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harringtonfeels · 16 hours ago

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"slut me out in a bar alleyway" SCREAMING. You always have the best reviews. 😭

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4.9k words | Modern coworker!Steve Harrington x fem!Reader

You and your coworker Steve have been dancing around each other for months. And now that you're finally single, it's time to make a move. (Inspired by that Deuxmoi post about Joe Keery: "the most passionate, gentle man with the dirtiest words and tongue", because it made me want to die.)

Notes: Reader has breasts and a vagina, unprotected sex/pulling out, oral sex (f receiving), piv, dirty talking, praise kink, lots of pent up emotions/sexual tension, mention of Reader's ex-boyfriend.

You've been toeing a line with Steve, playing a dangerous game of controlled cat-and-mouse. If you were asked, you'd both deny it. But the truth is, you've wanted Steve a lot longer than you should have. Caught his gaze lingering on you in meetings, hoped to God he didn't notice you staring slack-jawed while he did something as mundane as sorting the mail at the office.

You've met each other's significant others at bar crawls after work, and you never did anything you shouldn't have, or at least nothing serious or deliberate. Even when he broke up with his girlfriend a few months ago, you were a good girl and kept things above board.

Steve told you once, when he was late to work several months ago because they'd been arguing about the laundry, that he wondered if maybe they were only still together because they'd been together so long. His cheeks burned afterward, a rushed "I shouldn't have said that" coming out almost immediately, so you never talked about it again. Even after Jessica, whose desk is right beside yours, reported that he was single a few weeks later to all the girls in your department, gleefully darting her eyes in Steve's direction across the floor… Even after all that, it was just stray glances that meant more than they should have, or knocking your knee against his under the table at lunch, or choking on a gasp when he showed you something new at work and said "good girl" when you did it right on the first try. But you never made a move, and you didn't plan to.

He's your coworker, and you had a boyfriend.

Had. Had a boyfriend.

Until Noah completely blew it. You'd been on the rocks for a while - he was away at grad school, and you both struggled with the distance. And while you sat there, faithfully waiting for his phone calls and his good morning texts and denying you had any interest in sweet, handsome Steve from work, your boyfriend, as it turns out, was busy reconnecting with his high school sweetheart. Totally innocently, he insisted when you saw him interacting with her posts on Facebook. And then he removed his relationship status from his account. And then, one day, he blocked you and told you he'd deleted the account. But when you told this to helpful Jessica from work, she pulled his profile right up and turned the screen toward you, asking, "Is this him?"

And then tonight, when you were both two or three drinks deep, surrounded by your boss and coworkers, you told Steve. Just loud enough for him to hear you over the music, and just low enough that nobody else could hear, you told him you and Noah had ended things.

In any other circumstance, this might have been a neutral statement, but you saw the way he looked at you - the way his pupils expanded a little, dialed in. You don't even know what you looked like, what he might have seen in your expression, but you didn't miss the way he licked his lips, the way he leaned in just enough that you could smell the cologne on the collar of his brown, leather jacket.

You only just made it to your car when your phone lit up with a text message, all white and blue light illuminating your future transgressions. It only took one sentence for him to make his intentions clear.

I think you've got my wallet, his message read.

You both knew that wasn't true. And so the next phase, the real chase, was on. You sat in your spot in the parking lot, coming up with something plausible in case the company were to ever ask for your records. Your heart pounded in your chest in time with the rain on your windshield, and you finally sent back: Sorry, I'm already back home. Can you come and pick it up? Your follow-up text included your address.

And that brings you to now, waiting for Steve, knowing he's only a few minutes behind you. You've dashed through a quick routine - taking off your shoes and jacket, tidying the kitchen a little, and brushing your teeth again - by the time he knocks on your door.

When you open it and let him inside, your pulse races. You don't know what happens from here, how to get from Point A to Point C.

As it turns out, you don't need to know, because no sooner has he set foot into your house than he's taking your face in his hands, brown eyes burning with something both electric and dark.

You stumble backward, hands instinctually grabbing him by each side of the undone zipper of his jacket. "Steve." Your voice sounds foreign and breathy to your own ears, like someone who doesn't believe their own eyes. Like you think he might be a figment of your imagination, a dream too good to be true.

His jacket is damp from the rain, and his hair is, too, and the front door is still wide open when he rests his forehead against yours and hesitates, lips slightly parted and just a breath away from yours. His chest is still several inches away from yours, like his mind got a little bit ahead of him and now he's not sure he should be so forward. There's a lingering air of "should we do this?" in the space where a greeting should have been, but you've already made up your mind. You cradle the back of his head in your hand and pull him in. The air is thick with tension, like the thunderstorm outside has permeated the atmosphere of your house as well. And when his mouth descends on yours, that first touch is electric, so jarring and desperate that it feels like gravity's been multiplied, drawing you to him. You couldn't fight it if you tried.

