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You clench your fingers in your lap, nervously running the pad of your thumb across your hands in the silence. Steve was sitting next to you, one hand gripping the underside of the steering wheel tightly; his other arm was leaning against the car door, his elbow propped up so that he could run his long fingers through his hair. He sighed, again, and you pressed your lips into a tight line, eyes on the dark road he was driving down.
You had screwed up tonight. Screwed up bad . It was one of the rare times Steve’s parents were actually in town, actually staying longer than the few days it would take before his father would get assigned his next trip, and he had begged you to come to their dinner with him.
“Please?” He had whined, his lips leaving a trail of goosebumps up the back of your neck. He had pressed himself to your back as you filled your mug with coffee in the small apartment kitchen, eyes bleary and hips aching from the night before. “No way, ” you had snickered. You knew, at some point, you’d have to meet his parents, but the longer you could go without it, the better.
“Come on, baby,” Steve had whispered, pressing his lips right to the soft shell of your ear. You had tilted your neck, your eyes slipping closed as your hand slid up his neck, tangling behind you in his hair. His hand had ghosted down from your waist, fingers slipping under the waistband of your underwear. “I don’t want to be alone with them if I don’t have to be. I’d rather be with you,” he murmured.
That was all it took. You were a pushover when it came to Steve, too quick to cave to every request. All Steve had to say was “I want to see you,” or “Do you really have to go now?” and you’d give him whatever he asked for. As hesitant as you were to finally meet the Harrington’s, Steve had asked you so nicely (and rewarded you even better once you agreed); that’s why you felt so guilty now.
The dinner had been…alright. Steve’s mother had hauled you into the kitchen almost immediately, insisting that “the girls” would cook while “the men” talked. What that had really meant, apparently, was that she would drink so many martinis she could barely walk to the dining room table while Steve and his father sipped scotch in silence. The actual meal had been fine–although you hadn’t been able to stop yourself from narrowing your eyes when Mrs. Harrington had called the meal “Steve’s favorite”--and you had been able to make polite conversation, keeping the discussion from lulling too often or for too long by pretending to be interested in Mr. Harrington’s work.
Dessert, however, was when it all went to hell. Mrs. Harrington was carrying out the tiramisu she had transferred from the Enzo’s delivery box to a serving dish, and you heard heated conversation as the door swung shut. You bit your lip, listening intently as you waited for the coffeepot to stop dripping, catching snatches of conversation as voices rose.
When you finally walked back into the dining room, glass coffee pot in hand, you almost froze. Steve’s eyes were closed, his head tilted down towards the table. His father’s face was pink high in the cheeks, anger burning behind his eyes as spit flew from his mouth. He wasn’t shouting, not quite, but the tone he was speaking to Steve in raised the hairs on the back of your neck, set your heartrate up a notch.
“You need to get your life together, Steven,” he was saying. “You can not keep working these–these little, insignificant jobs, like you’re some insignificant man. You need to come work for me. You’ll be my assistant, and it’ll be hard, but you’ll travel with me and your mother and you’ll make a decent name for yourself. You’re going to end up like the people in this town–” Mr. Harrington rolled his eyes, “The men I work with think you’re the only failure to our family name. Everything I touch turned to gold, except you. If you don’t–”
“ Stop it ,” you had hissed, the words sliding out from between your clenched teeth. Steve’s head had shot up, his eyes wide as he looked at you.
“Excuse me?” His father had said, a look of mirth on his face as his eyebrows slid together. “I think you’d do better to keep your mouth shut, girl.”
The coffee pot in your hands had started to shake, your hands vibrating as anger coursed through your veins. “He is not ‘insignificant,’” you had spit, eyes narrowing as your lip pulled back from your teeth. “No one in this town gives a damn about your family name, but they know your son is a good man.”
