#greyscale and questions | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

s-brant · 2 years

Text

Sweet Peach

An inside joke started by Eddie turns into torment for Steve when his girlfriend, Y/N, joins in on it. On a night out with their friends, his long-buried frustration comes to a head.

13k (18+)

Warnings: smut, thigh-riding, unprotected sex, public sex, daddy kink, exhibitionism, breeding kink if you squint, substance use, and strong language.

There are a lot of things Steve loves about his friends.

The first of which is that they are loyal. Not the standard type of loyal either, they're the die-for-each-other type of loyal. From slaying inter-dimensional monsters together to trying to pass finals, they have gotten each other through many arduous trials. Having each other's backs isn't even a question at this point.

The second thing he loves about his friends is their ability to turn any lame Tuesday afternoon into the night of their lives. It doesn't matter what they have to do in the morning, or that there isn't much to do in Hawkins in the middle of the work week, they find a way to liven the dull town and paint the greyscale world around them in technicolor.

Growing up being the infamous King Steve who ran with a group of vapid popular kids, he didn't know what true friendship was until he found Nancy, Robin, Eddie, Y/N, and the kids. His weekends used to be spent drinking at lame parties until his loneliness inevitably set in once he returned to his empty home, or meandering around with Tommy and Carol in utter boredom looking for something to occupy them. Now, every day is a new adventure. Whether that adventure is being Dustin Henderson's personal chauffeur or watching Robin and Eddie get high while he and Y/N swim in his pool, it's a better time than any he spent with his old friends.

His third favorite thing about his friends is their collective, almost hive-mind sense of humor. The layers of their inside jokes know no bounds, and while he appreciates it ninety-nine percent of the time, right now, he wishes he could wipe their memory for the sake of ending his torment.

It started over a month ago with a conversation they were having while the kids were piled up in the backseat of Steve's BMW with Robin and Eddie squirming underneath the gaggle of bony-limbed teens that were sitting on them. Somehow, Will, Max, and Dustin all managed to squeeze in on top of them. It wasn't safe by any means. The only people wearing seatbelts back there were Robin, Eddie, and Max, and the lack of safety was what sparked the new inside joke in the first place.

The younger teens dove into the backseat before Steve could yell that there weren't enough seats. He had expected Dustin alone, but when they pulled up in front of the Henderson residence, two more little nerds came running out after him.

"Hey! No, absolutely not, I'm not starting this car until you guys are wearing seatbelts," Steve said in the same stern but shrill tone often used to yell at the kids. "Will and Max, get out and trade with Robin and Eddie. You two can sit on their laps. You"—he was turned in his seat to point at Dustin—"bike to Mike's house."

Dustin scoffed.

"That's not fair. Why can't Y/N just sit on my lap?"

As he was mouthing off, Max and Will were already opening one of the doors and leaving the car as per his request, waiting for their older friends to unbuckle their seatbelts in order for them to switch. However, Dustin wasn't getting off of Eddie's lap until he made a decent effort in getting his way.

"Uh, because I'm not gonna let my girlfriend ride without a seatbelt. Duh. Precious cargo, Henderson," Steve said as if it were a fact as obvious as the sky being blue and grass being green.

The sound of Eddie and Robin yelling out an offended, "Hey!" in unison at his lack of care for their safety in comparison to hers fell on deaf ears. He was too preoccupied with scolding his favorite child to acknowledge them. All the while, Y/N watched the interaction from the passenger's seat with a soft smile and a blush creeping up her face to the tips of her ears at his "precious cargo" comment. The contact of the hand he already had placed on her thigh from across the center console could've burned a hole right through the denim fabric of her Levi's. His hands were always warm.

"But—"

Steve didn't give him the chance to continue his protests.

"No buts," he said, "Go."

The younger boy rolled his eyes and retorted, "Okay, dad," with a lethal dose of condescension laced in the second word for emphasis. Everyone else, both inside and outside of the vehicle, let out laughs at the snarky jab that snuffed out the gentle hum of Captain and Tennille playing from the radio.

Within the fumbling process of everyone getting out and rearranging their places in the car while Dustin watched from the curb in annoyance, they all began to build on his comment.

It was Will who said, "You know, you really do act like a dad. You should swap this thing out for a minivan so everyone can fit."

The smile on Y/N's face only grew as she listened to the interaction and watched Steve exaggerate an eye roll in her peripheral vision.

"I second that!" Dustin chimed in with a raised hand.

A seatbelt clicked into place behind them, and it ended up being Max, settled between Eddie and Robin who were motioning for Will to sit down with his legs stretched out across all of their laps, who spoke up next in outrage.

"No way! Are you insane? This car is way too cool to trade it for a minivan."

The hand that wasn't resting on her thigh raised to gesture back at Max as he spoke matter-of-factory to Dustin through the rolled-down window, "And that is why she's my favorite. She's funny, she listens to me when I say to switch seats, and she doesn't tell me to abandon Phoebe for an ugly minivan."

He and Y/N named his beloved BMW passed down to him from his dad Phoebe after seeing Fast Times at Ridgemont High together and mutually decided that Phoebe Cates was the hottest girl they'd ever seen. Thus, the hottest car in existence, in Steve's biased opinion, had a fitting name.

"Aren't parents not supposed to have favorite kids?" Eddie asked, then shifted to a teasing tone of voice, "That's kinda fucked up, daddy."

The chorus of giggles that erupted through the car drew a reluctant smile from him that he fought with every fiber of his being. Y/N watched his lips twitch with the urge to let it develop into a full-blown toothy grin, but he managed to remain strong and keep his amusement masked. In the end, he ended up playing into the joke and amping up the "dad act" he unknowingly donned around the kids for the sake of the budding joke.

He departed from the Henderson residence with a playful, "Wear your helmet and you might be bumped back up to favorite kid status," spoken to where Dustin stood, less grumpy now that the mood had shifted into something more jovial.

In their defense, he didn't resent the joke when it started. For a week or so, it actually made him laugh just as much as it made them laugh. He would pretend to scoff and roll his eyes, but they all saw him chuckle whenever they cracked another joke about it. Soon enough, every member of the group began calling him "Dad" instead of his name. The kids even pulled together their collective allowances together to buy him a "World's Best Dad" apron.

The problem stemmed from Eddie.

It began with him calling him daddy, and then, well, it stuck. Hearing Eddie call him that obviously didn't weird him out. It was a joke. But once Y/N caught on and began saying it, Steve was forced to confront new revelations about himself he wasn't fully comfortable with.

The first few times she joined Eddie in poking fun at him with the nickname, he shifted in place and let out a forced laugh to satisfy them. It was one particular instance that prompted this revelation, and he hasn't been able to end the torment it's caused him since.

Summer afternoons tend to be hottest in July in Hawkins. With Steve being the only one in their group to have a pool, this meant that everyone was to spend the fourth at his place, savoring the haven that was the cool water beneath the blazing sun, pigging out on grilled hot dogs, and, for the oldest few, drinking beers he swiped from the fridge in his dad's garage. Y/N hated beer, though, so he, being the whipped thoughtful boyfriend, came up with an alternative for his girl.

The apron the kids gifted him was tied around his waist as he poured a shot of vodka into the Shirley Temple he made special for her, placing extra maraschino cherries on top because she always complains that restaurants never give her enough, if any, of them. Her red bikini matched their vibrant shade when he carried it over and handed it off with a softly spoken, "Here ya go, peach."

