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dcforts · 1 year ago

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[Steve and I]

5.9k. S09E06 fanfiction gap but Cas has a flat. Domestic, light angst. theirprofoundbond - thank you for all the work that you've done to help me with this one and all the kind words and you gifted me with. Read on ao3

Steve signed the lease a little over a month ago. It’s a second-story one-bedroom, in a building that is just two narrow flights of stairs, flickering ceiling lights and dirty carpets.

Cas doesn’t tell Dean that, he just gives him directions and points to a parking space out front. When the Impala quiets down, Dean doesn’t ask any questions and Cas is grateful for that. He fishes his keys from his pocket and leads him inside.

He says, “It’s a good neighborhood,” as they climb up, because that’s what you’re supposed to say. It’s what his landlady said when she led him up the first time, maybe to distract him from the cracks in the walls and the smell of laundry detergents coming from the laundromat next door.

He says that, even if Dean knows better than anyone that you can’t really be safe, no matter where you are, and even if it wouldn’t really make a difference for Cas who, grace or not, could still kill a man in the blink of an eye.

Dean follows him inside, past the little entryway and into the living room.

Cas turns on the lights and walks across the dusty carpet and around the coffee table to get to the window and open it. The cold evening air brings in noises from the street and allows him to breathe more easily. For a moment, in the dark and the musty air, it felt like being underwater.

Dean says, “Hey, it’s not bad,” only a beat too late. He looks around, nodding to himself. “Yeah. Nice, uh, couch.”

It’s a simply distributed space; if one drew it from above, it would resemble a square, divided up into uneven boxes facing each other in pairs. On one side the living room and the bedroom, and on the opposite one, the kitchen and the bathroom. Dean could tour the whole thing in fifteen steps or fewer if he so wished.

It seems even smaller with him in it now.

“Everything here came with the apartment,” Cas says.

It’s not exactly true. In the kitchen, on the wall just behind the fridge, there’s a complimentary calendar that he got from a shipment of energy drinks. Cas brought it home and hung it there, because Steve needs to pay attention to what month it is and what day it is—he has rent to pay, shifts at work, bills and deadlines.

Cas painted wards and sigils on walls and floors; Steve covered them up with dull paintings and soft carpets.

Nora gave Steve a succulent that sits on the windowsill of his bedroom. Cas only remembers to check on it when he is in bed, and he turns on his side. Most of the time, he’s too tired to get up again, says to himself he’ll do it in the morning, then he forgets again.

Cas doesn’t care about furniture; he doesn’t care about things. About the old couch that groans when you sit on it, about the low batteries in the TV remote. He doesn’t care about the dust in the empty flower vase on the shelf or the light in the bathroom that goes out sometimes.

Steve does. When he comes home after a ten-hour shift, the couch does not help his stiff and aching back. When he gets up at night to go to the bathroom, he has to be careful not to trip over things in the dark. Steve minds about furniture, about having hot water, a working washing machine and a window that opens all the way.

Cas doesn’t care about having a home, but Steve does, so now Cas has an address and a mailbox.

Steve needs so many things, some days Cas can barely keep up.

Dean is still standing there and seems unsure what to do. Cas can’t bear the sight of him in the apartment. This wasn’t something he’d ever planned on seeing, but nothing had gone according to his plans today.

He puts down the keys he realizes he’s still clenching and goes back toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?” he says, because that’s what you’re supposed to say when you have people over at your apartment. He’s seen it on TV plenty of times.

He stands in front of the open fridge and scans the shelves—the carton of eggs, the half-eaten burrito, the jar of grape jelly—and says, “I only have water.”

“Water is fine,” Dean says, his voice a little strained.

This entire situation must make him as uncomfortable as Cas is. He’d followed him to the threshold of the kitchen and it looks like he’s feeling larger than he is, one shoulder pressing against the door frame. His gaze wanders over the surroundings: the beige walls, the bowl of bananas and oranges on the table and the teaspoon on the edge of the sink.

That morning Steve had used it to stir his coffee and then forgot to wash it. He was distracted because he was checking his mail. He collects it at night, but sometimes he’s too tired to look at it before bed and he leaves it for the morning.

Dean doesn’t comment on any of it. “Are you alright?” he asks, as Cas hands him a tall glass with his bandaged hand.

“It’s just a cut.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Dean says.

Cas walks past him. “I’m fine.”

He goes back to the entryway to take off his shoes and put them away and he feels Dean watching him from around the corner. He senses that he has no intention of letting go of the conversation.

“That angel—he came for you, didn’t he?”

Cas sucks in a breath. He’d known the question was coming; he’d spent the silent journey over dreading it and wondering how much Dean had heard of his conversation with Ephraim. He really doesn’t want to talk about what he said; he doesn’t even want to think about it.

“Because you’re in pain,” Dean adds.

Cas keeps his eyes on the ground and wonders if Dean is thinking about that night not that long ago, when he’d confessed how much guilt he was carrying. I might kill myself.