Mr. Harrington scoffed, waving a hand towards you as he looked back at Steve. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Steven,” he said, and you let yourself look at Steve. He was watching you, eyes wide and jaw slack. “People in this town–people like her –aren’t the kind of people you should be spending time with. Sure, you can keep your bed warm with whatever kind of slut you want, but–”
“That’s enough,” Steve said, his voice a whisper. You blinked, suddenly, pushing back the wetness that was threatening to flood your eyes as Steve stared at you. “That’s enough ,” he repeated as his father continued to talk like he hadn’t heard him, and Steve stood up, pushing his chair back from the table so suddenly it hit the floor.
“Steven,” his mother admonished. He shook his head, not taking his eyes off you long enough to even acknowledge that she had spoken to him. “We’re leaving,” Steve said.
“What?” His mother asked. “But–there’s dessert. Stevie, your favorite–” He strode across the room to you, taking the coffee pot out of your hands and setting it down on the table with a thud. “Leaving now,” he said again, so quietly you could barely make it out as he stood right beside you. He took your hands in one of his, tugging you slightly behind him as he barrelled to the front door, a bullet that had been fired from the barrel of a gun without regard for where it was aimed.
He had opened the passenger door of his car, helped you tuck yourself away into the seat before closing the door and crossing to the driver’s side. His mother had appeared at the window, begging the two of you to come back inside and talk, but he had simply put the car into drive, eyes unflinching.
Neither of you had said a single word the entire drive back to your apartment. The radio was off, leaving no sound to stop the replaying loop of what you had said to Steve’s father. Next to you, Steve sighed (for the fourth time since you had gotten in the car) and you flinched, slightly. You took a deep breath, trying not to notice as your lungs shuddered.
This was the end. You were sure of it. Steve had wanted, had needed , you to come to dinner with his parents tonight; he had needed you to be there with him, offer him some comfort. You were supposed to sit next to him, squeeze his hand under the table, give him a gentle smile– not pick a fight with his father. You had broken Steve’s trust, had made an ass of yourself in front of his parents; worse, you weren’t even sure you had spoken for anyone but yourself.
It wasn’t your fault . You didn’t care if Steve’s parents thought you were some Hawkins bimbo, some stupid slut who would warm his bed until the “real” thing came along, but you couldn’t stomach the idea of him leaving. His dad wanted him to go with him–wanted to take him on those business trips that rarely brought him back home. They could talk however they wanted to about Hawkins and the people who lived there, but the thought of Steve disappearing, not even seeing him for fleeting moments in the grocery store or at basketball games, made you sick.
The car glided to a smooth stop, Steve putting it into park before getting out, coming around to your side, and opening the door. You got out of the car, following behind him as he walked to the door; your hand was cold, lonely without Steve’s fingers between yours, and you tried not to think about the conversation you were sure was going to happen once you got behind closed doors.
You could hear his keys jingling, the thick metal of the key to the apartment door sliding in, the lock thudding back out of its slot before the door fell open. Steve stood back, angling himself to the side so you could pass and walk in front of him into your shared home. Your home , you thought, and the words stopped you in your tracks, frozen in the entryway. It’s your home, and it’s Steve’s home, but really your home was Steve, and you knew, deep in your bones, that he was about to leave you, about to take your home away before he packed his bags and left, went to work with his father and find someone his parent’s would be proud of him for loving.
You kicked your shoes off as you heard the door close behind you, heard Steve’s steps come closer in the dark apartment. He didn’t say a word–you didn’t either–and when he pressed the broad planes of his chest against your back, his forearms wrapping over your hips to pull you tightly against him, you felt your eyes widen, your lips pop open in surprise. “Steve?” You whispered.
His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he spun you around, bringing the two of you face to face. “Steve,” you whispered again, face registering shock as you saw the glint in his eyes, the slight curl to his lips. “Steve, I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have–”
“Shh,” he whispered, shaking his head slowly. His eyes moved up and down your body, lingering over your throat, the way the dress you had bought for tonight hugged your hips, the skin of your thighs exposed by the skirt. He looked at you like it was the last time he was ever going to look at you, and it made your throat close up suddenly.
“Steve, I’m sorry , please, I didn’t mean to, I just–”
“Babygirl,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “ Please stop talking.” Your lips came together in surprise, your head pulling back slightly. This wasn’t like him, this tone–even though he was begging, it sounded strange and foreign on his lips like this.