Y/N's head jerked around from where she'd been focusing on Nancy and Robin, talking about a book they both read recently, to see him. The two other girls were sharing a lounge chair beside Eddie, who was lighting up a joint and sitting on the patio ground. At the sight of Steve standing there, she smiled, and it only grew when she caught sight of the drink being held out for her.

She knew without having to turn around that it was him. Other than the obvious indicator of the voice that she could recognize in a crowd of thousands, Steve is the only person to call her by that nickname. Neither of them remembers how it started in the first place, but other than the occasional "baby" or "sweetheart" thrown into the mix, he has referred to her as "peach" for the duration of their relationship.

With one hand, she took the glass from him. With the other, she guided him to lean down for a kiss by the collar of the apron he wore to cook the hotdogs on the grill for the kids. At that moment, the idea of them spending the rest of their lives like this was her deepest desire. She pretended if only for the short moment it took to pull him in and kiss him, that this was their house together, that they had children of their own, and he would work the grill while she watched over their brood of little Harringtons. It wasn't hard to picture with the "World's Best Dad" apron he wore either.

The hand she used to pull him in slid down the front of the apron over the ironed-on lettering that spelled out the words. She kept her palm flat on his semi-toned abdomen, looking up at him through fluttering eyelashes, and patted over the word dad once as she casually spoke the words that damned him to his suffering.

"Thanks, daddy."

Something changed in him at that moment. The tectonic plates must have shifted, Pandora's box was opened, and there was nothing he could do but stand there with his eyes glued to her sitting in front of him in surprise. Not at the new nickname Eddie had given him, he was used to that joke now that they were a week deep, but at the unexpected effect it had to hear her say it.

You see, Steve never thought he was into kinky sex. After checking out a couple of dirty movies from the secluded adult section of Family Video, the conclusion came to him after two of them that he wasn't into the bondage thing. He liked to get rough now and then, sure, but that's normal. A little hair-pulling, aggressive doggy style with his girl wasn't anything to write a letter to the Penthouse over. This, however, was notable. It clicked with him about five seconds after she said it that he might get hard.

Oh, he thought. He liked that. A lot.

The fact that she was sitting with her face in front of his crotch and looking up at him played a part, but it was being called that by her that switched on a lightbulb in his brain he never knew existed. However, she didn't mean it the way he felt it. That specific kink is something she's heard brought up in some of Eddie and Jonathan's painfully lewd conversations whenever they're too high to care, but she never thought to imagine it in the context of her and Steve. Not yet, anyway.

Whatever Steve had conjured as a response died with an inaudible whimper in the back of his throat, and he was forced to gather himself quicker than he thought was possible due to having friends sitting around them. Nancy is far too perceptive to miss it if he starts acting funny, and if Eddie or Robin picked up on the fact that he was sporting a semi because she called him that, he would never live it down. Like, seriously, he would be destined to live in shame for all eternity.

With that in mind, he cleared his throat and said, "Of course." A charming smile was flashed in her direction. And for the sake of the voice in the back of his head always screaming at him to take care of her, he brushed a strand of hair from her face and said, "Drink some water too, okay? Can't have you passing out on me. Someone needs to help me keep those little shitheads away from the beer cooler."

The "shitheads" in question meaning Max and Lucas, who spent a decent half hour trying to sneak their way over to the cooler he stashed the cans in. He ended up shooing them off and used the cooler as his seat around the lounge chairs everyone was stretched out on in order to guard it.

Though the "passing out" bit was a gross over-exaggeration on his part when the alcohol consumption was a mere shot of vodka, it brought a familiar warmth to the pit of her belly. Feeling his hand resting on her head to pet her hair, looking up to take in the sight of him—his sun-kissed cheeks, the chest hair poking out from the edge of the apron tied around his bare torso, and the doting affection evident in those big doe eyes. It may have been easier for her to hide it, but that moment turned her on as well. She couldn't put her finger on what did it, but it was there. Something about seeing him paired with the soothing touch and the gentle command in his voice when he told her what to do...

She nodded along like a puppy, glad to do whatever he said so long as he didn't stop looking at her like that.

"Okay."

Had he not been sporting a noticeable bulge underneath the green apron, he would've sat with her for another minute while waiting for the hot dogs he just put on to cook, but he was quick to leave. Any excuse to get the hell away from whatever siren song she was singing and back to the grill so he could try to ignore the revelation he had.

From then on, she kept calling him that.

She and Eddie would greet him with the nickname every time they saw him. And, much to Steve's dismay, hearing it from her had him fighting off arousal every single day. There were more times than he could count that she would come hurrying up to him whenever they met, throw her arms around his broad shoulders to plant a kiss on his cheek, and say through a smile, "Hey, daddy."

It was like an itch he couldn't scratch. Every time that damned word fell from her lips, it killed him to refrain from reacting. Although, he'd be lying if he said it didn't have at least one positive effect on his life. The impact it made on their sex life, at least for him, was immeasurable.

The kids, along with Nancy, left his Fourth of July party before dinner time, and the combination of sun-induced exhaustion and alcohol consumption led to Robin and Eddie passing out on the living room couch. In other words, he and Y/N were free to do as they pleased in the seclusion of his bedroom. The size of the house gave them more privacy than they would find at her place. As long as the bedroom door remained shut and they kept as quiet as possible, their friends would be none the wiser.

The half-dry bikini tied to her body left damp patches on his sheets where he pinned her beneath him. His deft fingers had the straps undone on her top as he rutted between the legs wrapped around hips and whined into her mouth. He heard her calling him daddy on a loop in his mind and gave himself to it. The pleasure sparked by their needy grinding lowered his inhibitions. It allowed him to fantasize without shame or judgment, and when that wall came crashing down, there was nothing he could do to rebuild it.

He came in his shorts less than a moment later. It was embarrassingly fast compared to his usual stamina with her, and he could tell by the way that she looked at him as he trembled in her arms and chanted her name under his breath that it surprised her as much as it did him.

She asked, breathless, "Did you just come?"

The apples of his cheeks burned red. He ended up burying his face in her chest to hide it in embarrassment as he gave her a muffled, "Yeah," in response. It had been years since he came in his pants like that. If he had to guess, the last time might have been making out with his first girlfriend when he was fifteen, downstairs on the very couch Eddie and Robin were knocked out on.

And in the weeks since, it has been a frenzy.

Never in their lives has either of them had that much sex before. It was even more intense than the frequency at which they had sex at the start of their relationship when the honeymoon phase prompted them to undress at the drop of a hat. Most of it was him initiating considering she was jokingly calling him daddy every time they saw each other and he couldn't help but throw himself at her, but once she caught on to the sudden uptick in his sex drive, she began initiating it too. To be wanted by Steve Harrington was an addictive thing.

The "torment" aspect of the ongoing joke has to do with the fact that during this frenzy of sex, he can't say a thing about the new discovery he's made about himself. What if she thinks he's weird? What if she thinks he's some kind of creep? He'd never want to offend her and risk ruining what they have together for the sake of a kink he didn't know he had.

How is one supposed to break it to their girlfriend with whom they have vanilla sex that they think they would like to be called daddy in bed? It's not that he doesn't love the vanilla sex, he does. He loves plain old missionary. He loves holding her face in his hands and looking into her eyes. He loves making love to her, and he would argue that there is a difference between that and normal sex, but there's a part of him that wants to explore new things as well. And that part of him has been hard to ignore.

