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maneatercore · 7 months ago

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𝐢'𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : steve harrington x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : you move to hawkins because it's cursed, and what is a curse if not inspiration for art? you plan to spend your days painting and thinking about the macabre. what you don't plan is steve - his perfect smile, the ease of his affection, the inexplicable need you have for him.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ minors dni! unprotected piv, oral sex (f receiving), size kink, multiple orgasms, pining, slight breeding kink even though r is on the pill, biting, r is kind of weird and steve loves it

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 5.8k

You’re smoking in the cemetery when Steve first meets you.

You’re wearing all black: tights, leg warmers, and a long sleeve dress. He assumes you’re mourning someone freshly deceased, so he gives you a polite, acknowledging nod when you look at him. You don’t react.

The wind is bitter, biting. The tip of your nose is so cold it’s numb, so you rub at it while you exhale a puff of smoke into the dreary November air. You watch the stranger find the grave he’s looking for, and when he squats down by it and disappears from sight for a few minutes, you go back to reading the names on the tombstones closest to you. Birthdays, death days. You think about how old they were - or how young. You try to picture them in your head.

“It’s cold out here,” a voice says beside you. When you look up, there he is, hands stuffed into his pockets. He’s got a nice face: pretty pink lips and wide eyes framed with long lashes, cold-kissed cheeks flushed deep. His breath fogs in puffs of white vapor. “Do you want to take my jacket? I have another in the car.”

Before you can respond, he's already shrugging out of the garment in question, a brown coat lined with warm-looking sherpa. You leave your cigarette in your mouth and slip into the jacket because that's what he wants you to do. "Thanks," you say around your cig.

"Who are you?" He asks the question in an almost demanding way, but then he catches himself and shakes his head with a grimace. "Sorry. I just haven't seen you around."

"It's okay. I just moved here." You tell him your name. He repeats it back, his voice soft but gruff in all the right places. You decide that you really, really like the sound of your name in his mouth.

"Steve," he introduces himself, then goes to shake your hand. He wants to ask why you're here. Why you'd move to this town while everyone else is trying to get out. Who you know that's dead. Instead, he just says, "Well. Welcome to Hawkins."

"Thanks," you say. It looks like he's going to leave - his car is parked in the street nearby, and he's walking backwards toward it. "Wait. I can't take your jacket."

"If "No, it's fine, take it. I don't want you to freeze out here." He pauses his backwards-walking. Bites at his lip like he's stalling, deciding something. "If you want to give it back, I work at the diner in town.

Basically every day. I make a mean coffee."

You ask, "Are you flirting with me?" and he freezes.

But then you smile, so he gives a nervous little laugh and looks away. "Bad place to flirt, I know. Sorry. I'll see you sometime?"

You nod at him, lips still quirked upwards, and he says something like okay cool bye before he rushes back to his car, clearly shivering.

Steve does make a mean coffee. He asks if you like it sweet, and you do, so he gives you a steaming mug of caramel-colored liquid, still swirling with freshly poured creamer and what looks like cinnamon. You take a sip and sigh deep.

🕯️

Outside, it's gray and gloomy and absolutely frigid, as it so often has been throughout autumn in Hawkins. You wore Steve's jacket all the way inside, until you slipped into the vinyl seat of your booth, and he'd practically tripped over his feet to come and greet you with a million-dollar smile. Now you're listening to his recommendations while the warmth of the coffee in your system spills outward to your limbs.

"And, I mean, the bacon is just... Crazy. You've gotta pour maple syrup over it." He lifts his hand to his head and makes an explosion sound with his lips pursed, fist opening in time with the noise. You snicker at him. "We have the real stuff, like, from the tree, not the other crap. You'll love it. Promise. Are you laughing at me?"

"Yes," you tell him, body shaking with giggles, and he doesn't even look hurt. "'m sorry, you're just funny. I'll take whatever you think is good, okay?"

Just when you notice that Steve's cheeks are tinted the prettiest, faintest shade of pink, he nods, spins around, and disappears into the kitchen.