Your heart hammers in your chest as he softens under your touch and tugs you in by the belt loops. You always wondered what it would be like, not just kissing Steve but to be held by him. Wondered if you'd be able to feel it in his touch, after all those stolen glances these last couple of years, the late night talks at the bar after your boss went home. Mused on whether his hands would feel as solid and sure on your skin as his thigh does when it's pressed against yours in your tiny cubicle. Well, you were right, but only partly - his touch is sure, but it's urgent, like he's thought about this every bit as much as you have. Like he needs you.

Somewhere in those first few moments, he nudges the front door shut behind him and begins guiding you backwards. One thumb slots into your belt loop, big hand wrapping around your hip as he goes.

He tastes like whiskey and honey and everything you've ever wanted. Because you've seen the way Steve treated Tamara. You've seen him hold her the way you've been dying to be held, the way he's holding you right now. If it were someone else, maybe that would bother you, the idea of him touching you like his ex-girlfriend. But this is Steve - warm, gentle, tactile Steve, and you've been dying to feel even a little bit of the warmth of his sunshine.

"Do you have any idea—" Steve pulls away, looking into your eyes as he eases you down onto the sofa. "—how fucking long I've been wanting to do that?"

Swallowing thickly, you watch as he shrugs off his jacket. As soon as it hits the floor, you pull your knees up to your chest, parting them enough for him to slot himself between them. "As long as I've wanted you?" you suggest, hands finding the buckle of his belt and dragging him closer.

You can already see him straining against the denim of his jeans, the imprint of him hard and mouthwatering. Your mind still feels a little warm and languid from the alcohol, but when you palm him through his jeans without even thinking about it first, you're moving on entirely on desire and instinct.

"Fuck, honey," he sighs, fisting one hand in your hair and pulling just enough to drag a moan from your lips. "Can I—"

He hisses when you begin unbuckling his belt. Your hands are careful as you tug his zipper down, but you look up at the sound he makes to be sure you've not hurt him. He doesn't look like he's in pain, but you ask anyway. "Is this okay?"

The way you look up at him through your lashes seems to do something to him, because his hips buck a little. "Oh my God, yeah. D'you—Fuck, where's the bedroom?"

He swipes a hand through his hair sloppily, pushing it back from his forehead, and you almost release your grasp on him, desperate to run your fingers through it yourself. When your breath hitches, it's like you can feel your lungs rattling against the cage of your ribs. "This way," you tell him, taking his hand in yours as thunder rumbles through the house. As you stand, a flash of lightning illuminates the room, a persistent flicker, thrusting you both into the light just long enough to remember that this isn't who you are in the daylight. Or, rather, that it wasn't.

It could be.

The air is alive with static electricity, and so are you, Steve's mouth only parting from yours just long enough to pull the camisole over your head. By the time you reach your bedroom, he's out of his Levi's, and you're down to your underwear.

You didn't dress up for Steve tonight, or at least not in a conspicuous way. You wore a skirt that was appropriate for work and a fitted, button-down top with a little flare at the waist - nothing super out of the ordinary. But you made up your mind this morning before leaving for work that you were going to tell him, that you were going to be prepared for the pipe dream of ending the night in Steve's bed. So it shouldn't be that jarring when Steve pulls back to observe you, gaze roving the thin material of your bra, a strappy little push-up you picked up last week. But in the lulls of the day, when you let yourself daydream about Steve's hands on your skin, exploring your new lingerie, you assumed it would maybe make him more excited, maybe signal to him just how ready you are. But you didn't expect it to be like this.

Because Steve groans at the sight of you, hands palming your breasts with reverence through the sheer fabric, and then he drops to his knees. You bury your hands in his hair, pulse racing as he presses kisses to your stomach, hands holding your hips. "You're gonna fuckin' kill me," he hums, sounding not displeased about the prospect.

Suddenly, he pulls you down by your hips, sets you down at the foot of the bed and remains on his knees, shuffling forward just a bit to close the gap.

"Steve," you gasp as he pulls one of your legs over his shoulder.

"Did you dress up just for me?" he asks, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your knee. His gaze is burnt caramel, hot where it follows the curve of your calf, on up to the juncture of your knee, and up to your thighs and beyond.