Especially tonight.

It was Nancy's idea.

With it now being late August, it's their last chance to be together as a group before she leaves for college, and she found the perfect way to celebrate before the send-off full of tearful goodbyes inevitably commences. She and Jonathan intended on dragging the older crew to a dive bar a few towns over that (allegedly) didn't check IDs. It wasn't necessarily about getting drunk, either, it was about getting out of Hawkins for one night. Far away from the place that caused pain and pleasure to them for a few hours of reprieve, or maybe even pretending to be the people they wanted to be.

The backseat of Joyce's car is packed. Jonathan borrowed it for the night, seeing as Steve's needed an oil change and he wasn't going to risk the twenty-minute drive if Phoebe wasn't ready for it. Jonathan and Nancy are sitting up front together while he, Robin, and Eddie are in the back.

His foot taps to the beat of the song playing from the mixtape Jonathan put in as they wait for Y/N to come walking around the end of her street. The hands on his wristwatch read eight-thirty. The precise time they told her to meet them down the road from her house. Steve likes to go up to the door to get her, ever the gentleman, whenever he takes her out, but this night is different. She couldn't tell her parents she was going out of town to a dive bar, could she?

Y/N smiles at herself in the mirror, swiping one last coat of lipstick on and taking a step back to review her masterpiece. The aesthetic of the makeup and outfit blend together with a cohesion rarely found in her wardrobe. Most often, she throws on whatever pair of jeans and top left that's clean and calls it a day. But something as big as the group's last night out together called for more attention to detail.

The fabric of the skirt wrapped around her hips is soft beneath the pads of her fingers running along the outseams. It's a mini skirt Steve gifted her last Christmas—short to an offensive degree and simple in design. Classic, one could say. Especially when paired with her knee-high boots, the sheer black button-down tucked into the waistband, and his favorite shade of lipstick. In other words, there's a likely possibility that she'll put her boyfriend into an early grave with how she looks tonight. He's told her what seeing her in this skirt does to him.

She spends another minute or so fussing over the way her hair falls before realizing the time and cursing under her breath, rushing over to her bedroom window as if a fire was lit under her ass. It's left open for the night breeze to infiltrate the bedroom behind her, but she doesn't care. Her parents never notice when she sneaks out, so she'll be spending the night at Steve's place after they return from the bar.

The impact of her feet on the hard dirt beneath her window sends a splintering ache up the sides of her legs that she ignores for the sake of running across her lawn.

And, suddenly, there she is one minute late. Running up around the bend of the road, she appears from the pockets of darkness between streetlights like a ship emerging from a cloud of mist—hidden one moment and towering above the voyeur with its commanding presence the next. Her, with her mini skirt and red lips. Her, with her hair swishing with the momentum of her strides in the breezy summer night. His sweet peach.

He doesn't stand a chance.

The door swings open for her, and there he is.

His hair is done differently than it is on a day-to-day basis. In a styled mess of grown-out strands, the general gist of his usual hairdo is altered to be a bit tidier. The sides are pushed back into place with hairspray while the top flops to the side in a swoop that is somehow disheveled and put together at the same time. He's wearing one of those stupid polo shirts she loves so much, and, God, one of these days she will suffocate beneath the weight of this eternal yearning.

His eyes rake up and down the length of her body multiple times before he manages to string together a sentence in greeting.

Bless him, she thinks. It's too easy.

"You look"—his mind cycles through the options, 'Gorgeous, pretty, sexy, good enough to eat, like I want to bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you so good you start calling me daddy for real this time'—"beautiful."

Robin interjects, "I mean, we all know that 'cause, duh, but please keep it in your pants, Harrington."

The way he said it, especially when paired with that blink-and-you'll-miss-it surprised expression donned by that pretty face of his, tells Y/N what she needs to know. The little black skirt will be on his bedroom floor by the end of the night. Not that she has any qualms about it. Robin's comment is ultimately disregarded.

"Right back at ya, daddy."

This earns her a laugh from Eddie, a nervous smile from Steve, and a few lackadaisical chuckles from the rest of the car. The joke is beginning to get old, but, for some reason, she can't stop calling him that. Old habits and such.

A shiver runs down Y/N's spine at the contact of the hand he rests at the southernmost point of her spine to steady her as she crawls in to sit on his lap. Once she steps in with one foot, his palm dips down to cup her ass cheek over the skirt with her backside facing away from their friends to "help" her the rest of the way in. But, she doesn't take it as him making a move.

The thing about their relationship is, they both know he already owns her. Whatever part of her, whatever piece of her soul he wants, is his, and she willingly surrenders it to him. So, touches like this are commonplace. They both know it never matters to them if he touches her ass or tits without initiating sex. Sometimes, he slips a hand up her shirt and cups one of her breasts in his hand as they fall asleep on nights they spend together.

It isn't just her either, it goes both ways.

She keeps a hand in the back pocket of his jeans most times, and she loves to play with his chest hair if it can be accessed with the clothes he's wearing. But, it must be acknowledged that it is something different in each direction. Steve's possession of her is different than hers of him, and she likes it. She likes their dynamic. She likes how he makes her feel safe and protected and held whenever they're together. She likes moments where he touches her this way simply because he can. Because he knows how much power he wields over her and refuses to do anything but good with it.

The possession she has of him is...fuck, what isn't it? It's everything. It's free falling into an unknown pit. It's wishing he could do anything to make her better when she's low. It's the urge to protect her from whatever threats come their way, a dynamic forged in the life or death environment their relationship began in when they looked after the kids together as El closed the gate. The knee-jerk reaction he had to leap in front of her into the direct path of a demodog, already raising the bat to swing for a girl he met days ago. It's being wrapped around her finger and savoring every second of it.

She settles into place on his lap and thanks him in a hushed tone as to not interrupt the conversation Robin and Eddie launched into about how egregious the couple PDA within the group can get. A pair of strong arms wrap around her waist, pulling her back with little effort so her back is flat against his chest with his body acting as a seat and seatbelt to keep her in place.

The motion of the car going forward rocks her ass back against his lap. He bites back a groan, and it ends up coming out as more of a shaky exhale that he prays she doesn't notice. As long as she doesn't call him...that...again and the car doesn't jolt around enough to move her on his lap, he'll make it through the drive unscathed.

For the first five minutes, all is well. Roadways are flat and smooth, she doesn't call him by her new favorite pet name, and he manages to ignore the nagging voice in his head reminding him of the dirty secret he's been harboring for over a month. It slips his mind as he listens to their friends' conversation with his chin propped onto the edge of her shoulder and his eyes trained on whoever is speaking.

But, right when they reach the six-minute mark, it begins.

The road doesn't become uneven and pothole-ridden out of the blue, it is she who starts to shift around on top of him of her own volition. As much as she loves cuddling, sitting on his lap with her knees pressing into the seat in front of her is getting uncomfortable, and she can't find a way to make the discomfort lessen no matter how she positions herself.

"So cramped in here," she whines under her breath and wiggles her hips in an attempt to sit without his hipbones digging into her ass.

It doesn't do anything to help. The only thing it succeeds in is arousing him. Luckily, the fleeting spark of pleasure he felt when she first got into the car was snuffed out by the distractions provided in the form of their friends, but this time...