“Steve–” you tried, one last time, desperate to make your case, to plead for your boyfriend to understand that you’d do better in the future if he just gave you a chance . His long fingers came up, suddenly, wrapping around your chin; he held your jaw tightly, and you felt tears spring to your eyes.
“Stop trying to apologize, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, leaning into your throat so the words danced over your skin. “I’m the one who should apologize.” His mouth opened, slightly, letting his tongue ghost around the small spot of skin he was pressing his face into. “I didn’t–I shouldn’t have asked you to come with me tonight. I’m sorry. But…sweetheart…” You waited, breath tight in your throat for his next words.
“You– fuck , babygirl, that was–God, you’re just so hot.” You felt your eyebrows come together over your eyes, your jaw tightening against his fingers. His lips pressed into the side of your throat, hot and aggressive as you gasped at the touch.
You stepped back, out of Steve’s hands, and he froze. “What? What’s wrong?” He asked, his eyes hazy with desire as he stared at you in the darkness. When he caught the glimmering tear tracks on your face, heard the shaking breath that pressed out of your chest, he came towards you quickly, hands rising to grasp your face between them. “Baby, baby, ” he whined, eyes widening as he tilted his head, hair falling to the side, “What’s the matter?” His fingers stroked the side of your face, wiping away the dampness there. “Talk to me, please .”
“I thought–” You started, eyes slipping closed as you took in a too-quick breath. “I thought you were going to–to break up with me. I thought you were going to go with your dad, and you were going to–”
“ Fuck no,” Steve hisses, shaking his head rapidly. “No. No way , sweetheart. First of all,” he said, thumbs stroking your cheekbones, “I’m not leaving you. Second of all, my dad–” Steve let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “He’s wrong. I’ve always known he was wrong about most things, but I didn’t know until I heard him talking about you how fucking wrong he was.” Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes wide as you stared at Steve. His eyes fell, gentle, across your face as he watched your expression change. “I didn’t–” he started, pausing to clear his throat. “I didn’t know he was wrong about me either. Until I heard you say it.”
Your lips fall open, your eyes narrowing as you stare at him. At Steve. The kindest, gentlest man you’ve ever met, the man who was always giving Dustin and Mike rides to the arcade, the man who never missed a single one of Lucas’ home games, who took Max out to dinner on Friday nights because he wasn’t sure if her mom would remember to leave anything in the fridge for her. There was no way he could believe the things his father had said about him–
“Steve,” you whisper, your voice crackling in the light slanting through the windows, over the darkness between your two bodies. “He–You’re not–”
The words don’t have a chance to fall from your lips. Steve is too quick, too fast to duck his head and press his mouth against yours, his perfectly curved lips pressing against yours with need. His face slides up, slightly, tilting your head back to keep your lips together. Steve’s jaw loosens slightly, his mouth opening so that his tongue can press against the tight seal of your lips. When his tongue slips into your mouth, tasting you like he’s been desperate for this moment, you whimper into him, rewarded by a soft grunt reverberating in the fingers you have pressed to his chest.
Your body tightens, heat immediately flooding your core as his long fingers slip around your waist, gripping to press his fingerprints into your curves. Your hands come up to his chest, pushing against his muscles just hard enough to break the kiss. Steve lets out a confused sound, his eyes still closed as your faces part. “Bedroom,” you whisper, and he opens his eyes long enough for you to see a wicked glint in his wide eyes.
Before you can question him, tilting your head slightly with the beginning of “What’s that look for?” playing on your lips, Steve’s hands snake along your back; one hand comes to your low back, the other under your thighs, and you’re momentarily weightless as he knocks you off of your feet. Steve pulls you against him, cradling you against his chest like a bride crossing a threshold, and your breath catches in your throat before bursting out in a giggle. You tilt your head back with the laugh, bringing your hands up to wrap around Steve’s neck as he carries you down the hall.