He comes back ten minutes later with way too much food. There are too many plates to count, piled high with wide, fluffy pancakes, grits slick with butter, pepper-flecked scrambled eggs, and that bacon Steve promises is mind-blowing.

"Steve," you say as he slides the last plate onto the table. Perfectly toasted triangles of bread, with jam and butter. "I cannot eat all of this."

"Take whatever you can't eat to go. It's on me, if you're worried about how much it is. You told me to give you whatever's good, and there's a lot, so..."

"Help me?" You grab one of the napkin-wrapped bundles of silverware and unravel it, eyes on him. He takes in a sharp breath and looks around the diner.

It's Wednesday morning, ten o'clock. There's two other people nursing coffees at the bar, one of them reading a newspaper, the other watching the tiny television fixed to the wall. The emptiness of the place encourages him to slide into the seat opposite you. "Since you asked so nicely," he says, grabbing his own bundle of silverware.

The two of you eat around the assortment of plates, and he's right - everything is good. The bacon, smothered in that "real" maple syrup Steve talked up, is utterly divine. You eat until your stomach feels like it's stretched to double its size, and wash it all down with coffee and orange juice.

"Thoughts?" Steve asks. He wipes a sheen of hash brown grease from his lips with a napkin.

"Good. So good," you say, "but I'm going to need to hibernate after all of this.

"That's how you know it's good ole comfort food." Steve stands up and wipes his hands on his apron, then starts to stack empty plates in a complicated pile. You try to help, but he playfully swats your hand away with a chastising look. "'ll be back," he tells you and rushes off to discard the dishes and grab a few to-go boxes.

He doesn't let you help him pack up the leftovers, nor does he let you even see the price of everything you'd devoured. You try to stuff some cash into the pocket of his apron but he backs away with expert agility.

"First I steal vour iacket. now this? | feel like a leech."

"You're not a leech. I'm buttering you up on purpose."

"Oh?" You grab your discarded scarf from your seat and wrap it loosely around your throat. "And why is that, Steve?"

There's something mischievous sparkling in his eyes. He lets a couple beats pass, then slides over your plastic bag of to-go boxes. "Just welcoming you to Hawkins."

🕯️

You can't make Steve pay for your food and flirt with you on the job forever, and you certainly can't live on pancakes and bacon grease, so the two of you eventually move your hang-outs to non-working hours. You invite him to your place: a shabby little cottage on the edge of the forest, rented for stupid cheap from a family that just wanted to skip town and not worry about selling the house first. You've been here for a month or two, you're not really sure, but you've already settled in nicely. There are old wooden shelves pinned to the walls, sporting half-melted candles in silver holders and a few jars of oddities you've collected over the years: animal bones, butterfly wings, funny-shaped rocks, dried herbs. Long-dead flowers hang in bunches throughout the home, and on nearly every flat surface, there are collections of thoroughly used paint brushes and squeezed tubes of acrylic paint.

Stupidly, you'd tried to hide the countless canvases bearing your paintings in varying states of completion when Steve had first come over. But of course, he'd found them.

"Creepy," he'd mumbled while he browsed through your work. He caught himself sounding rude and stammered, "I mean, in a good way, in a really good way.”

He looked through your paintings for what felt like hours, oohing and ahhing at the whorls of black and violet and scarlet paint, portraits of frightened-looking women and blood-splattered angel wings.

Even though Steve must've already known you were somewhat... Odd, given your choice of clothing and jewelry and makeup, the sight of him taking in your art made your palms sweat. Because what if it was too much? What if he thought you were too strange?

Instead, he'd turned to you with a lightbulb-moment expression. "I should introduce you to Will, a friend of mine. He paints. He'd probably love this stuff. It's good."

And that had been enough to keep you from worrying that he'd run for the hills from you, yelling burn the witch!