Steve has to breathe in deeply through his nose and switch his chin to rest on her other shoulder, the one closest to the window, to keep the rest of them from noticing him shutting his eyes in concentration. It's an affirmation on repeat in his head to keep him from hearing her voice saying that cursed word to him: Do not think about it, do not think about it, do not think about it, do not—

There's movement to his left, the feeling of her head turning to look over her shoulder to him, and she asks at a volume so low, only he hears, "Are you okay?"

He curses himself for making it obvious. There's no way she wouldn't have noticed with their close proximity, but he hoped his deep breaths wouldn't attract attention. And once she turned her head to see his eyes shut, she assumed he was upset or in pain of some kind.

Well, he thinks, emotional pain. The crushing emotional anguish of not wanting to have this conversation here in front of their best friends.

"Yeah, peach, s'all good."

The reassuring words are punctuated with the soft squeeze of his arms tightening around her waist in a quick embrace, but there is an ulterior motive underneath. Perhaps if he holds her tighter and has better control, she won't be able to keep readjusting every two seconds and practically grind her ass on his soon-to-be erection. The thicker fabric of his jeans buys him more time before she notices to get it to soften, but, fuck, he needs it to hurry up and quit.

Knowing her, he should've known she wouldn't drop it. If she thinks he's not feeling well, she'll do whatever she can to reciprocate the care he shows her and try to make it better, but the last thing she's doing right now is making it better. Seeing her face and hearing her voice while feeling her pressed up against him is torture.

"Are you sure? Are you getting carsick?" Her eyes narrow and her brows pinch together as she asks it in a whisper. The soft pad of her thumb rubs the back of his hand in comfort. "You're breathing so heavy, you sound like you're gonna be sick."

She starts to squirm again in his strong embrace to turn to see him better, and the movement rubs the curve of her ass on his bulge just right. Through the thin layer of her panties, he can feel the warmth and softness of her pussy against his hardening cock. That's it. He's past the point of no return. Now that he's aware of it, he can't think of anything except how easy it would be to push her panties to the side, undo his jeans, and take her like this.

His arms unloop from her waist as casually as they can without drawing the attention of their friends, then he grips her hips with enough pressure to bruise the skin to halt her cruel movements. The feeling of his lips brushing her ear has her heart skipping a beat.

Steve says lowly, "Stop moving."

Her mouth is already opening to ask what the problem is, wondering if he's hurt in some way and she's making it worse when—

Oh.

He's hard.

It hurts her neck to crane it enough to meet eyes with him, but she considers it a necessary sacrifice to get the surprise she feels across. There's a silent pleading in his eyes. What it is he's pleading for, other than the obvious, she isn't sure until another few seconds pass and the sound of Nancy telling a story about the first time she smoked pot comes back to her. That's what he's asking her to do. Don't let them know anything is going on.

Those red lips are parted in shock, and Steve thinks he might burst out of his skin if he doesn't get his hands underneath that tiny skirt. Having to see her lips painted that color...

The reason he knows she did it on purpose is that he's told her, just like he did with the skirt, what it does to him. This one is less about his fondness for the color, although he does like it, and more so about the memory tied to it. It was Christmas of their senior year. Their fling was to remain on the down low until they knew what they wanted from it since it began shortly after they looked after the kids together amidst the chaos of the night El closed the gate. He dropped Dustin off at the Snowball where she waited for him, leaned up against the brick wall of Hawkins Middle School after walking Max over to ensure Billy didn't fuck with her.

He remembers that as the first time he knew he loved her. When he pulled up in front of the entrance to the gym and forgot about everything else in existence when he saw her there, taking the younger girl into her arms for a hug and waving goodbye. There was something about her that night that made him see her in a different light than when their relationship had been strictly a friendship with sexual perks. And when she got into the car after Dustin went in, he noticed how pretty she looked in her red lipstick.

The reason why seeing her wear it turns him on is far less wholesome, however. She gave him a blowjob for the first time that night and caught him off guard. He hadn't expected her to unbuckle her seat belt soon after they left and start undoing his pants, but she did, and red lipstick has been ruined for him ever since. It's a Pavlovian response at this point.

"Oh," she whispers, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

There's a light scoff, the loudest he's dared to be since she put two and two together, and she knows what he's going to say before he says it.

"Mhm"—the tip of nose brushes affectionately against the side of her neck—"You know exactly what you're doing."

Full honesty? She didn't realize her squirming in discomfort was causing his not-so-little problem. The lipstick and skirt were calculated blows, sure, but those were intended to get him worked up later. Not in a car full of people. And she definitely doesn't know what she's doing when it comes to the whole "daddy" thing. It's a silly nickname that stuck, that's all. She has no clue that her calling him that is the reason he can't get enough of her lately.

That's why she doesn't realize that what she's about to say is the worst possible thing for him to hear at the moment.

Her lips upturn in a teasing grin.

"Uh oh, daddy's mad."

Their voices are still low enough to not be heard over the music and chatter overwhelming the interior of the car, but that's the last fucking thing he's thinking about after what she said. That's it. He's done. He's done pretending that it doesn't affect him and feeling guilty for getting off on it. It could be the arousal clouding his judgment, but he says it before he has the good sense to stop himself.

"Quit calling me that." He mutters what comes next in a manner that is shockingly cavalier, "Unless you wanna get fucked right here in front of everyone. It's up to you."

Jonathan makes a sharp left turn onto a gravel side road that sends her shifting in Steve's lap, putting a delicious pressure on his aching cock that almost pulls a groan from his lips. The act of reaching out to stabilize herself with a hand on his thigh delays her reaction to what he said, but once the car straightens out on the new road and it clicks, her mouth runs dry.

Holy shit.

And though it was never a thought in her mind prior to this moment, it now clicks into place for her the same way it had for him on July fourth. There's a pulse of pleasure felt at the apex of her thighs at the combined sensations of having him speak to her like that, the general concept of what he meant, and the feeling of him hard beneath her. It's a wonder she manages to catch the soft moan that tries to leave her throat.

She's never seen him like this.

Their sex life isn't boring by any means, but this is different. Liking it rough and engaging in casual dirty talk is worlds apart from hearing that your boyfriend gets off on you calling him daddy and realizing you enjoy it too. And it isn't uncommon for him to guide her during sex, doting on her and letting her lay back while he takes care of her, but saying he'll fuck her in front of their friends if she doesn't stop calling him daddy is not the Steve she's familiar with. He always has control over her in bed due to their natural dynamic, but not like this. Not in this way. The way she never knew she needed.

It's an easy decision in the end. It's a movement so slow and minute, he doesn't realize she's making it at first.

Y/N shifts in his lap one last time, sliding her right leg over and letting it settle between his, and spreads them slowly to allow his muscular thigh enough space to press up against her clothed cunt. The wetness he caused has soaked through the flimsy material of her panties, and she's certain there will be a wet spot left behind on his pant leg but doesn't have it in herself to care.

The fog in his mind delays his thought process for a few seconds, so when she first spreads her legs over his thigh, it doesn't hit him until a few seconds later what she's doing. Or, more importantly, what it means.

She's into it too.

If there was any chance of him going soft, it's gone now at the realization that she finds the "daddy" thing as hot as he does. And then there's the small factor of her wanting to ride his thigh in a car full of people. The long gravel road sends them jolting up and down and side to side. It didn't take long for her to realize the opportunity it offered. She's so turned on, it aches. She needs this.