“He was mistaken.”

Dean doesn’t buy it. “So you’re fine. We’re gonna leave it at that?” he insists.

Cas fixes his eyes on the pea-green wallpaper in front of him. “Ephraim is gone and I’m tired. I’ve got work in the morning.”

“Right, yeah,” Dean says, sounding weird again. He shifts on the spot, looks down at his water. “I should, uh—”

Cas doesn’t meet his eyes but he says, “You can stay. The couch is a pull-out.”

Dean says okay, then, even though there’s a motel room already paid for with all his stuff in it. He says okay, even though the living room window doesn’t have blinds or curtains to keep the light out and Cas has no spare pillow.

Cas goes over to the couch and starts removing the cushions.

“You don’t need to do that,” Dean says, but Cas doesn’t stop maneuvering the coffee table out of the way.

“You have a long drive tomorrow.”

And there’s that.

There’s a big blinking neon sign on the other side of the street that paints Cas’ bedroom walls in red and pink and purple. Cas rarely bothers with turning on the lights in this room. The landlady promised to get Steve some heavy curtains, but she hasn’t come back yet. Cas doesn’t mind. One night the sign was down for maintenance, and he had trouble falling asleep without its constant shifting colors.

He’s looking for clean sheets while Dean uses his little bathroom, and then all of a sudden he’s standing in the doorway, as if hesitant to come in for some reason. He’s only in his jeans.

“Do you have a T-shirt I could borrow?”

Cas goes to the dresser where Steve keeps his T-shirts—he’d paid ten dollars for a pack of three—and picks a dark one for Dean. He smells of the shower gel with the tropical fruit on the bottle.

Cas got it because the ads say it will nourish and soften his skin and Steve’s skin gets dry when it’s windy. He also has shaving cream in the cabinet, a razor, a toothbrush, a box of bandaids. Sometimes Cas stops and looks at Steve in the mirror and asks himself if he’ll ever get used to it, to being this, just this. Sometimes he lies in bed and watches the ceiling change colors and wonders how long he will need to wait before he stops feeling fragile.

“Do you want me to take a look at that?” Dean asks, gesturing with his chin to his bandaged hand.

“I’ll do it,” Cas says and he knows this rejection will unnerve Dean more than his refusal to talk. He reminds Cas of a bug bumping against a window, but Cas isn’t ready for him to take a look inside yet, let alone come in.

Dean clenches his jaw for just a moment, then lets it go. Cas follows him to the living room with clean sheets in his arms and makes the pull-out bed while Dean pokes around in his kitchen, with the excuse of getting another glass of water. Cas hears him open cabinets and pull out drawers. It seems like it didn’t take him long to make himself at home.

Cas isn’t sure he likes that.

Maybe it’s because it still hurts. When he got to the bunker, he’d thought that he had nothing to worry about anymore, and what he had gone through since the fall had just been a rocky journey to get back home. He wasn’t alone, he had simply been misplaced, but now he could rest.

He’d been naive. Dean had made it clear that he didn’t belong there, and it was a confusing truth he had to learn to accept. And yet, it still hurts. He’d thought it didn’t anymore; he’d thought the bitterness had left him but maybe it doesn’t happen like that. Maybe it lingers and lingers. You think it’s gone, but it’s not. Maybe he won’t ever be rid of it.

Cas thought he had been hurt before. For sure, he had felt sorrow and disappointment.

But the open wound inside his chest is a crater, and it’s swallowed him, and he has to make his way back out and he’s not sure he’s there yet.

He’s exhausted though, especially tonight, with the things Ephraim said still ringing, true and inevitable, in his ears.

Dean pops his head through the kitchen door. “Do you cook?”

“Occasionally.”

“Really?” He sounds surprised. “What d’you make?”

“Eggs.”

Steve likes eggs in the morning, with coffee—two sugars. But not orange juice. It makes his stomach burn for hours. He breaks and scrambles one egg in a pan with butter and pepper. Some days, Steve is so tired the eggshell breaks in small pieces and the kitchen gets dirty, and sometimes he wakes up late and rushes through the door. He eats a donut at work—but only the pink kind. The chocolate ones have a weird aftertaste.

“That it?”

“I have lunch at work, and I buy something for dinner on the way home.”

And if he’s too tired to stand in line or doesn’t feel like eating anything, there’s always peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Dean nods thoughtfully.

Cas thinks he’s passed some sort of test, but maybe not with the highest of grades, because Dean adds, “You— I mean, you’re eating enough, right?”

Oh, so he does worry.

Cas thinks of that time he’d had expired food and stayed awake the whole night: his stomach cramping, face pressed against the cool surface of his bathroom tiles, dreading the next wave of nausea, thinking he was going to die, his thumb hovering over Dean’s name in his contacts more times than he feels comfortable remembering. Wishing to hear his voice.

Not calling.

“I think so,” Cas says.