It's probably a rhetorical question, but when he's looking at you like that, you feel like you need to respond, need to tell him. "I always dress up for you," you say softly.

Your stomach tenses a little in anticipation as his big, soft hands press your thighs apart, exposing you further. "Yeah? You mean like that pretty dress you wore yesterday?"

Lightning cracks across the sky, and the room is turned electric blue as the light shines through your curtains. You nod, watching him leave another chaste kiss higher up your thigh, on the soft skin of the inside. He pulls you a little closer to the edge of the bed, easier for him to reach. His voice is low and sultry, smooth in a way you've never heard it before, as he asks, "And like that tight little skirt you wore today?"

Swallowing thickly, you nod again. You've done a lot of things for Steve tonight, whether he knows it or not. The berry scented lotion, the skirt he always seemed to notice most, the lingerie, the posturing - all of it. All of it's been for Steve.

When his nose brushes against the damp fabric of your panties, the sound you make is less a sigh and more a breath being wrenched from your lungs. It's not voluntary in the slightest. The way Steve was tearing your clothes off in the hall, you didn't expect this, didn't anticipate he'd even bother with foreplay. But maybe you just don't know Steve yet, or at least, not like that. Because everything about him screams intentionality and gentleness.

"Love it when you wear that one," he murmurs, pulling your panties to the side. He presses your thigh against the bed, opening you up as far as he can with your other leg over his shoulder. Then he presses a kiss to the juncture of your thigh and the strappy waistband of your panties, you whine a little at his touch. Something about the tone of his voice, all soft and wanting, has your hands shaking already. His breath is hot on your skin when he adds, "Oh, baby, you're so wet for me already. If I knew you needed me this bad, I would have taken care of you sooner."

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, eyes fluttering shut at the thought as he continues. Your back arches just a little when his thumb drags a slow trail up from your entrance, through your slick folds, and circles around your swollen clit. "Could have drove you home. Could've stroked this pretty pussy in the passenger seat, maybe pulled over along the way if you still couldn't wait."

It's funny how just the sound of him describing the urgency, telling you you could have had him right there in the parking lot, makes you need him so much more now, while he's taking his time. "Steve—" Your hand curls around his bicep as his thumb circles your clit again. It's too direct, just a little too much when you're already so worked up. "—please, been waiting so long—"

"Oh, I know." His tone is bordering on patronizing, leaning just slightly more toward a coo, and hearing him like that makes you feel like your brain is running on dial up. "D'you think I didn't notice how you make twice as many trips to the printer as you need to, just so you can see me?"

No, actually, you didn't think he noticed. And just as you're about to tell him as much, when he buries his face between your thighs, tongue flattening to lick a stripe up from your entrance to the swollen bud of your clitoris.

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, fingers weaving into his hair reflexively. You've pictured Steve a lot of ways; you'd be lying if you said you never imagined this. But when he flicks his tongue against your clit, it's slower, gentler than you imagined. In your head, everything was always frenzied, as desperate as you felt. But the reality of his touch is so much… gentler, slower, like he's savoring you even from the very first taste.

One-night-stands and first-times in the days of yore were always very trial and error, and obviously so. You'd have to tell your partner what you do and don't like as it's happening if not discussed in advance, either through gritted teeth when something hurt, or over laughter with a new boyfriend, or with trepidation with your first love.

Steve, you find quickly, isn't like that at all. His mouth is, first of all, absolutely sinful - hot and agile and—

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip when he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks gently, hips rising involuntarily, chasing more more more. "Oh," you gasp, eyes screwing shut at the warmth blooming in your belly. You pull just slightly at his hair, knuckles pressed against the root, and a low moan rumbles from his throat, lips vibrating slightly against your skin. The wrist of your free hand twists above your head, fingers wrapping around the railing of the headboard for something, anything to hold onto. "'S good," you whimper, "so good, Steve."

There's a lot more finesse to Steve than you would have expected, the way he tries new patterns with his tongue, skillfully shifting from one technique to the next without pause. When he does come up for air, panting, he huffs out, "Do that again."

You tug on his hair again, gentle but firm, and that's when you see it, the way his big hand flexes as he palms the bulge straining against the confines of his briefs. Just as he shifts back into flicking his tongue against your clit, up and down, so direct the pleasure's almost painful, you moan with abandon, voice breathy and a little primal. You repeat his name like a mantra, like he can save you from the heat washing over your body, careening toward your orgasm too fast and too intensely.

"That's it, honey, let me hear you," he hums. Instinctively, like your body knows you shouldn't be finishing so soon, your thighs clench around his ears, trying to distance yourself a little from the overwhelming sensation building deep inside you. But try as your body might, there's no escaping him.