Steve doesn't say a word as he pushes his thigh up harder against her, unable to do anything but watch in equal parts awe and desire, to let her use the gentle bouncing of the car to get off on him. There's no movement necessary on her part. Her sole responsibility is to sit back and enjoy it.

He hears her mutter a soft, "Fuck," at the friction of her clit rubbing on his leg through the cotton fabric of her panties and squeezes her hip in a warning to stay quiet.

"What was that?"

The sound of Robin speaking up from her left side drops her heart into the pit of her stomach.

She looks to see every other person in the car turning their heads to where she and Robin sit, the latter of the two looking expectantly at her for a response. It's difficult to focus long enough to come up with an excuse because the stimulation never ceases. It isn't her or Steve deliberately causing it, it's the bumpy road bouncing and grinding her on him. But, regardless of whether or not they can control it, it sends an exhilarating rush through her. Nobody but them knows what they're doing as they watch it, and she didn't know how arousing it would be until now. The attention of everyone's eyes on her doesn't turn her off, it adds fuel to the fire.

"Oh, I was just saying to Steve that I forgot to close my bedroom window when I snuck out. My room's gonna be too cold by the time I get back," she says.

The strength it takes to not to let out a moan in between words is immeasurable. The only thing she can think about is how badly she wants him inside of her right now. How badly she wishes he could pull her panties aside how he imagined doing and slip right in. She's so wet, he could do it. The mental image he planted in her head about calling him daddy during sex got her soaked.

Most of the car is shrouded in darkness, so none of them take notice of the positioning of her legs or his, nor do they notice his right hand playing with the hem of her skirt. His finger teases its way underneath it to caress the side of her hip.

"You can stay at my place tonight," he offers, and it infuriates her that he can keep his cool throughout the situation that threatens to unravel her composure.

His solution to her half-truth of a problem seems to do the trick, and the rest of them resume the conversation about where Robin plans on going to college next year. Mercifully, Jonathan reaches to turn up the radio as a Bowie song takes its turn on the tape. The opening chords to Starman are a distant symphony. With the pleasure spiking every passing second spent on this road that rubs her clit on his thigh, it sounds further away—as if she's been plunged underwater and listens from the depths beneath.

And she may be enjoying this, but he's willing to bet he's enjoying it more. He can feel her pulsating against his leg with every bounce the car makes. It's visible in the little ways that she's already getting close. For one, her right hand shoots down to squeeze his where it has slipped up her skirt. It's something she does whenever she's about to come. She'll cling onto him in any way she can as if he's at the risk of disappearing without her acting as his tether to the earth, and holding his hand is the best she can do.

The feeling of his breath hitting her neck sends her deeper into the fantasy she couldn't help but imagine to aid her in getting off. This road can't stretch on forever, and the last thing she wants is to get left high and dry, so she pretends. She pretends that he did exactly what he said he would and fucked her right here. She imagines the sounds he'd make in her ear, the heavy pants that would fan over the back of her neck in hot exhales, and it's a struggle to refrain from letting his new nickname fall from her lips.

Another minute or so and the gravel road will run out, but she doesn't need any longer than that. They both know it. His cock is hard against her ass, so hard it almost hurts, and she loves knowing that she did that to him. It's exactly what she needs to be sent to the edge, teetering right there between the earth-shattering promise of pleasure and the possibility of having it ripped away should the road run out sooner than planned. All she needs is a little push.

And he knows that. He has watched her, felt her, and listened for any cues she might have given through his own haze of need. Seeing that he's made her come more times than he can count, he can tell what she wants and when, and, right now, she wants to hear his voice. Dirty talk is the quickest way to push her over the edge. It must kill her that they can't speak to one another right now.

Well, she can't because she doesn't recognize how loud or quiet she is with what she's feeling, but he thinks he'll get away with it.

Steve whispers into her ear, bouncing his thigh to give her an extra bit of contact, "That's it." The darkness of the car alongside the fact that it's already jolting conceals the deliberate bouncing of his leg, and he can hardly contain his excitement as he finally gets to bring his fantasy to life. "Such a good girl for daddy."

With those words, the tension in the pit of her belly snaps and her orgasm sweeps over her with a strength far too cruel for the setting they're in. Her hand squeezes his hand in a need to do something, anything, other than writhe and moan throughout the pulses of white-hot pleasure rippling through her. It's a shock she doesn't cut off his circulation or cause her bottom lip to bleed with how hard she bites it. Her head is turned as if she's simply looking out of the window when, in actuality, she's riding out her climax. The noises were within her control, but she knew there was nothing she could do to control her face and turned her head to the side as soon as it hit her.

Having her head turned to the side allows Steve to watch her come, and, boy, is it a pretty sight. Her lip is tugged between her teeth, her brows are furrowed, and he can just tell she's dying to cry out for him the way she knows he likes. When they first got together, she was shy about making noise. It took a lot of coaxing for her to let loose and allow herself to do what felt right, and now that she's been conditioned to make as much noise as she wants, it's hard to stifle it.

The raspy croons of Bowie's voice come back in full force with the receding high that eases off of her. After a half minute or so, she has to adjust her position so she's sitting on both of his legs instead of straddling one. Her orgasm has left her sensitive to the touch, and though the road is due to shift back to pavement in seconds, she can't handle the stimulation any longer.

It's an effort not to slump against the seat in front of her or pant as obviously as she wishes to. The music concealed any slight moans that made it past, but there's nothing to hide her panting or exhaustion. Sweat slicks her skin beneath her clothes despite the rolled-down windows that allow cool air inside. The car takes the left turn and stops jolting as it did before, and, though the sleepy bliss of the afterglow, she can't help but turn her face from the rest of them and smile.

Steve sees it, though, and his hand raises from its position at her hip to pull back the hair masking half of her face. He may still be hard, but the only thought in his head for this small span of seconds revolves around how beautiful that smile is. As if given permission to move by his touch, she leans over on the open window's frame with her armed folded beneath her chin to pant the outside air. The wind blows tender across her heated face, a lover's caress, and it counteracts the raging heat inside of her for now.

The moment of post-orgasmic serenity stretches on for another minute before reality comes knocking. Jonathan brings the car to a halt on the side of the street across from the bar Nancy picked out for them, and suddenly the feeling of Steve's erection poking at her ass beneath the skirt is something she is hyper-aware of.

Everyone else gets out of the car swiftly in excitement, but Steve lingers just long enough for it to be excused as waiting for her to get off of him and pulls her back by her hips. The strength with which he does so robs her of her breath.

"Bathroom. Five minutes."

That is all the explanation he offers as to what he plans on doing with her next before he opens the car door and ushers her out after their friends. Her legs tremble ever so slightly beneath her weight on the walk across the street. She stares at his back as he walks a step in front of her and gets lost focusing on the movement of his back muscles beneath his shirt.

She's so consumed by him, she doesn't notice Robin and Nancy approaching until they've converged from both sides. Their arms looping around her sends her jumping in fear before seeing it's them. It takes her a delayed moment of looking back and forth between them for her to realize they said something to her.

"Huh?"

A knowing smirk grows on Robin's face, her eyes deviating from hers for a second to meet Nancy's in silent communication.