In the bedroom, he tosses you onto your shared sleeping space. Your body bounces on the plush mattress, the cloud-soft bedspread the two of you had picked out together under your hands as you push yourself up to sitting. Steve undoes the top button of his dress shirt, the green one you had insisted on because it matches the tiny line of color around his pupils before they turn brown, and pulls it by the collar over his head. He tosses it to the floor, fingers immediately going to the button of his pants. “C’mere,” you say, voice thick with the desire flooding your veins.
Steve takes a step towards you, a grin starting to turn up the edges of his lips as he tilts his head, and your hands replace his on his pants. Quickly, you push the fabric to the floor, leaving him exposed in front of you. Steve’s wide hands find your thighs as he leans forward over you, pushing the fabric of your dress up, up, up as his fingers skim your skin. He pulls the dress over your head, tossing it behind him as you fall to the bed and he climbs over you.
Steve presses his lips against yours again, finding them already open as you moan into his mouth. Your hands slide up his muscled back, coming to knot in the hair at the nape of his neck. When you pull, slightly, he whimpers, letting your hands tilt his face up so that his damp lips slide up your face. “On your back,” you whisper, and Steve is quick to obey, throwing himself down beside you as you sit up. You sling a leg over his waist, settling yourself over his hips as you press against him. Steve’s hands coast over your thighs, your hips, your waist, coming to rest at the band of your bra before he quickly unclasps it, pulling the straps from your shoulders. When your skin is exposed, nipples tightening in the chill air of the room, Steve smirks at you–a hint of King Steve present tonight–before he tosses your bra over your shoulder.
His hands are warm, rough as they come to your exposed skin, gripping and kneading against your sensitive breasts. His thumbs glide over your nipples, raising them, before he grasps them between his fingers, twisting the tender skin as you gasp. Your eyes slide shut of their own volition, your head tilting back as you try to suppress a moan. “Harrington,” you whisper, your hands resting on his chest. You can feel your core throbbing, absolutely aching already with how badly you need him, how badly you need Steve to reassure you that he’s still here , that he’s not leaving , and the wetness of your underwear has to be noticeable to him by now.
You grind your hips, slightly, over his, and are rewarded with a soft groan from beneath you. Desperate to hear him again, your fingers tighten over Steve’s chest, fingertips burying into the dark hair there as your nails press into his skin. He whimpers, a soft sound that breaks free from his lips as his head presses backwards into the mattress under him, and you feel your face break into a grin. His erection is pressing into you, under you, as you grind your hips against him again, his exposed member pressing into your clothed heat. “Please,” he whispers, and you sigh at the sound. “Please, babygirl, I–come on. Please.”
You tilt your head to look at him beneath you, batting your eyelashes innocently. He groans as you cast a faux innocence over your face, uncomfortably aware of the swelling in between his bare thighs. You lean down, pressing your torso to his before you slide your mouth over his warm skin; you mouth at his collarbone, lips growing wet with your own spit as they slip down, down over his large chest muscles, brushing against the dark hair there. Your mouth, slippery and spit soaked, covers his nipple, pulling it in between your teeth. You nip, eliciting a yelp from the chest under you, and pull back, a satisfied grin on your face.
As you sit back, Steve’s eyes watch you carefully. His amber eyes grow wide as you dip your hand between where your bodies press together, throbbing skin against throbbing skin. You wrap your fingers around his length and navigate him to the space between your thighs, using your fingers to push your underwear aside. You raise your hips, positioning him between your damp folds, before you slide down over him; he moans, long and loud, as his head tilts back. His length fills you, pushes deep into you as you carefully take him inside inch by inch.
When you’re finally sitting against his base, you lean over his torso, letting your lips flutter over his stomach, his chest. Your tongue slips between your lips, delicately tracing over the still-pink crescent moons your nails have left on his skin, and his fingers clench at your thighs. When he ruts his hips, just slightly, into you, you gasp at the sudden movement, pulling your head back as you push yourself up from his body. “Stevie,” you say, voice half-choked. “No. Be good .” You feel him twitch inside of you at your words, his eyes clenched shut as he fights the urge to press into you while you let your body adjust to the sheer size of him.