Now, it seems silly that you could ever doubt Steve's interest in you. He comes by your house a few times a week, brings you leftover sweets from the diner that he promises were free of charge. He leaves you notes on the kitchen table that you never seem to catch him writing, and calls you on the days when he's too tired after work to come over. He wipes chocolate frosting from the corners of your lips and massages your forearms while you hum along to the mixtape you'd made for him, An Intro to Real Music, darkwave beats thrumming in the close quarters of your home. He makes your heartbeat feel unsteady.

"I have a stupid question," he tells you today, as one song peters out from the speakers and the next begins. He's rubbing circles in your arms, and the warmth of his touch is so comforting you think you could fall asleep like this.

"Hm?"

"What do you look like without your makeup?"

You can kind of hear him hold his breath. Truthfully, it's not a stupid question. Not when you wear black kohl eyeliner like it's going out of style, smudged all around your eyes and pointed outward at the inner and outer corners. You cover your face with foundation a shade or two too light, and your lipstick is always a smear of deep, wine red. Still, it's sweet that he thinks he's being insensitive.

"Normal. Boring, I guess. Why? You wanna see?"

"Seriously? No, no, it's fine. I was just... Wondering. Dunno." His hands find one of yours, and he rubs his thumbs into your palms to relieve the tension there.

Tension you didn't even know was there.

You peer up at him and smile, eyes finding his. "You wanna see. Okay, hold on."

Standing up from the cheap, rickety couch in the living room, you make your way to the bathroom and rifle through your cabinets for a container of Pond's lotion. It takes a good while to rub away all the makeup, but you're patient with it, and eventually you emerge from the bathroom makeup-free, skin shiny with moisture. Steve is still on the couch, and it looks like he's biting his nails when he looks up and sees you.

You gesture to your face and murmur a little ta-da! as you climb back onto the couch beside him. His arm snakes around your shoulders and he uses his free hand to pinch your chin, just to angle your face perfectly for his viewing. "God," he says.

"In a good way or a bad way?"

"Good, good," Steve rushes out, "I think you're just as pretty. But it's different. I like you both ways, I think."

You smile shyly at him, not really knowing what to say. The mixtape plays a few more songs while the two of you slip back into conversation. Steve is curious about you, and you feel the same about him, so you take turns trading little life anecdotes. He learns that you came to Hawkins because it's cheap and you felt drawn to its paranormal allure - you know, being cursed and all. You learn that he's lived here his whole life, long before it started getting...

Weird.

You don't ask him why he doesn't leave. The people he talks about, his friends, his found family, are clearly important to him. And they've stayed. Steve strikes you as one of the most loyal people you've ever met.

🕯️

It snows for the first time of the season in late November. You wake up to it that Sunday morning, pulling open the curtains and seeing flurries cascading down to the gray-brown earth. You get a fire going in the living room, poking at the flames with the set of wrought iron tools by the fireplace.

The phone rings.

"Hello," you say into the phone. You already know who it is - you don't get calls from anyone else.

"Did you look outside yet?"

"Mhm, it's pretty. I'm freezing." You twist your finger around the coiled cord of the landline, listening and agreeing in all the right moments as Steve invites himself over for coffee and banana bread. Both of which are provided by him.

When you hear the hum of his car engine outside, you wrap a blanket around yourself and swing open the front door to greet him. He's clad in a puffy jacket and a blue flannel underneath, nose beet red as he rushes through the door with a glass dish covered by aluminum foil. "Hi," you say and he shifts the dish to one hand to give you a quick hug. "Hi," he says back.

You both agree that the warmest place in your tiny is the rug next to the fireplace, so the two of you lay out some blankets and pillows there to share breakfast. The banana bread is, like, ridiculously good.

"Did you make this?" You cover your mouth to keep from spitting out a crumb while you talk.

Steve snorts. "No, my mom did. Sorry to disappoint."

You stop chewing and give him a funny look. "She made it... For me?"

"Oh, uh. No. I kind of swiped it from the kitchen this morning." He breaks eye contact and looks very focused on a speck of dirt or dust or lint on his jeans. It almost looks like he winces at himself. You hum your response, not really surprised by his admission. You swallow a mouthful of banana bread and chase it with some coffee. "I don't really talk to my parents," Steve blurts suddenly, and you give him another funny look, though you try to mask it. He charges on. "So they don't know about you. But my friends know. I mean, about you. I've told them about you."