"We were asking if you wanted to do karaoke. Nance's friend from the yearbook club said they have a band on Saturday nights for it. But, if you're too busy eye-fucking Steve to listen to us thennn—"

Nancy barks out a laugh, and Y/N scoffs, saying, "Fuck off, I was not eye-fucking him!"

Ahead of them, she already knows Steve is listening and gearing up to tease her over it as soon as he gets her alone in the bathroom.

"Okay, well, are you in or not? We were thinking Heart of Glass or Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," Nancy changes the subject as to not drag out her embarrassment.

She pretends to take the time to consider it as if it wasn't an immediate, "Yes," upon hearing the proposal to get back at them for the comment about eye-fucking Steve—which, honestly, she was doing. Nance and Robin both hang off of her arms, the latter of the two resting her chin on her shoulder and muttering a soft chant of, "Please, please, please, please," into her ear.

"Yes," she concedes, sending the two other women into a celebration full of high-fives and giggling, "but, only after we've had a few drinks. I don't think I have the balls to do that completely sober."

Which is code for, "I need to be in the bathroom with Steve in five minutes, so I'm going to make up some bullshit about needing to drink first so you won't notice my absence."

They accept the condition, and off they go into the bar. As promised by Nance, none of them get carded. They have to climb down a steep flight of stairs to the basement, descending into a narrow hallway dim with neon lighting to reach the seedy bar. And though it is quite gross with beer sticking the soles of her boots to the floor and a few abandoned items like unused condoms and cigarette filters, there's a strange allure to it that can't be denied. This is a place to come when you want to be yourself, no matter how messy that person may be.

Eddie and Jonathan head straight for the bar, whereas Steve says something to them that she can't hear but suspects is an excuse to slip away. She ends up following Robin and Nancy to sit at a table while the guys order drinks, but every second that passes is spent in nervous anticipation. Her leg bounces beneath the table with a force that could rattle it if they collided.

A glance at the clock tells her there's a minute left until he's expecting her back there. Time stretches on forever while she waits what feels like an inconspicuous amount of time to follow him to the bathrooms. Just before the big hand hits the top of the clock, she pushes her seat out and stands.

She says, "Be right back," and walks off in the direction of the stairs that lead down to the one-room bathroom.

It's darker the further she follows the path he took. The lights down here are no longer neon, but rather a buttery yellow that gets soaked up by the plain white surrounding her on either side. There are two hallways. A sign, which is actually a piece of paper taped to the wall with handwriting in sharpie, states that the manager's office is to the right and the bathroom is to the left.

There's a strange sensation bubbling in her stomach, and it takes longer than she'd like to admit to realize it's nervousness. The thing is, that’s a feeling she hasn't felt in ages in regard to being intimate with Steve. They broke through the awkward stage after the second time they had sex, and though the return of those nervous jitters catches her off guard, she can't say it doesn't excite her. Just thinking about what went down in the car, what she felt when she realized what he wants her to call him in bed, makes her press her thighs together to relieve the pulsing ache that has been reignited there.

Her closed fist knocks on the door a few times.

Silence.

"Steve," she says softly, then looks over her shoulder to ensure nobody is down here to see what they're up to. "It's just me."

There's a moment of pause before the door swings open and she is tugged inside by a strong hand that latches onto her wrist. It happens so fast, it's hard for her to keep track of their surroundings as the door is slammed shut, locked, and promptly used to throw her up against. The air is knocked from her body from the impact of him crashing into her, but she couldn't care less. The second his lips touch hers, she forgets any physical feeling other than those which he provides.

Steve's hands sink into her hair, cradling both sides of her head, and he uses it to direct her however he pleases. Whether he wants her to come closer or deepen the kiss, she is at the mercy of his desires. He bites down on her lower lip hard, and her mouth falls open in an inhale that he uses as an opportunity to slip his tongue inside. He kisses her as if the world depends on it. It isn't until she's on the verge of gasping for air that he gives her a break.

"God, you drive me insane," he murmurs into her mouth between little kisses that melt her heart. His hands wander anywhere she'll allow them to; her arms, back, waist, hips, ass, and tits. The warm palms of his hands explore her eager body as though he hasn't already done it a million times before. "You gonna let me fuck you, baby?"

She nods into the heated kiss, not wanting to waste a precious second of their time in here, but that isn't enough. No, he wants something from her. Something that he won't allow this to continue without hearing. With how wet she was for him in the car after he owned up to his newly found kink, he has blown past any reservations he once had for doing this with her. If anyone else were to know, he'd blush as red as a tomato, but she would never judge him. Least of all over something she finds arousing too.

His knee is pressed up between her thighs to put pressure on her overworked clit, and she cannot think straight to give him the response he wants. But she knows that's why he did it. A newer edge of muted sadism shows itself in him, not necessarily in the form of physical pain or punishment but in the form of enjoying her struggling. In giving her pleasure, he frustrates her, and it brings a smirk to his face.

He pulls his lips, now smeared with her red lipstick, out of reach, using the hands in her hair and the knee between her thighs to keep her pinned there. The lipstick is smattered along his lips and on the skin around it as well with a few marks left on his cheek and jaw. Not ideal for hiding the evidence of their secret tryst, but that's a bridge they'll cross later. As of now, he enjoys making her squirm.

She grinds forward against his knee for more as she whines, nose to nose with him, "Fuck me." Their lips manage to catch for a second before she whispers, looking up into his eyes through mascara-coated lashes, "Please, daddy."

For how shy she is trying out the new nickname in this context, she hides her insecurity well. Either that or he was too busy freaking the fuck out inside listening to her say that to care whether or not she was getting sheepish about it. Whatever the finer details are, it doesn't matter. Because that is the only thing he needed to lose what remained of his self-control.

Steve swings her around to face the sink in a matter of seconds. As she realized in the car, his strength is something she tends to overlook until moments like these. Sure, she'll always take the time to admire his biceps in his polo shirts or his thighs in a well-fitted pair of jeans, but it isn't until he starts to manhandle her like this that she remembers. In the past year he’s begun to grow into his tall frame.

A sharp breath is sucked in through her teeth as he bends her over the small, rickety sink. One hand is pressed to the middle of her back to force it to arch a little while the other makes quick work of the belt holding his jeans up. There isn't much time to spare considering their friends will expect them back in roughly six minutes, so he loses formality. It's urgent, almost primal, and they both know they're on the same page in regards to how hot they find it.

She is brought face to face with the dirty mirror and watches him undo his pants with his brows furrowed in frustration. Reading his mind isn't necessary, she already knows what's going on in there. After suffering through that car ride with her unknowingly pushing all of his buttons and getting him worked up, he's on the verge of crying, he's so sexually frustrated. Any delay in him getting inside of her pulls an annoyed little groan from the back of his throat.

The belt comes free from the buckle with an exasperated, "Finally," falling from his pretty pink lips as he yanks it out from the belt loops of his jeans and tosses it blindly across the room. It ends up hitting the metal trash can with a resounding, "Clang!" where the buckle collided with it, but they continue on in a frenzy.

Once his jeans and underwear are around his thighs, he wastes no time. He doesn't even wait to take her underwear off and stuff them into his back pocket to jerk off with later, he hooks two fingers into the crotch of her panties, pulls the wet fabric to the side, and guides his neglected cock to her. He teases her entrance for a split second. Both the release from her last orgasm and the precome collected at the tip of his cock makes for slick lubrication, and even if he wanted to, he doesn't think he could stop himself from slamming in the rest of the way once he nudges the tip inside of her.