Dean slips out of his jeans and sits on the edge of the bed that groans under his weight.

Cas should go and take care of his hand. Steve needs to sleep; he has tomorrow’s opening shift. New products to shelve and customers to serve. Usually at this time of night, Steve has already turned in.

But when he starts for the bathroom, Dean says, “Hey, wait,” and Cas has no choice but to stop, because Dean is here now, in the middle of his living room, and Dean unbalances everything.

“You don’t wanna talk about it—that’s fine. I just wanna say that whatever Ephraim told you, you don’t need to listen to him. You got a good thing going here. You got a job, you got a place for yourself. You got a chance to get out. Like, really get out.”

Something colors Dean’s voice that makes Cas suspicious. He doesn’t want to start a conversation, but he can recognize when Dean’s trying to say something without saying it.

“I have a responsibility toward my kind. Even if I can’t do much, I should try.”

“I know,” he says, but he’s fidgeting. “It’s just too dangerous out there right now. You said it yourself: after what happened with Metatron, angels are all over, looking for you.”

Cas holds his gaze and doesn’t say anything. Dean blinks one too many times. There’s something he’s not telling him, Cas knows.

“I’m just saying,” he starts again, and goes on as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I get that you want to make things right, but maybe you can wait a little longer?”

His words hang in the air. Cas studies the way Dean’s eyebrows arch over his eyes, the tight lines around his mouth. He’s still convinced he can hide things from Cas, maybe now more than ever, but Cas sees him. Dean always forgets that.

“What is it?” Cas finally asks, fixing his gaze on Dean.

That’s all it takes. Dean sighs and it’s as much as a confession.

“Crowley said there’s no reversing the spell,” he says then, and he looks like he’s bracing himself for Cas’ reaction.

Somehow though, it doesn’t come as a blow. It doesn’t hurt him, it doesn’t shake his world. Cas registers Dean’s words and he surprises himself by thinking that he’s not broken by them.

He never expected that it would be easy for things to go back to they were.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t go back,” he reasons. “We can still find a way.”

“So you wanna go back.”

Cas is taken by surprise, not so much by his words, but by the way Dean blurts them out, almost as if they had escaped before he could control them—urgent, as if he could be directly affected by his choice. Cas can’t understand what difference it makes to Dean if Cas is on Earth or not, when he’s the one who sent him away in the first place.

“I don’t want to be trapped,” he says, a kind way out of a reply, and he feels his good hand close in a fist. This is not where he was supposed to be, where he was born to be.

Of course, he doesn’t want to leave Earth—not forever. Even back when he’d thought he was closing the Gates of Heaven, he was leaving because he had no other choice, and coming to terms with that was one of the hardest things Cas had ever done.

Dean acts as if he doesn’t know that, and maybe he really doesn’t. But Cas is still in pain and won’t clear that up for him; he won’t show himself needy of his company and his time.

“Yeah, no, I get that,” Dean says, but he sounds like he got the opposite of what Cas was trying to say. Cas won’t correct his misunderstandings. Not tonight. He’s feeling weak enough.

Cas leaves the room; there is not much else to say.

The springs of the mattress Dean is sleeping on groan whenever he moves.

Cas hears him from his bedroom. They groan and groan and groan. It makes it impossible for Cas to relax enough to fall asleep, even though he’s exhausted and the wound on his hand has started throbbing again.

He’d disinfected it and wrapped it in clean bandages, but he doesn’t have any painkillers, so he grinds his teeth and hopes it’ll be morning before he realizes.

The mattress groans and groans and then, when Cas resigns himself to the fact that he won’t get any sleep, the sound suddenly stops. Dean could have managed to fall asleep but somehow Cas doesn’t think that’s the case. The hair on the back of his neck stands up when he hears Dean’s footsteps coming toward his bedroom.

There’s a moment of silence and Cas doesn’t dare turn around. Then the bathroom door shuts and he lets out a breath.

The toilet flushes a few moments later, the door opens, and again, silence.

Cas frowns, rolls onto his back to find Dean standing there, just a dark silhouette in the door in the purple light—still behind that invisible wall that won’t let him cross the threshold.

“Dean?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says, “Sorry, uh, I can’t sleep on that bed so…”

The neon blinks in pink and Cas notices Dean’s wearing his jeans again. The thought of him slipping into the night, and Cas finding nothing but an empty apartment in the morning, has his heart pounding in his chest.

“You can sleep in here,” he says, and his voice sounds broken and loud.

“Uh, you don’t ha— I’ll be fine on the floor with just an extra blanket or something.”

The color in the room changes again. Dean wasn’t going to leave. Cas is confused by his emotions; his heart won’t behave, his ears start ringing, his insides burning. He didn’t want him here in the first place, so why does the thought of him going away hurt so much?

“I don’t have an extra blanket,” he says in the end, and then scoots over and gives him his back. “It’s late,” he adds and hopes it’s enough to end the conversation.