Steve's hands work quickly, grabbing your hips to push you farther up the bed, and when he kneels at the foot of the bed, he presses both your thighs flat against the sheets, opening you up entirely. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide when his mouth descends on you again, just your hips bucking against his mouth and thighs trembling, completely surrendering to the pleasure just as the first wave of your orgasm breaks.

You don't even hear the thunder rolling outside, pulse pounding in your ears. "Steve, Steve—" The sounds spilling out of your mouth are completely unintelligible. There's something you were going to say, but you don't have a clue what it was, or what you're even saying now, all the consonants soft and vowels trailing as he circles his tongue around the sensitive bud of your clitoris. It's just enough stimulation to work you through it, but indirect enough to keep you from crying out from overstimulation.

Your eyes prick with tears from the intensity of it all: the searing pleasure of your orgasm, the surreal edge of Steve's very presence in your bedroom that's setting in on the comedown, the longing pull coming from behind your ribs that feels like you just need need need more of him.

As the roll of your hips slows down, Steve presses a gentle kiss to your labia and looks up at you, eyes burning with desire and shining just a little with something that looks like pride.

His hand caresses your inner thigh, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there as he murmurs, "Taste so good, honey. Even sweeter than I thought."

Nobody's ever talked to you the way Steve does, with the kind of authoritative reverence in his voice - like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on and he knows you're all his. You've had guys try and talk dirty to you before, but they always seemed to over- or under-shoot—calling you names or sounding too embarrassed to possibly mean their words. But Steve, he can talk to you like this all night if he wants. From the smoldering look in his eyes, you think he just might.

The tears gather in the corner of your eyes, but you blink them away, reaching out for him, needing him like you've never needed anyone before. There's something about this dynamic between you - tense, like a fishing line pulled tight - that feels like it could break if you say the wrong thing. You want more of that authoritative but gentle tone of his voice, and his confident, attentive ministrations. When you told Steve you were single, you thought you were taking control of the situation, that maybe you'd be the one to shove him onto your mattress and tell him exactly what you want. But you weren't prepared for this side of Steve, cocky but so, so eager, so smooth and adoring all at once.

You need him, need more of him like you need to breathe. When he shuffles forward a little, crawling up your sweat-slick body to press a kiss to your lips, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in. He chuckles lightly against your skin, and while you might have worried that this hasn't affected him at all, the bulge grinding absentmindedly against your slick, aching cunt says otherwise.

His lips are soft and slick with the taste of you, but you don't mind - in fact, you find yourself chasing his kiss feverishly, craving more. So you're a little disappointed when he pulls back just far enough that his lips ghost against yours as he asks, "Was that everything you wanted?"

"No," you say, arms tangling beneath his to wrap around his shoulderblades, hands gripping his shoulders.

His eyes crinkle just a little at the corners as he grins, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips, then another to your nose. "Oh, yeah? Was something missing?"

He's so smug, it drives you crazy, and you're about to tell him as much when he nudges his nose against the lobe of your ear, hips rolling against yours slowly, deliberately. Your response dies on your tongue, replaced with a breathy moan, your fingernails digging little half-moons into his skin.

Steve asks, "Did you know I had to get myself off in my car after we left the bar last Friday?" His hips cant against yours sharply, as though to punctuate his sentence, and your hole clenches in response, tightening around the mere idea of him. "Didn't even make it out of the parking lot, watching you move in that awful mini-skirt. Thinking how unfair it was that I couldn't bury myself in this pretty pussy because some dickhead in Missouri was wasting his shot with you."

A shiver runs down your spine at the admission, and with your eyes closed, you can see him, fist working over his cock, which you still haven't seen yet. "I want it," you find yourself babbling, seemingly no longer possessing any restraint or self-respect as you rut against his hard length. You're not sure if it's that his confidence is infectious or if you've just completely lost all your inhibitions, but suddenly, you're talking like he does, open and honest and completely without shame. "You can fuck me any way you want, Steve, I just need to feel you, please—"

"Oh, fuck." His eyes roll back in his head slightly, and his cock twitches against you, through your sheer panties, and you want him so badly you could scream. Within just a few seconds, he's completely undressed and dragging your panties down your calves before slotting himself back between your thighs like he belongs there. You wrap your legs around him again quickly, afraid to ever, ever let him go.

The flushed tip of his cock presses against you, and he laces his fingers with yours, holding your entwined hands to the mattress. "I'll be gentle, honey," he murmurs, kissing your lips.