His eyes flicker up to meet yours, and you're acutely aware of how soft his gaze is, how sweetly he looks at you when you're together. You couldn't keep from smiling if you tried. "What have you told them about me?"

Your question earns a scoff of surprise from Steve.

"What haven't I told them? That you're pretty, but, like, kind of intimidating at first. That you're an artist and everything you create is crazy good - art museum kinda stuff. You're smart, mysterious, and just... Cool. So cool. l've never met anyone as cool as you."

Laughing, you wrinkle your nose. "Nobody's ever called me cool before."

"That's insane. You really are so cool."

"You're embarrassing me," you mutter as your cheeks warm, surely spreading redness from your face to the tips of your ears. Steve says sorry, reaches forward, and grabs your hand. Your fingers intertwine and he's so warm, it thaws you out instantly.

It's hard not to pry any further. You want to ask Steve what you are to him - what he tells his friends you are. Just another friend? Some girl? Or something else? You open your mouth to ask but he doesn't see it, so he dives into a story about how the first snow of the season is always the most magical, because even though you see it every winter, its return carries the excitement and comfort and familiarity of seeing an old friend.

🕯️

December comes, and with it, more snow.

Christmas lights blink at you from where they line the homes on Steve's street, a few snowmen standing guard in the whiteness of the front lawns.

The car pulls into Steve's driveway and he puts it in park, turning to you with a grin. "Here," he announces unnecessarily.

The two of you make your way inside and hang up your outerwear, toeing your shoes off by the door.

You've brought a backpack with you, stuffed to the brim with everything you need to stay the night - Steve suggested that you two should have a

"sleepover" since his parents were out of town, and how could you say no? Of course, he'd made sure to qualify that it was an innocent sleepover, as opposed to... The other kind?

You're genuinely intimidated by the niceness of his house - it's bigger than any home you've ever lived in.

Even so, Steve looks embarrassed as he gestures around vaguely and says welcome. He asks if you want hot cocoa and you do, so you follow him into the too-big kitchen where he searches the too-big cabinets and too-big fridge for everything he needs.

You stand by the island and look around some more, only stopping when Steve places your warm mug in front of you.

You take a sip and shift around, the noise of your backpack ruffling catching Steve's "Oh, shit. You wanna put that upstairs? Sorry. Forgot you had a bag." He reaches out to take it from you and you oblige, trailing after him yet again as he leads you upstairs to his bedroom. It's crazy, the sheer amount of lights in his house. He has to flick a new lightswitch every few feet, and the house just keeps spilling out before you.

When you finally reach his room, he places your backpack on his neatly made bed. The room is nothing particularly notable, but the fact that you're in his room at all makes your neck get hot, and you bite at your lip to self-soothe.

"I don't know what you want to do tonight," Steve says, "but I have movies and music, some board games too. You can pick?"

He seems anxious, too, and you wonder if it's for the same reason that you are. The intimacy of being in his house for the first time, the fact that you'll be alone with him until tomorrow afternoon or maybe even later. The emptiness of the hours in front of you. The pressure to fill that time with something interesting.

"Let's make a fort." You take a few steps up to his bed and touch a folded-up blanket that sits atop his duvet cover. "Got more blankets than this? Pillows, too? We'll need lots of them."

So, you find yourself spending the night building a fort in Steve's living room with an array of sheets, blankets, comforters, and pillows. You two have creative differences regarding the structure, but when all is said and done, it's a pretty solid fortress.

You're panting from the effort of it all, the back of your shirt stuck to your spine with sweat, when you finally splay out on the pillows inside the fort. Steve is beside you nursing the last of his hot cocoa, equally spent from all the effort. "I haven't built a fort since I was a kid," he reflects, and you nod in agreement.

"Same here. That was fun. What should we call it?"

