When he presses back into you, bringing your knees high and down as he shifts his weight against the back of your thighs, you can’t stop the groan that leaves your mouth. Your hips ache, already, a deep, bruising discomfort that you know will stay with you for days, reminding you of this moment with every step, and your lips twist up as he looks at you. 

Your body is open, dripping to the bed below you as Steve slowly, gently pushes in. He’s up against your wall again, but in this position the ache comes second to the pleasure. When he pulls back, leaving only his head inside of you, you whine and reach for him, hands trying to pull him back into you. With a sharp rut of his hips, he buries himself back inside of you; your head rushes back of its own accord, sliding against the pillow Steve has so lovingly laid you on. “Shit,” you moan, and Steve grins over you, grins like he’s just won the State basketball tournament, grins like he’s got a raise at work, grins like he’s won the lottery as he slides home into you. 

He continues to push into you, the two of you luxuriating in the way you feel around him in this new position, open enough for him to thrust his hips hard without hurting you, and you find it only takes minutes of hearing his soft groans over you before that band of heat is back in your stomach. One of your hands drifts up from his back, sliding his hair over his forehead before cradling his cheek in your palm. “Stevie,” you try to say, and it comes out as a whimper when he ruts into you. “Stevie, baby, make me a mommy. Want to be a mommy for you,” you say, and you feel your core tightening around him, gentle pulses that are getting tighter and tighter. 

His eyes widen, slightly, as if he’s somehow surprised to hear these words from you. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, his eyes hazy like his brain is on autopilot, “I’m gonna. Gonna make you a mommy.” His hips start to stutter, his pace changing slightly as you feel his muscles tighten. You clench yourself, slightly, around him, and his next thrust makes your eyes slam shut, your head roll back, your back arch against the bed. A whimper falls from your lips, a sound almost shockingly quiet for the amount of pleasure it indicates. Your body spasms around his thick length, pulling him in deeper as your hips tilt, pulling him against that far wall. 

“Good–oh, fuck, you’re such a good boy,” you stammer, your body still pulsing as your lips fall open, and Steve’s thrusts become smaller; he can’t control himself, can’t pull himself far enough out anymore, as the clenching around him drives him over the edge. He erupts, suddenly, his body twitching inside of yours as his thick, wet heat fills you: “Mommy,” Steve moans, one last time as his release sweeps over him, and it makes you clench around him again. When he finally stops his hips, spent, Steve sags slightly, pressing his weight into you again as his cock twitches, still buried deep inside. He takes a few heavy breaths, both of you panting in silence.

Steve pulls his hips back, carefully removing himself from your swollen, aching lips. He sits up on his knees, removing your ankles from his shoulders and pressing a kiss to each calf before he lays them on the bed. As you watch, he parts your thighs again, sliding the flat of his palm against the mixture of your wetness and his satisfaction. You whimper, quietly, as his fingers slip between your folds and inside of your sensitive core. “Hold on, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Got to keep this in you.”  

When he’s done, satisfied that you have enough of his seed fucked deep inside, he slides up the bed, coming to rest beside you. He rolls on to his side, wide amber eyes carefully searching your face as you turn to look at him. He’s beautiful in the soft light of your bedroom, the usual tightness of his face eased as he looks at you. In these moments, Steve Harrington looks like he’s never had a care in the world–he doesn’t look like he has nightmares, or sleeps with a baseball bat by the bed, or avoids his parents. He just looks like a boy in love.