And then he presses himself inside you with a slow, shallow roll of his hips. You expect it to sting a little - it's been a while since you've been with anyone beyond phone sex with your vibrator, and your vibrator is certainly not as girthy as Steve. But he strokes your hair, eyes shining with concern as he scans your face for signs of discomfort, and after a few shallow thrusts, he's more than halfway inside you.

"Oh, that's it, baby," he coos, gaze flickering down to where your skin meets his. "Taking me so well; I knew you would. So tight, honey, you have any idea how good you feel?"

You feel so full already that it's overwhelming, but you just open your legs up a little wider for him, craving—needing—all of him. And when you do, Steve takes the hint and realigns his hips, then slowly presses in again, taking you all the way to the hilt. You inhale deeply through your nose, trying to steady yourself, nails scraping down his back.

Pressing his lips to your hairline, he hums, "'S that okay, honey? You ready for more?"

Your stomach clenches, walls tightening around him, and you nod into the crook of his neck.

And then he rolls his hips against yours, still keeping those shallow thrusts from before, brow furrowing with pleasure. It's a slow few moments of him stretching you open, getting used to the feeling, before he lowers his hips slightly, changing the angle again. And when he does, you gasp at the sensation, the stimulation of that spot just behind your pubic bone that makes you see stars.

"Yeah? That feel good?" he hums, licking his lips. When you whimper in response, he slides one arm beneath the small of your back to support you, and then he's thrusting into you with intention, like he's chasing something. Each thrust forces a shaky breath from your lips, a little gasp at the feeling, and you take his face in both your hands, thumb brushing against his pretty cheekbone.

And then it's you who's pulling him in, kissing him slow and languid as his hips maintain a measured, steady pace. He doesn't taste like whiskey anymore, just tastes like Steve.

"Fuck, honey," he groans, burying his face in your shoulder. "I don't know how much longer I can last. You're so goddamn pretty wrapped around my cock."

You slide your hand between your bodies, fingertips finding the aching bud of your clit and rubbing circles around it in time with his thrusts. You're getting close again, can feel that tension coiling in your abdomen, easier this time after the first. When you whimper at the sensitive touch, Steve pulls back a bit, lifts one of your legs over his shoulder and begins fucking you deeper, just a little harder than before.

You're moaning now with each thrust, back arching up into him, and then suddenly, you're bucking your hips against his with abandon. Steve hisses at the sensation of your walls fluttering around him, and then suddenly, he's gripping your hips and pressing you harder into the mattress, fucking you harder and faster as he chases his release. You've only just begun to climax when his hips stutter, pace becoming more erratic, and then you're scraping your nails down his back, leaving pink, swollen trails in their wake, and he's pulling out, abruptly spilling streaks of his hot, white release on your stomach.

He's breathing hard as he comes down, but that doesn't stop him kissing you breathless as your brows knit together, fingers still working your sensitive clit.

You feel dizzy on the comedown as Steve laves messy, open-mouthed kisses against your collarbone, and after a few moments, he's reaching across to the nightstand to gather some tissues. He's gentle and attentive as he cleans you up, and you let him, watch him wipe away the evidence of his orgasm on your stomach.

Only then, when Steve lies down beside you and pulls you to his chest, does the intensity of the day settle into your bones. Eight hours at work, a couple hours at the bar, and who knows how long spent in bed with your coworker Steve Harrington.

Your coworker. You wonder what else he is to you now. A one-night stand? A friend with benefits? A lover? It's hard to say. But the patterns Steve's tracing into your skin feel nice and relaxing, and your eyes are heavy from a long, exhausting day.

As you curl deeper into his side, your eyelids flutter shut, and you ask, "Was that everything you wanted?"

You don't have to see him—you can almost hear his smirk. "Well, I wouldn't say everything," he says, then pauses. "I can think of a thing or two I'd like to try, but I'd call it a good start."

That draws a laugh out of you. So maybe not a one-night stand after all.

Then, he presses a kiss to your temple and asks, "Is it okay if I stay the night?"

"No, I'm gonna make you drive home in the pouring rain after giving me two of the best orgasms of my life," you say flatly. Now that you're listening, you can hear it, the faint patter of raindrop after raindrop falling on the roof above. When you open your eyes to smile up at him, you see he's already looking at you, brown eyes shining in the faint light from the window.

Then he lifts your chin with his finger and kisses you softly. It's not suggestive or even urgent like all the kisses before. This one is different - slower, gentler. And when you lay your head on his chest again, for the first time in a long time, you finally feel content.

#pull the pin #wonderful mutuals

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harringtonfeels · 1 day ago