They both cry out together at the feeling of their bodies merging so suddenly. For Steve, it's a cry of relief. He's been fantasizing about this for a month, and now that it's happening, he can't believe it's real. There's a dream-like surreality to it once it clicks with him that this is happening, that she really is bent over with her skirt around her waist for him in the bathroom of a dive bar, and it makes him twitch inside of her. More importantly, though, it makes him take a short pause to look at her.

He bends over so his chest is flush with her back—which makes her moan at the shift in angle caused by it—and brushes her hair from her face as she turns her head to the side. Her forehead is pressed up against the mirror, lips parted to take in deep breaths, and he feels her pushing her ass back against his hips and thighs in a request for him to move.

Still, he takes the time to admire her and says, kissing her cheek, "Love you."

This softens her tensed face.

She opens her mouth to parrot the words back to him but finds herself unable. Because the very moment she takes a breath to speak, he pulls out until just the tip is left inside of her and thrusts back into the hilt. Her jaw is slack with a mix of surprise and pleasure from the shift in pace, and she barely gets the chance to brace her hands on the edges of the sink for stability before he starts to pound her into it with all of his strength.

The sheer force of it jostles the sink beneath them to the cadence of his movements. It leaves her to hope it doesn't give out on them for a second before that thought disappears. It leaves her the second it appears because she has no capacity to think about anything other than what he is doing to her. And just because they have to be quick doesn't mean that he won't try to get one more orgasm out of her. Although she must admit, the idea of him using her like that elevates the gratification of it.

The intensified dominance he exhibits doesn't make it difficult to imagine. The way he keeps her trapped between his body and the sink, taking her exactly how he wants with no regard for where they are or if anybody overheard, it drives her wild. This new side to Steve is something she could get used to playing around with every now and then.

"Daddy," she whines, "I want you to use me. Fuck me like you hate me."

A breathy moan escapes him at this, and she can feel his reaction in how different the next returning thrusts. More frantic and carnal, a knee-jerk reaction to hearing her say that. Their bodies mold together perfectly. Every curve and edge of her fits to him as if they were made for each other, and she thinks they were. Whatever it is that decides, whether it be fate, a religious figure, or their DNA itself, designed them with each other in mind.

Steve curses under his breath at her, then says, panting, "You're filthy, fuck"—there's an abrupt pause in his speaking seeing that she purposely clenched around him, trying her best to give him the best fuck of his life regardless of whether she gets off again or not—"God, you feel so fucking good." His voice is breathy and hot in her ear. "Perfect little pussy."

One of his hands sneaks between her and the sink and dips into her panties to start rubbing her clit. It's already obvious to them both that he won't last long, and considering the amount of time, or lack thereof, that they have, he won't try to stave it off for long. So, he is dead set on getting her to come before him. He pulls out all the stops, tries every trick in the book, and hopes her first orgasm warmed her up enough for another.

The other hand settles on her back again, his torso lifting up off of her back so that he's standing behind her, and presses down for her to deepen the arch of her back and push her ass up closer to him. With her positioned like this, he starts hitting that sweet spot inside of her on every thrust.

She gasps a soft, "Daddy," and another hard snap of his hips sends her clawing at the sink.

The whole time, he keeps working her clit in tight circles with his fingertips and praising her through every second of it. Everything he says right now makes up for the forced silence they endured on the ride here. He tells her every thought in his head, ranging from professions of love to whatever other filthy things that come to mind, and she soaks up the attention gratefully.

It builds inside of her like a spring readying to bounce—the anticipation of her climax is nearly undoing in and of itself. It's a weightless, unending type of pleasure that rids her mind of any shame or fear of being interrupted. Though it makes her face heat up whenever she calls him daddy, she doesn't hesitate to say it now. In fact, the closer she draws to her end, the more rapidly it comes from her mouth.

It becomes apparent that they like this more than either of them bargained for, especially her. She wasn't the one who proposed it, after all. She was caught off guard by how hot she found it when he admitted to it in the car, but now? Now, she's done for. Now that they've gone through that door, there's no going back, and she's glad for it. Though Steve has always been skilled when it comes to women, this is the fasted he has made someone come before.

She's so turned on that the wet sound of his cock pumping in and out of her fills the cramped room. It feeds into the perfect storm of stimulation that pushes her to the brink of another orgasm. All of it—Steve, the sound of his voice, the taboo of what they're doing, and the physical feeling itself—fulfills every fantasy she's had since figuring out what sex was in the first place.

"Steve," she whines and reaches back to squeeze at his hip. Though hearing her call him daddy gets him going, nothing compares to when she says his name. "M'gonna come—"

And being the sweet, caring man he is while simultaneously railing her half to death over a sink, he says, "Go on. I've got you, peach. I'm not going anywhere."

Y/N comes undone with a moan. The mirror presses harder into her forehead with every rough thrust that pushes her into it, though she isn't inclined to care about the dull pain amidst her second blissful peak of the night. And not only is he left to watch her come beneath him, he feels it too. Every wave of pleasure that washes over her makes her spasm and squeeze down around his cock tightly enough to bring him to the edge of release as well.

He holds off for the time it takes her to ride out the intensity of her orgasm, rubbing her clit and fucking into her at the same brutal pace he kept before, and waits until she's hugging the sink and squirming from him in sensitivity to do anything.

Steve pulls out of her with no small amount of dissatisfaction for the seconds it takes to lift her up on unsteady legs, flip her around, and hoist her up onto the lip of the sink.

The shift in height leaves her disoriented and clinging her arms around his shoulders as to not slip off, but, deep down, she knows she doesn't need to. He wouldn't let anything happen to her, and that's part of what she loves about being with him. It plays into the new kink they're exploring and the power dynamic of it, the sense of protection and safety that occurs when surrendering herself to him.

There's a brief moment of fumbling in which he tugs her to the edge of the sink and frantically tries to line himself back up with her entrance, but once he settles between her parted thighs and sinks into her again, there's nothing awkward or fumbling about his actions. Every needy thrust is precise in depth and force, chasing the same high she came down from seconds ago.

The hand he wraps up in her hair yanks her head back for him to look into her eyes. He follows down the curve of her jaw, her neck, and to the cleavage visible beneath the see-through top covering her body. As he does this, she takes the time to survey him as well. It's hard to think straight through the aftershocks of her orgasm mixed with a sensitivity that almost makes her start to jerk away from him, but nothing will stop her admiring him.

Strands of his hair have been jostled out of place by their exertions, and the red lipstick smeared over his lips, jaw, and neck suits him better than she would've expected. Although, it's Steve, so she shouldn't count anything out when it comes to him being able to pull off a look. He makes everything look beautiful in a cool, James Dean sort of way that oozes effortlessness. (It isn't effortless at all, actually. She learned that soon after getting together with him and observing his extensive hair routine).

"You look so good fucking me, daddy," she can't help but blurt it out in a starry-eyed daze. The arms wrapped around his shoulders slide up to circle his neck, tugging him in until their mouths are brushing on the upstroke of his thrusts. "I can't believe you're mine."

The sound of her name muttered under his breath like a prayer has a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. His efforts in fucking her have doubled at this point. Rather than indulging in the pace and depth she finds most satisfying, he simply uses her to chase his orgasm. It draws small gasps and whines from her, but he doesn't slow down. He trusts her to tell him if and when to stop.

