#wroteclassicaly

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.”

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