Steve thinks, shrugs his shoulders. "I'm bad at names. Let's just call it The Fort."

"Okay. The Fort." You let out a laugh and Steve's lips twitch into a smile. He reaches down at you and swipes a strand of loose hair from your face, expression turning serious. The change makes your heartbeat pick up a few notches. It's quiet, so quiet, until Steve says, "You are so pretty it hurts."

You're lying flat on the pillows and you want to sink further into them, because his words make you feel like you're melting. You mumble something that you hope sounds like thank you, shy under the intense gaze Steve's giving you. He licks his lips and you watch the quick flash of his pink tongue. Then, he sets his empty mug just outside The Fort, turning just for a second before he's facing you again. He shuffles around until he can lower himself onto the pillows beside you.

"I'm sorry. Was that too much?"

"What?"

"I said you're so pretty it hurts. And I meant it, by the way. But do you not like that? When I call you pretty?"

You tap your foot, pick at your nails, whatever you can do to expel some of the nervous energy that buzzes in you. "I do like it," you tell him, "especially because it's you saying it."

You can feel him moving beside you; your peripheral vision lets you see that he's turned his head so he can look at you. The sound of his breathing is closer than its ever been. Or maybe you're just more conscious of it than you've ever been. You close your eyes, turn your head to face him, and open your eyes again. Just like you'd thought, he's already looking at you.

You somehow find your voice enough to say, "You're also pretty. So pretty it hurts."

Steve's pupils dilate wide, and you think for a moment to a time someone had told you that your eyes do that when you're looking at someone you like.

You can't do it anymore. The holding back. You give up and kiss him.

Steve tastes like his hot cocoa, so sweet and chocolatey, but there's also the taste of him underneath the Swiss Miss that makes you shiver.

He holds you through the tremors, hands all over you but somehow not on you enough, and you struggle to breathe when he moves to climb on top of you and cradle your hips as you make out. Your tongues slide against each other and Steve's saliva is slick in your mouth, but you want more of him, as much of him as you can have.

You moan into his mouth and the sound makes him draw in a ragged breath through his nose.

"How can I get you to do that again?" The question is murmured against your lips, but before you can think of an answer, Steve is nosing at your jawline, inhaling your scent and pressing open-mouthed kisses to the smooth skin of your neck. You keen at him, sigh and moan at him, squirm underneath him with your eyes squeezed shut, and he loves it all.

"Yeah?" he asks once, when you moan particularly high in your throat. He'd found a sweet spot on the crook of your neck, and your noises encourage him to stay there until an angry, purple-red bruise marks you.

"Steve," you call out, because he keeps going. His hands slip under your shirt and he's warm on your belly, the soft fat of your hips, the roll of your skin underneath your bra. He unclasps the bra in one quick motion and then palms at the round swells of your breasts, nipples already peaked under his thumbs. "God," he gasps into your throat. "You're going to kill me."

"I would never," you whisper back. Steve huffs a short laugh and brings his lips back up to yours to kiss you deep. Then he breathes out, "Do you want this?"

He rocks his hips forward and you feel something hard bump against your hip. The sensation sends a cascade of butterflies throuah vou. "Please." is all is all you can manage to say.

So he peels your shirt from your torso and sets it somewhere to the side with your bra. Then he's staring at the newly exposed skin before him, the planes of your stomach and sternum, the soft flesh that's thrumming with the need for him. His lips are parted and his eyes are so, so wide.

"Beautiful," he murmurs before he litters your body with hot kisses. You don't think he's aware of how he's moving against you, the restrained length of his cock grinding down on you in search of friction. You hook your leg around his waist and cant your hips up to meet him and he makes a tortured sound, panting. Encouraged, he works on undoing your pants and working them from your hips, until you re just in your lace panties and fuzzy socks.

Steve looks like he really is going to die. Brown hair mussed, lips swollen and blushing, pupils taking over his irises. You want him inside you. So you tell him, "I want you inside me."