She taunts, "You like this, don't you? Using me to get off like I'm just a little fucktoy?"

Steve nods with his face pressed against hers.

"I—fuck—yeah, I love it. I love you."

His voice is caught halfway between its normal tone and a whine as he says it. It's almost hard to discern what he's saying with everything else that's happening. Between the heavy breathing, moans, and the obscene sound of their fucking that can likely be heard on the other side of the door, his voice starts to get lost within it.

The next few strokes are particularly sloppy, laced with an urgency none of the rest have had, so she can sense him coming before it hits him. His cock twitches inside of her, and he's already moving to pull out and jerk himself off onto her belly before she intervenes. He has pulled out halfway by the time she wraps her legs around his hips to push him the rest of the way back in and whispers a hurried, "Stay, stay," into the hairswidth of space between their parted lips. And he can't do anything but surge forward to kiss her as he tips over the edge.

Usually, he tends to opt on the side of pulling out even though she takes contraceptive pills. There have been countless instances of her complaining about how messy the cleanup is, and half the time neither of them wants to deal with it dripping out of her and staining their sheets. But, in the rarer event that she asks for it, he goes nuts.

Steve slams his hips forward into her a few more times before stilling inside of her with his hands balling her skirt up into fists, making little thrusts as he pumps her full of cum. For him, there is nothing like coming inside of her. It takes an average orgasm and increases the intensity tenfold, and considering that she's still crying out for him, calling him daddy as she thanks him for coming inside her, this one is unlike anything he's felt.

He stays pressed deep inside of her until his cock begins to soften, then slowly pulls out. Cum drips from her fucked-out hole onto the sink while he watches for a second, transfixed by the lewd image that'll likely be his sole source of masturbation material for the coming months before he reaches over to grab paper towels to clean her up with.

"Everything alright?" He asks. "It wasn't too much, was it?"

"No, it was perfect."

There's no sign of the domineering side of him that came out in the car. Now, he's all soft touches and insistent chivalry—that is, if wiping cum from your girlfriend's thighs in the bathroom of a bar can be considered anything close to chivalrous.

The paper towel is tossed aside into the trash can and her panties are moved back in place to keep any more of his release from spilling out. She nods, leaning up to peck his lips. Her arms are still propped over his shoulders when she pulls away to speak.

"I love you too, you know that?"

Steve gives a hum in response. His eyes are heavy-lidded from the exhaustion felt from head to toe after what they did. He always gets like this after he comes, sleepy-eyed and affectionate to the extent that he often struggles not to fall asleep cuddling with her. He's far too hung up on something she said to him earlier to want to sleep, however.

I can't believe you're mine.

There was once a time when Steve worried he'd never meet a woman who felt that way about him. For most of his life, Steve was reduced to whatever role people wanted him to fill. For Tommy and Carol, it was the popular rich kid also known as "King Steve" who led the basketball team and partied with them. For his parents, it has always been the "seen but not heard" son who went from being a promising young man to a failure or inconvenience at best. For Nancy Wheeler, he was a placeholder for the next guy. And it isn't something he holds against her. He needed to go through what happened with her to get to where he is today, but that doesn't mean it hurt any less.

All Steve Harrington wanted was to be wanted. He wanted someone, just one person, who woke up each morning with him as their first thought. He wanted someone who didn't think his love for them was bullshit. He wanted someone who'd look after their "kids" with as much care as he did. He wanted someone who loved him, someone who he didn't have to fill a role for. And, with her, he doesn't need to be anything but himself. With, her Steve can just be Steve, and that's enough. For once in his life, he's enough.

With total security in his belief of the words, he says softly, "I know."

Then, since there always is one when it comes to his girl, the other shoe drops.

"You know, for someone who likes being called daddy in the sack," she teases him as if she wasn't equally as aroused by the whole situation. "You're a bit of a perv, actually."

There it is, he thinks to himself. Knew it.

"Oh, screw you!"

She doesn't miss a beat.

"You just did."

The couple erupts into a fit of tired giggles, their limbs still entangled in a mess of sweaty skin and their appearances an utter disaster. After a moment, the laughter quiets and leaves them with nothing to do but stare into each other's eyes in the dim lighting of the bathroom. It takes him a while to work up the nerve to ask her the question he's had on his mind since the car, though it may seem self-explanatory with how she reacted in here.

"You liked it, though, right? I mean, the whole daddy thing. I know it's a lot, and I know you were joking but I'm sure it may seem a bit pervy if you don't know me, and—"

His rambling is shushed by her finger pressing into his lips.

"Of course, I liked it." She means to go on, but then becomes distracted by the lipstick that stains her finger where it presses to his lips. Her thumb is sucked into her mouth for a second and returns to his face to start rubbing off the makeup. "Thank God it's gonna be dark up there or else everyone would know what we've been—"

A banging on the door behind him makes Steve jump in her embrace, spinning around and placing himself in front of her body to shield her on instinct before his mind catches up. It's no inter-dimensional murderer like Vecna or a Demogorgon coming to finish the job, it's a cranky, drunk old dude pounding on the door who's likely two seconds from pissing his pants by the sound of it. Hearing him yell through the barrier separating them relaxes Steve's tense shoulders.

He turns back to Y/N to see her already staring at him. Her eyes have turned from bright and mischievous to a softened, sympathetic expression. She treats him so gently, down to the way she looks at him, and it's something he's never known how to accept. He's always the protector, the first to throw himself into the line of fire, the babysitter, but rarely did anyone check up on him the way he does them. Until her.

"Come on," he says, "We better get back up there before any of them realize how long we've been gone."

They may have gone nine minutes rather than six, but, with all things considered, they'll take it as a win. Plus, they realize once they ascend the stairs once more and find their places amongst their friends, nobody seems to notice. They made sure to clean the lipstick off their faces, fix their hair to the best of their abilities, and triple-check to ensure there weren't any suspicious stains on her black skirt.

In the end, Steve joins Eddie beside the old "out of service" jukebox to give Y/N some girl time with Robin and Nancy. It's not like they didn't get plenty of one on one time in the bathroom. But, right when he reaches Eddie and outstretches his hand for the beer he'd been babysitting until his return, he is thrown off by his friend's eyes flickering up and down between his face and his crotch.

The explanation comes a second later.

"Your fly's down."

He utters, "Oh shit," and turns toward the wall to zip it back up.

The following minute and a half is quiet. He took the beer from Eddie as soon as he fixed the zipper situation and turned back around to lean against the wall with his face flushed pink. Luckily for him, it's hard to tell with this lighting. Unluckily for him, it doesn't take good lighting to read body language, and he wears his heart on his sleeve whether he likes it or not. By the end of this deafening silence, he's bracing himself for it. It's palpable in the air around him and visible in the smile gradually fighting its way to fruition on Eddie's face.

He watches from the corner of his eye as Eddie observes Y/N talking to the other girls at their table not far away. Though tamed by her attempts to put herself back together, her hair is sporting a bedhead-esque appearance that is a sharp contrast to the put-together style she disappeared downstairs with. They both take a sip from their glasses, then...

"Harrington, you absolute hound dog—"

"Shut it, Munson."

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #stranger things fanfiction #fanfiction

5K notes · View notes