But you’re craving motion too, craving friction and stretching and gasps, and you start to pull away from him, letting his length slide partially out of your body before settling back down onto him. Steve grunts, the pads of his fingers digging into the skin of your backside hard enough to bruise, and he sounds so pretty you’re desperate to hear him again. “Talk to me, baby,” you command, and Steve’s lips pop open as you lift over him again.
“You feel so good,” he says, immediately, desperate to give you whatever you ask for. “You’re so good, so fucking wet , and so tight, God, I don’t–” his breath hitches as you roll your hips over his, changing the pace so that your head falls back with a moan, “ God, fuck, I don’t know how you’re still so tight when you take me like this.” He’s panting between the words, his breathing jagged as he lifts his hips up to rock you as you roll your hips over him.
You whimper, needing more, and grab one of his hands from your hips. You bring it up to your face, setting his palm so that it cradles your cheek and moving his thumb over your lips. Steve pushes his digit between your lips, letting you suck his thumb into your wet mouth as your eyes slide shut. “ Fuck , you’re so hot, baby. I–I love– fuck ” he whimpers, “I love when you need me like this. Love when you want me so bad, sweet girl.”
You moan at the pet name, clenching slightly around him, and feel his hips thrust into yours harder than he probably intended to. You open your mouth, letting Steve slide his thumb out from between your lips. “Such a good boy for me, baby,” you say, turning your head slightly to nuzzle into the palm of his hand. “You’re my good boy, aren’t you, Stevie?” You ask, blinking at his sweet, sweat soaked face under you.
“Yes, mommy,” he whimpers. You freeze, your body immediately stilling on top of his as your hands loosen. You blink slowly, once, twice. “What?” Steve asks, his eyebrows coming together in confusion. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“You–Steve, you called me mommy.” Your voice is neutral, borderline casual, despite the way your heart is racing in your chest, the painful throb of it echoing in your throat.
“What? No, I didn’t,” he says, his cheeks immediately flushing a dark shade of red. “No, that’s–that’s weird. I didn’t– wouldn’t –say that.”
“Stevie,” you whisper, hand coming to his face to gently brush over his cheekbone. “Remember what we talked about? ‘S not weird. Just different.” His eyes shift, looking away from you as he grimaces. “Steve do you–” You swallow, the words suddenly feeling swollen in your throat. “Do you want to call me mommy?”
His eyes snap back to yours, a clanging echoing in your head as you see the hopeful look there, see him pull his lower lip in between his teeth. “I mean–maybe? Unless it freaks you out?” He’s shy, bashful as the words leave his mouth, and you know he’d be running a hand through his hair now if they weren’t both on your skin so you do it for him, brushing his chestnut colored strands of hair off his face.
You shake your head, leaning over him slowly. You place a kiss to his wide mouth, gentle, before pulling back slightly. “Doesn’t freak me out.” When you kiss him again it’s harder, more aggressive, and you slip his mouth open with your lips. “Say it again,” you order, pressing the words against his open mouth.
“Mommy,” Steve whispers, fingers tightening against your skin. His voice is quiet, easily mistakable for just a whimper if it hadn’t been spoken into your lips, if your mouth hadn’t moved with his. A rational part of your brain tells you this is odd , him calling you mommy when you just saw how his mother let his father treat him–but your core clenches around him at the word, and the less-rational part of your brain (the part of your brain that Steve Harrington already controls) doesn’t really give a shit . Maybe it’s because you’d spent the night ready to defend him, trying to protect Steve from the awful things his parents said to him, but the word makes you feel like you get to keep him safe, like you get to comfort him and care for him, and it’s driving you wild to know that Steve wants you to do that for him.
“Mommy,” Steve says again, his voice louder now, more confident as he feels you respond. You’re launched, suddenly, into a feeling of euphoria, of bliss, at the words, and you wrap your hands around the back of his neck, lifting him with you as you start to sit back up. He takes his hands from around you, pushing them into the mattress to support himself as he sits up, still buried deep inside of you. When you’re upright together, you push Steve’s head, slightly, to your chest, and he takes his cue immediately, cupping your breasts and bringing his lips to a nipple.