“Alright,” comes Dean’s voice, and then there is the sound of footsteps, his jeans hitting the floor and then the comforter is lifting, the mattress sinking.

Cas still can’t relax. Not when he can feel the tension in the room, Dean’s body rigid on the bed and his intakes of breath telling him that he’s getting ready to speak.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Cas?”

Cas had thought he wanted an apology from Dean more than anything.

He thought about it at night, imagined what he would say if he called, if he wrote it in a text message, if he showed up at his door. But when Dean says, “I’m sorry,” right there and then, Cas realizes he doesn’t need it anymore. He has forgiven him already.

“I know I let you down,” Dean says, “I should be here for you.”

And Cas had thought about what to say to him a million times. To make him feel worse, to spike his guilt, to reject him completely.

He can’t do it. He’s never wanted to be one of the things Dean blames himself for. He won’t be one of them tonight, either.

There’s an open wound inside his chest, but telling Dean how much he’d hurt him would only make it deeper.

He says the only thing that feels true. He says, “I’m not mad.”

“You’re not okay though, are you?”

Cas doesn’t know if he can find the right words to explain how he feels.

He rolls onto his back, fixes his eyes on the ceiling and watches it as it changes: red, purple, pink, and red again.

He tries, “I’m not myself.”

Dean shifts on his spot and now he’s looking at him. Cas can feel his gaze and knows Dean is frowning.

“What do you mean?” It comes as a whisper, worry bracketing each of his words.

“I don’t know who I am.”

“You’re Cas,” Dean says with a familiar high note of stubbornness and confusion.

That’s probably what does it. Cas’ lips start trembling, his eyes prickling. There’s a sudden lump in his throat, his chest starts hurting, and then there are hot tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, rolling down his temples and disappearing into his hair. The tickling sensation on his skin and in his nose is not entirely unpleasant, but he has to keep swallowing and can’t bring himself to talk.

Dean sees all of it. He stays absolutely still but when he speaks, every word is soaked in a softness that makes him feel even closer than he is.

“You’re still an angel. Without grace, okay, but that doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change who you are,” he says, and he sounds like he knows for sure.

Cas knows this is hard on Dean. To see his tears and to know that this time he can’t say what he usually says: I’ll take care of it, I’ll figure something out, Let me handle this. Because tomorrow he’ll be gone. He’ll hop in his car and drive away, and nothing will change that. So he can’t take Cas' burden now, like he always tries to do, like he does with everyone else.

“You’re still you,” he keeps going. “And you know, I really meant what I said earlier. You are doing one hell of a job, managing all this on your own. Being human sucks. Like, truly, sucks. Of course you hate it.”

Dean’s words have a tentative lightness to them and Cas knows he’s trying to cheer him up so he makes an effort to smile. He takes a deep breath and glances at him.

“I don’t hate it,” he says, his voice still a little broken. “I just… want my grace back. I want to feel like myself again.”

Cas doesn’t look away from him and doesn’t move a muscle, not even when Dean says, “Okay,” and reaches out with one hand to rub away a tear on his temple. The touch is unexpected, and Cas eyes’ close on their own for a moment. Dean is serious now. “We’ll get it back.”

In Dean’s eyes Cas finds something that, incredibly, resembles understanding. Does he understand? Is he comparing Cas’ grace being ripped from him with the bite of the Hellhounds tearing him apart? Is he thinking of Hell consuming his soul? Is he thinking of losing Sam?

Cas doesn’t know, but somehow the understanding is there, and there’s no need for him to say more.

“I’ll start looking as soon as I get back, okay?” Dean says.

Cas nods and his tears are replaced with a calm certainty: that Dean is here, that he himself is not completely lost, that there’s a possibility to feel whole again. He doesn’t even remember how he could have thought everything was so hopeless.

“Okay,” he says, and worries that he will feel silly and ashamed once Dean turns around again, and the moment will be gone. But Dean stays where he is. He settles down on his side with his head on his arm because the only pillow is too small for the both of them.

“You’ll be alright,” he says, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing once. Next to Dean, Cas believes it.

Slowly, Dean’s breathing evens out. The rhythm is so familiar that Cas' body relaxes to it. He has lost count of how many hours he spent in a dark room with this sound, back when he used to watch over him while he slept.

Cas lets out a deep breath and closes his eyes. Then he feels it—a touch on his shoulder again, Dean’s fingertips on the fabric of his sleeve, then the same featherlight touch of a knee against his bare thigh, right below the hem of his boxer shorts. No real pressure, just a light contact, but it starts a gentle prickle that travels through Cas’ body and fills his chest and limbs. He’s never felt anything like it.

Cas keeps his eyes closed and his body still and he falls asleep like that, thinking that Dean has never been close to him like this before. Whether it’s chemistry or instinct, maybe it’s now and it’s here, because somehow humanity makes him more accessible, more recognizable to Dean: the warmth of his skin, the smell of his body, the beating of his heart.