His brows knit together and his expression looks like he's been kicked in the head. "God, okay, of course, yeah. But I have to get you ready for me. That okay?"

You think you're so wet that you could take him already, but the prospect of him stretching you open in other ways is thrilling, so you let him roll your panties off and bring his fingers to the wet heat of your cunt, the flood of arousal pooled at your entrance. His eyes roll back for a second or two when he feels you.

"So wet for me," he says in a strangled kind of voice.

"Bet you want me to just fuck you already, huh?" His words simultaneously embarrass and arouse you, setting you aflame with need. You bite the inside of your cheek and nod, thin brows furrowing as he spreads your wetness through your folds, all the way up to the swollen nub of your clit. Your hips twitch and you gasp while he plays with you, his attentive gaze watching for every subtle change in your expression. He works you open with one finger, then two, the thickness of the digits inside of you leaving you whining.

He's still fully clothed, towering over you with his hand between your legs, and the fact that you're so vulnerable in the moment while he's still in his still in his stupid sweater and stupid jeans makes you want to rip the fabric from his body. But it's hard to move when he's scissoring his fingers inside of you, then leaning over and opening his mouth to let a mouthful of saliva drip down onto your already-drenched folds. You whimper at the obscenity of the gesture, then whimper some more when he brings his mouth to your cunt and spreads his own saliva with his tongue, his low grunts and moans vibrating against you. It's too much, but it's somehow not enough. You're writhing beneath him, the fat of your inner thighs pushing inward to cage his head between them, and he doesn't stop, he just keeps lapping at your cunt like a man possessed, fingers pumping into you at a relentless pace. The promise of an orgasm burns bright in the heat of your lower belly, and when it gets too much to bear, you go rigid and release a tortured sound from your lips.

Steve can feel your hole squeezing him like a vice, but he fucks his fingers into that extra tightness to help you ride out your orgasm, tongue prodding at your clit until you're twitching away from his touch.

"There you go, babe," he says as he pulls back from your oversensitive cunt. "That wasn't so hard, was it?”

You're too dizzy with lust to respond so you just nod at him. He moves back up your body to kiss you again, the taste of your cunt in his mouth, and when he pulls back he's smiling at you. "D'you like tasting yourself?"

"Yes," you breathe. Your hands search for the hem of his sweater and tug until he chuckles at you and obliges, undressing himself too slowly for your liking. When it's just him in his boxers and you in your socks, you sit up, gaze falling to the hardened length of Steve's cock obscured with a thin layer of fabric. You gulp because he's big. He's really big.

"Told you I had to get you ready." Steve smirks at you, having caught on to the way you looked at his cock. "C'mere, baby."

You breathe through your nose as you crawl over to him and palm his length through his boxers, salivating in your mouth when you finally get the courage to pull the elastic waistband down and free his cock. It's big and it's pretty and it looks almost heavy, the weight of it tapping his stomach briefly when it bobs free. His tip is wet with precum, and you bring your thumb up to spread it around, You breathe through your nose as you crawl over to him and palm his length through his boxers, salivating in your mouth when you finally get the courage to pull the elastic waistband down and free his cock. It's big and it's pretty and it looks almost heavy, the weight of it tapping his stomach briefly when it bobs free. His tip is wet with precum, and you bring your thumb up to spread it around, prompting a sharp inhale from Steve as he watches.

He curses under his breath.

"Spit on it," he tells you. His hand finds your hair and he pets at it.

You do as you're told, gathering spit in your mouth until it's enough to coat his cock. Steve's hips rock forward when you circle your hand around him and spread the wetness of your saliva, the glide of your skin on his too easy. He draws in another quick breath and then moves to stand up, only pausing when you grab at his hand.

"Where are you going?" You frown at him.

"Gonna get a condom," he says with a wry smile,

"What? You can't wait that long?"

When you shake your head, he laughs. You insist,

"I'm serious. I take birth control."

The smugness of his expression falls, his eyes The smugness of his expression falls, his eyes searching your face for a hint that you're joking, but when you're not he makes a show of flaring his nostrils and rolling his eyes back.