“Mommy,” he moans against your skin as you start to rock your hips against his again. You gasp, your fingers gripping his hair as you lean back, slightly, giving him better access to your chest. “ Fuck , Stevie,” you moan as his teeth scrape your sensitive bud, “You’re such a good boy. Such a good boy for mommy,” and his hips thrust into yours, hard . His thrust brought him against your wall, almost painful as he pushes against the one part of you that can’t stretch or move for him.
You cry out, your face twisting to the side, and his hands take advantage of the way your throat is suddenly exposed to wrap his fingers around your neck. He brushes his thumb down the side of your throat, pressing into your pulse, and you whimper as the rough pad of his finger presses into the pulsing vein. Still deep inside of you, Steve rocks his hips again, brushing his head against your wall; you feel your stomach muscles clench, your fingers tighten as you jerk forward against him, tiny sounds falling from your lips like dust from the stars you see shimmering in the edges of your vision.
The way he’s buried inside of you right now almost hurts, the intensity of the pleasure so overwhelming it starts to feel like pain. You pull back, just slightly, shifting your hips so that–if he wanted to–Steve could force himself to that point again, could fuck you until you feel like your heart might stop. He looks up at you, his face pressed against the breast his tongue is roaming, and you see in his eyes that he understands; he could fuck you like that, but you want to finish with him tonight, want to take your time with him inside of you. “Sweet baby,” you whisper, slipping your fingers through his hair, and he moans. He pushes, gently, into you again and the room is suddenly silent except for your gasping breaths, the sound of your bodies meeting again and again, and Steve’s occasional cry of “Mommy.”
You feel yourself starting to tighten around him, making him work harder to push his length entirely into you, and you smile, slightly, at the promise of your release. “Fucking me so good, Stevie,” you whisper, “Wanna cum with you, my sweet boy.” You let your fingers slip through his hair, ready to pull at it when the tightening band in your stomach snaps, ready to force him over the edge with you.
Steve’s hips suddenly still under yours. “Want to–” he gasps, his face buried in the skin of your chest as he mouths, desperately, at your warm skin, “want to make you a mommy.” You feel your body pull back, your eyes narrowed as you look at him in shock.
“Let me, please,” he whines, “Let me try. I want to make you a mommy.” You consider him, taking in the desperate shine in his eye, the way his hair is sticking to his forehead, the beads of sweat slipping where the two of you have been pressed skin to skin. “You’re such a good mommy,” Steve says, and you feel something inside of you give in, overcome with the image of Steve Harrington pumping you full of himself.
You nod, pulling your bottom teeth between your lips, and he suddenly tightens his arms around your waist, rolling so that your back is against the bed and he’s over you. For a moment, Steve’s full weight is on top of you, pressing every line, every arch, every freckle and scar and sensitive space into the mattress under you; he’s pinning you, accidentally, and you let your eyes slip shut, a soft sigh floating out of your mouth. He’s here, he’s right here , you think.
Steve pushes himself up, taking some of his weight from you as his mouth comes to your neck, warm and sticky with spit as he pulls the skin of your throat in between his teeth. His fingers work at your waist, pulling your soaked underwear down your hips. Your hands immediately find his shoulder blades, nails pressing along his back. Steve loosens his teeth, letting blood rush to the mark he’s just bruised into your throat, and presses his nose along the hard line of your neck before slipping your underwear off and tossing them to the floor.
His thrusts are gentle at first, loving and tender as he slips himself along your walls. Your fingers tighten around his back, gripping him closer to you, and you try to pull more of his weight back onto your body; Steve pulls his head back from your throat, glancing down at you with an eyebrow lifted. “I need to feel you, Stevie,” you murmur, lips swollen and eyes hazy as you gaze at him above you.