And so maybe there is, at last, something Cas can be grateful to Steve for.

It’s not quite morning when Cas wakes up. He doesn’t need an alarm. Even when Steve gets a day off, Cas still wakes up very early.

He doesn’t like lingering in bed for too long, because his mind gets busy with thoughts and memories, and he has to occupy his hands to make them go away. But Steve needs his rest on his days off, so Cas stays under the blanket until his bladder or his stomach start complaining.

This morning, his limbs feel heavy and his nose is stuffy, and he can’t remember why.

He reaches out to grab his phone and check the time, and it’s the hand with the bandage that reminds him what happened the day before.

It reminds him that this morning is nothing like every other morning, that there’s someone lying next to him, and that someone is Dean. He can feel the heat of his body warming his back.

He sits up on his side of the bed and only then dares to look over his shoulder. Yes, Dean is still there, asleep on his stomach, one arm bent under his head, Cas’ shirt stretched over his shoulders.

Dean probably senses his gaze, because he opens his eyes and looks back at him, his signature morning pout on his lips.

Cas thinks he must make quite a sight; with the window behind his back, he must be just a silhouette against the weak morning light, his hair sticking up, his clothes wrinkled.

He wants to speak, but he’s forgotten the first thing people usually say to each other in the morning.

Dean’s brain must still be foggy because he doesn’t comment on the fact that Cas is just staring at him. After a moment, he blinks and yawns and lets out a mumbled “You got a really nice bed,” as if it isn’t just a mattress and a metal frame.

“Thank you,” Cas says, and only then remembers that what he was supposed to say was, Good morning.

It’s too late now, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

“What time is it?”

“Five-thirty.”

Dean smiles in bliss. His eyes are glassy. “I haven’t slept six hours in a long time.” He yawns again. “You getting up?”

“Yes, but you can stay longer,” Cas says. “I’m going to get dressed.”

Dean nods and rubs his face and then follows Cas with his gaze while he gathers things around the room.

“I’ll be up in a sec. I’m gonna make you eggs,” he says.

He’s pulled Steve’s pillow to his side and made himself comfortable again, stretching his legs and taking up space. Cas can’t resist turning to watch him from the door. He looks like a dream in the early morning light.

Dean’s eyes are still on him and Cas suddenly feels exposed, with his bare thighs and calves. He’s seen Dean in various states of undress plenty of times, but he’s not sure Dean’s ever seen him, and he doesn’t know what it means that he’s watching.

“Okay,” Cas agrees. After last night, it’s an easy concession to make. The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up, and Cas feels himself mirroring him.

Dean is a great cook. Cas has heard him boast about it in the past, but this is the first time that he’s tried his cooking.

His eggs are good, more savory and less runny than his, and they come with toast.

“I never have toast with my eggs,” Cas comments.

“What’s with all the bread, then?”

“It’s for PB&J.”

That makes Dean snort a laugh. He’d moved the bowl with the fruit to the counter next to the sink and poured coffee into two mismatched mugs. Now, he sits across from him and digs into his plate.

He’s already dressed, shoes on too. Cas doesn’t mention that he’s still wearing the T-shirt he borrowed. He’s pretty sure the black one he had on before is still where he left it, on the hook behind his bathroom door, and he wants to keep it that way.

The time is running out and he doesn’t know how to convince himself there’s no point in wishing it could stop.

“You can use bread to do lots of things,” Dean is saying. “Ever had French toast?”

Cas shakes his head.

“Alright, I’ll make you some next time.”

“Next time?” Cas repeats, almost losing his grip on the mug he’s bringing to his lips.

Dean puts down his fork, picks it up again, avoids his gaze. “I just thought— It’s not that I want to bring the bad guys to your door, obviously, but maybe I could slip out here sometimes. I’d be careful.”

Cas' face must be asking, Why?, because Dean rushes to add, “Just, you know, to see how you’re doing.” He massages one of his thighs out of nervousness, then in a light tone, he says, “First thing, I’m buying you groceries, replacing that couch, and fixing the light in the bathroom.”

Cas puts down his coffee mug, anger rising in his chest. “No.”

Dean hadn’t expected that. His face crumbles all at once, showing hurt and confusion. “Wh—?”

“You can come here, but as a friend. I don’t want a caretaker.”

“What?” he exclaims in disbelief. “I didn’t say that.”

“I’m serious, Dean.” Cas clenches his jaw; this is the last thing he wanted. “I don’t need your pity and I don’t need you to parent me.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “That’s not what I meant!” he says, raising his voice. He gets up and circles around his chair, taking a moment to calm down. “Jesus, Cas, I don’t wanna be your parent. I know you don’t need me, I just—” He sighs, frustrated, shakes his head. “I— I didn’t mean that,” he says, looking up at him like he does sometimes when he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

Cas knows that look. It takes all the fight out of him. Without the anger, all that’s left is the knowledge that Dean might come back and this might not be the only morning they spend in this kitchen. It’s an unbearable thought, difficult to grasp—almost as difficult as it had been to imagine Dean here before yesterday. “Well then, in that case, it’s fine, I’d like that,” Cas says, and Dean deflates in front of him like a balloon.