"Fuck, okay. Lie down."

So you do. You spread your legs for him to climb between, and his body is a welcome heat against yours; the feel of his skin on you is so tantalizing you think you might pass out. The prod of his head against your entrance sobers you up, and then he's sinking into you inch by inch, face pulled into an expression you want to memorize forever. But then he tucks his face into your neck to bite at your sensitive skin. his breath hot and needv as he So you do. You spread your legs for him to climb between, and his body is a welcome heat against yours; the feel of his skin on you is so tantalizing you think you might pass out. The prod of his head against your entrance sobers you up, and then he's sinking into you inch by inch, face pulled into an expression you want to memorize forever. But then he tucks his face into your neck to bite at your sensitive skin, his breath hot and needy as he bottoms out.

"How's that feel?" Steve grunts.

"Good, so good, please move, Steve." Your cunt squeezes around him in encouragement.

When he starts to fuck you in earnest, the slapping sound of skin against skin ringing out in the living room, the way he hits something blindingly good within you makes your mind go blank. You're not usually so pliant in bed, but he's so good, and you can't think to do anything other than just take it as he ruts himself into you. His hands come to grab your hips with a bruising grip, and even that feels impossibly good. Steve's not quiet about how much he's enjoying himself, either, responding to your sweet moans and cries with his own curses and grunts, good girl and so tight for me falling from his lips in an endless stream.

You're a panting mess beneath him when he reaches between your bodies to thumb at your clit, the sensation drawing a ragged gasp from you.

"Come for me again?" Steve asks but it's not much of a question, because he's dragging a second orgasm out of you already, fucking into you without abandon while you cry out his name and arch your back in pleasure. The sight of you like that, stretched out under him and lost in your own haze of lust, letting him fuck you as hard as he wants, it's just too fucking much for him. He leans closer to you and tells you he's going to come, and when you chant inside inside inside at him he damn near bites your neck open.

"You want me to fill you up?" He pants out the question while he chases his release, hips snapping into yours impossibly fast. You're nodding, eyes squeezed shut. "Huh? Tell me."

The blunt edges of his fingernails dig into the fat of your hips, and he doesn't slow down to let you speak easier. "Yes,"

' you gasp out, "Please, please fill

me up with you, please--"

"Mm. Good girl." Steve brings a hand up to pet at your cheek and then he's coming, hips stuttering as he fucks into you a few more times, somehow deeper than before, the head of his cock brushing against your g-spot while he spurts his cum within "Mm. Good girl." Steve brings a hand up to pet at your cheek and then he's coming, hips stuttering as he fucks into you a few more times, somehow deeper than before, the head of his cock brushing against your g-spot while he spurts his cum within you. The warmth of it makes you feel whole.

It takes a while for the two of you to come back to your senses. You're sweaty and struggling to breathe, wrapped up in him, and he brings his mouth to yours in a touchingly tender kiss that makes your stomach turn. Cum leaks from your hole when he finally pulls himself out. He looks at you with a dazed sort of expression when he slips his fingers into you again, pushing some of his semen back into your cunt. He beams at you as if you aren't whining and rolling your hips at his touch. "Can't let it go to waste, now, can we."

"You're evil," you say to him when he removes his hand from between your leg and kisses you on the cheek, settling into the pillows beside you again.

"Not always. You like it, don't you?"

A beat. "Yes," you confess.

"Knew it. We should shower. C'mon." Steve gathers the discarded clothes circling The Fort, then taps your hip to encourage you up. He leads you upstairs to his bathroom, where the shower is insanely big, and it's too tempting to keep yourselves from fooling around again when you're halfway through lathering your bodies with soap. And Steve fucks you again when you're in bed, hair still damp from the shower, then another time still when you wake up next to each other the following morning.

Outside, it snows so hard that the world looks like a painting. The lawn is powder white and the streets are empty, howling winter winds keeping you cuddled up to Steve for every morsel of warmth you can find. He kisses you like you're his, and you think maybe you are.

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