Those words are all it takes for Steve to pull back, slipping your knees over his shoulders before you have time to ask him where he’s going, what he’s doing. When he presses back into you, bringing your knees high and down as he shifts his weight against the back of your thighs, you can’t stop the groan that leaves your mouth. Your hips ache already, a deep, bruising discomfort that you know will stay with you for days, reminding you of this moment with every step, and your lips twist up as he looks at you.
Your body is open, dripping to the bed below you as Steve slowly, gently pushes in. He’s up against your wall again, but in this position the ache comes second to the pleasure. When he pulls back, leaving only his head inside of you, you whine and reach for him, hands trying to pull him back into you. With a sharp rut of his hips, he buries himself back inside of you; your head rushes back of its own accord, sliding against the pillow Steve has so lovingly laid you on. “ Shit ,” you moan, and Steve grins over you, grins like he’s just won the State basketball tournament, grins like he got a raise at work, grins like he’s won the lottery as he slides home into you.
He continues to push into you, the two of you luxuriating in the way you feel around him in this new position, open enough for him to thrust his hips hard without hurting you, and you find it only takes minutes of hearing his soft groans over you before that band of heat is back in your stomach. One of your hands drifts up from his back, sliding his hair over his forehead before cradling his cheek in your palm. “Stevie,” you try to say, and it comes out as a whimper when he ruts into you. “Stevie, baby, make me a mommy. Want to be a mommy for you,” you say, and you feel your core tightening around him, gentle pulses that are getting tighter and tighter.
His eyes widen, slightly, as if he’s somehow surprised to hear these words from you. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, his eyes hazy like his brain is on autopilot, “I’m gonna. Gonna make you a mommy.” His hips start to stutter, his pace changing slightly as you feel his muscles tighten. You clench yourself, slightly, around him, and his next thrust makes your eyes slam shut, your head roll back, your back arch against the bed. A whimper falls from your lips, a sound almost shockingly quiet for the amount of pleasure it indicates. Your body spasms around his thick length, pulling him in deeper as your hips tilt, pulling him against that far wall.
“Good–oh, fuck, you’re such a good boy,” you stammer, your body still pulsing as your lips fall open, and Steve’s thrusts become smaller; he can’t control himself, can’t pull himself far enough out anymore, as the clenching around him drives him over the edge. He erupts, suddenly, his body twitching inside of yours as his thick, wet heat fills you: “Mommy,” Steve moans, one last time as his release sweeps over him, and it makes you clench around him again. When he finally stops his hips, spent, Steve sags slightly, pressing his weight into you again as his cock twitches, still buried deep inside. He takes a few heavy breaths, both of you panting in silence.
Steve pulls his hips back, carefully removing himself from your swollen, aching lips. He sits up on his knees, removing your ankles from his shoulders and pressing a kiss to each calf before he lays them on the bed. As you watch, he parts your thighs again, sliding the flat of his palm against the mixture of your wetness and his satisfaction. You whimper, quietly, as his fingers slip between your folds and inside of your sensitive core. “Hold on, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Got to keep this in you.”
When he’s done, satisfied that you have enough of his seed fucked deep inside, he slides up the bed, coming to rest beside you. He rolls on to his side, wide amber eyes carefully searching your face as you turn to look at him. He’s beautiful in the soft light of your bedroom, the usual tightness of his face eased as he looks at you. In these moments, Steve Harrington looks like he’s never had a care in the world–he doesn’t look like he has nightmares, or sleeps with a baseball bat by the bed, or avoids his parents. He just looks like a boy in love.
Your fingers are suddenly on his face, ghosting over his cheekbone, down his jawline, over his nose, until he grabs your wrist, bringing your fingertips to his lips. “Thank you,” he says, eyes closing as the words spear into your touch. “For what?” You ask, partially confused and partially hoping you can force him to say it. “For letting me try. I want–” his breath shudders, his wide chest shaking as he opens his eyes to look at you. “I want to keep trying. You’re a–you’re a good mommy.” It’s unclear if the heat that burns across his cheeks is from embarrassment or desire, but you reassure him either way with a soft smile. “I love you,” he whispers, the words imprinted into the tips of your fingers as you trace the curve of his mouth. “I love you too,” you whisper back, “baby boy.”