Cas takes the dishes to the sink, gives them a quick wash. He wonders what happens now.

“Are you leaving right away?” he asks, sneaking a glance over his shoulder.

“Nah, I can give you a ride to work,” Dean says casually. And then, in a different tone, he adds, “Go on, go brush your teeth and get your jacket.”

Cas throws him a look, his mouth already open in protest, but Dean is grinning at him. “Just kidding.”

Cas rolls his eyes.

The ride is quiet and the closer they get, the sadder Cas feels.

It’s a dull pain that presses down the corners of his mouth and makes him clench a fist, irrationally resenting green lights and empty roads, pedestrians that wait on the sidewalk instead of crossing and slowing them down.

Dean talks about getting Cas a car and doesn’t seem to mind or notice that Cas barely responds. He’s probably just doing it to fill the silence. He stops in front of the entrance, and Cas doesn’t expect him to, but he turns off the engine and gets out to say goodbye.

He lingers in front of Cas, his eyes wandering from him to the Gas-n-Sip windows, to the gas pump, down to the asphalt, up to Cas again.

Cas is no fool; he knows that it could be a long time before they see each other again.

“Let me know if you see any of the angels,” Cas says to stop that line of thought. “They may despise me, but they know we need to work together.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, a wrinkle in between his eyebrows.

“Say hello to Sam for me.”

Dean sets his jaw and doesn’t say anything, and Cas feels there’s something there he doesn’t know. But they’ve run out of time. He takes a step forward and hugs him.

Hugging him as a human is different. It’s warmer, for one thing. Cas feels his own breath pushing his chest against Dean’s, his heart picking up the pace. And then there’s the scent of him. Cas can’t resist leaning his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, to feel his warm skin against his cheek, breathe him in.

Dean’s hands come up after only a moment to rest under his shoulder blades. He lets Cas hold him for longer than he thought he would.

“Hey,” he says then. “You can call me anytime—you know that, right?”

Cas nods, takes a breath, and steps away.

Dean seems sad now. He flashes a smile, but it’s not genuine. He looks like he’s about to say I’m sorry again. Cas wishes he wouldn’t, and thankfully he doesn’t.

Instead he says, “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Cas tries to smile, too, but he thinks it comes out all wrong. “I’ll see you soon.”

"Yeah,” Dean says, now walking backward. “Buy me a pillow, will you?” He points and flashes another of his fake smiles. He gets to the car door. “Toothbrush, too.”

“Okay,” Cas says.

The door opens with a creak.

Dean looks at him over the roof.

“Have a good day at work.”

“Have a safe drive.”

Dean gets in and Cas bends to look at him through the passenger window.

Dean’s not smiling anymore. He’s sighing, and when he notices Cas, he leans over to roll the window down.

“I’ll be back.”

Cas knows Dean believes it. “You know where I live.”

Dean’s lips stretch in a grin that doesn’t show in his eyes.

The Impala starts rumbling and vibrating under Cas’ fingers still on the window frame. He holds up one hand in an aborted wave, Dean does the same. Cas lets go of the car and the wheels start rolling.

In a moment, he’s gone.

And Cas would stand there to watch the car disappear from his view, but Steve needs to open the store, turn on the cash register, make a few calls, start the coffee machine.

And on any other day, Steve would do that without thinking about Dean. Steve wouldn’t ache for him, wouldn’t long for him.

Cas isn’t sure he can do that anymore—shut himself away. As he wipes the counter and organizes the coins, he almost doesn’t remember how he did it before.

He knows then that there is no going back, because Cas and Steve have something in common now.

They’re both in love with Dean.

#deancas #destiel #destiel fanfiction #deancas fanfic #destiel fanfic #what can i say #this took A WHILE #but im glad it's out now #weirdly im not even sick of it even if i've read it more times than any other things i've ever written

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hungharrington · 6 months ago

Text

i feel it coming, babe

technically the sequel to a little less conversation this is yet another piece for girlies (gn) with bad sex experiences <3 remember sometimes it takes more than once to get it right honeys :D 12k words, fem!reader, MDNI THIS ENTIRE BLOG IS 18+

Okay so, you’ll admit, you might be beginning to get it.

A smidge. A pinch.

It’s just— well, how are you not supposed to understand it? How can you not get the thrill and fervour over sex when it’s with Steve and he looks like that. All golden tan skin and hazel eyes that look at you like he might eat you whole and— and he treats you like…

Like there was never anything wrong with you.

Even after that balmy afternoon spent in his sheets, with his mouth between your thighs, pulling noises out of you that you’d never even heard before, he’s been so perfectly so. Not pushy, yet still that lingering hunger you can see simmering beneath his skin, hidden in the flex of his fingers.

Part of you almost worries, a little niggle burrowed in the back of your mind, that it was all a fluke.

That nothing had really changed all that much between you— that the next time things start getting heated, the chemistry won’t be there. Or it’ll be weird and off, or you will be, and really, you were probably lucky to have that first time with Steve so good but you can’t expect that again.

But then… there is one difference at least, to combat all your swarming thoughts a fluke. The kisses.

When you think of Steve Harrington and his playboy past, you can’t say, of the words tossed around in the high school corridor, that clingy is something that comes to mind. Not that he had been described as anything other than charming… but you don’t mind pleasant surprise of coming to learn this about Steve.

It means kisses all the time.

On your hands, scattered across your knuckles, when he’s dropping you home from a date. Kisses pressed to your hair and forehead, when he’s scooching past you, when he’s saying hello and his hands are busy, when you sit between his legs on the sofa.

He kisses your shoulders, up along the curve of your neck just to see if it’ll still make you laugh a bit when he finds that ticklish spot beneath your ear. Adores sweeping back your hair to plant a kiss against your skin with the sweetest little ‘mwah!’ so quiet you don’t think you’re meant to hear it.

And your lips… you don’t think they’ve ever been so kiss-bitten in your life.

One night with Steve can leave them blooming with colour, all the blood beneath them rushing with pleasure as he kisses your mouth soft — sometimes hard, sometimes sweet, always maddeningly.

He greets you with a kiss always, one hand curled gently around your chin to tilt it up perfectly. And always after, a grin spreads across his face, brown eyes crinkling and pink lips barely restrained his joy.

“Hi, sweetheart.” He’ll always says, or some variation.

Which, yeah, that’s new too. Sweetheart. You haven’t quite figured out how to not melt to a gloopy gooey mess when he says it just yet. It’s a damn good thing that your boyfriend is a gentleman and he politely doesn’t comment when you fluster, only gets the smallest hint of a smirk.

For all your past worries about not kissing him for fear of leading him on, you hadn’t realise quite how much you were depriving yourself of affection. Steve’s certainly turning you greedy— and he’s all too happy to sate your appetite for it.

Today, it’s drizzly. The colour of the sky is a bright ashen grey, enough to warrant a headache and inspire a day inside. In the distance, you can see the thunder clouds rolling in and bringing a blanket of shadow with them.

They reach overhead much quicker than you’re expecting and you’re barely a block out from Steve's house before the rain starts coming down.

Try as you might, raincoat tucked tight around you, you’re still a bit drenched by the time you make it to Steve’s doorstep. One freezing finger presses the door bell. A chime sounds inside.

You rub your hands together to try warm them as you wait, cringing at the whisk of wind that twirls your hair up and about. Your hands shoot up and you nervously flatten the wild strands back down— right as Steve opens the door.

He’s got a towel around his neck, one hand scrubbing it into his wet hair. Judging from his ruffled t-shirt — put on in a rush and exposing his tummy — he’s just got out the shower. He looks surprised but happy to see you.

“Sweetheart, hi-hoooooly shit,” He sticks his head out the door, eyes wide as he takes in the weather. His hair flicks as he turns back to you. “Did you walk the whole way from your house? In the rain?”

Your shoulders form a meek shrug. Before you can speak, his hands are on your shoulders, tugging you inside, across the doorway. He kicks it shut behind you.

“Christ, honey, what’d you do that for?” His hands fret a little bit, rubbing at your shoulders. He gently picks a piece of hair that’s stuck to your cheek, placing it behind your ear.

“I mean,” You start, a little confused. Your hands tighten on your overnight bag, wringing the handle tightly. He knew you were coming over, right? “I thought we— on the phone, we made a plan?”

Steve breathes a soft laugh. “Yeah, we’ve got plans. But I would’ve come got you instead of making you walk through the rain. C’mon, what kind of boyfriend do you think I am?”

His use of the word boyfriend still makes you glow. You smile, nope, you grin all cheesy — and it doesn’t help at all when Steve’s hands trail down your jacket to hold your own. He wiggles the handles of your bag out from your frozen fingers and drops it behind him gently. His hands dart back to cover yours.

“Dear god, I think you’re about two minutes from losing a finger.” His eyebrows have scrunched together in worry. He brings your hands up to his face, cupped in his own, and blows hot air on them. It tickles but you can’t stop smiling.

He pulls them back, rubbing his thumbs over your icy fingers and peers down at them. Your heart coos at his concern.

“What’s the verdict doctor?” You jest, making your voice all breathy and dramatic. “Am I gonna make it?”

Steve frowns harder at your hands, his face serious when he tilts it back up to face you. “I’m afraid we’re gonna have to amputate.”

You gasp dramatically.

Steve grins. He runs over your hands once more, one of his fingers creeping up your wrist, trying to find a ticklish spot. You squeal a little, trying to pull back but he holds your hands firm in his own. He continues his serious voice.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry but it’s your whole arm. We’re gonna have to chop it right off.”

His fingers are half way up your sleeve, making it bunch up and you’re laughing so much it’s warming you up much faster than him blowing on your hands. You push his hand away playfully and Steve relents, putting his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay, you got me.” He grins. “I’m not a real doctor.”

You laugh again, reaching up to tuck back your hair that’s fallen forward in your squirming. “Uh huh, a real doofus is what you are.”

Steve rolls his eyes endearingly, his hands reaching out to snag your waist this time. He tugs you closer. Your feet stumble and when you press against his chest, you’re delighted to find he’s very, very warm. You're definitely soaking his shirt a bit with your coat but if Steve cares, he doesn't say.

“Just realised I didn’t properly say hello,” He murmurs, a little quieter than before.

And when one of his hands moves up and curls beneath your jaw, holding your chin gently, you know what’s coming. If you weren’t already holding your breath in anticipation, he probably would’ve stolen it with his kiss.

His plush lips are soft and with a loving little hum, he kisses you.

All the lights around you look a little dewey and heart-shaped when Steve pulls back — though it may be just your own lovey-dovey eyes. You sigh without meaning to, all honeyed and sweet, and Steve softens immeasurably at the sound.

“Okay,” He shifts his hands back down to your hands, rubbing them lightly. “I’m not kidding, even your lips feel frozen. D’ya wanna take a quick shower just to warm up?”

Something about you flushes at his suggestion— a runaway thought about getting in his shower, it getting steamier and steamier, especially with Steve slipping in to join you halfway. You clear your throat to push away the thought and focus.

Your hair is wetter than you’d expected, sticking to your neck in cold tendrils. A shiver zips down your spine. All your scandalous thoughts aside, it sounds like a pretty good idea.

“Yeah,” you nod gingerly. “Yeah, okay, it wouldn’t mind the warm up.”

Steve steps back, bending down to scoop up your bag deftly. He holds it for you as you unbutton your coat as quick as you can with your frozen fingers, shivering in relief as you shed the drenched layer. Droplets of rain spray in the rustle. Your coat finds a home on a peg beside the door.

It’s comforting how easy it is to follow Steve up the stairs, drinking in his cosy attire from behind— gone are his usual tight fitting jeans. Instead, he’s donned what you guess is his pyjamas; a plain ringer tee and red, plaid, and long flannelette pants. His feet are warmed by fluffy socks that have reindeer prancing about the fabric. A flash of his tan ankle makes you stumble for a moment.

Steve trades your overnight bag, with a smile and a promise to keep it safe, for a pillowy white towel, soft as ever. He leads you into the bathroom off his bedroom, depositing your bag on his bed along the way.

His fingers find the switch for the heated towel rail and while you fold the towel over it neatly, heart humming in content at being taken care of, Steve starts the shower. He sticks one hand in, holding it under the spray and grimacing at the cold— until the chill slips away beneath the steamy hot water.

“Alright,” Steve says, pulling his hand back. He gives it a little shake, droplets splattering on the tiles. “All ready for my best girl.“

He gives a cheesy and charismatic smile as he wipes his hand dry and if you were brave enough, you might give him a little thank you kiss for it. You aren’t just yet — but when he moves to slip by you, you halt him with a soft hand on his torso.

“Thank you.” you say, quieter than you intend. You push on the balls of your feet and plant a quick peck onto his cheek.

Pink blooms beneath where your lips touch. Steve looks like he melts a bit, lashes fluttering as he sucks in a sharp inhale. Turns out neither of you are getting any closer to getting used to the affection. It’s sweet to know it goes both ways.

“I’m gonna—“ Steve breathes, his hand drifting up, his index finger pointed out to the door. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything. Or if you fall. Just like, uh, yell- or scream. Or— you know what, you’ve taken a shower before.”

He stumbles out towards the exit, pulling two awkward thumbs-up over his shoulders. The door swings shut behind him, closing with a quiet click.

Your clothes pool to the ground, a trail leading towards the shower as you move with haste. Though you’re sure the Harrington's won’t notice, you don’t want to waste the hot water.

The heat soothes you— swathes of relief washing down your body, picking up every piece of ice in your skin and sending it swirling down the drain. It doesn’t take too long to get back to warm and toasty.

Still, when your eye catches on it, you can’t resist. Steve has a body wash that smells heavenly. You pick it up, flick back the cap, and take a whiff — just to check it’s the one that’s been infiltrating your very dreams. Steve, even on a daily basis, manages to smell so good it drives you close to delirium.

You’re more than happy to steal it for yourself today. You take another sniff of the bottle in your grasp, just to inhale it with a sigh. The sweater he let you borrow the other week has the exact same smell; a musky perfumed scent, with a hint of bergamot.

You dollop some in your hand and lather it all over. Properly cleansed and throughly warmed up, you let the final suds whirlpool down the drain before shutting the tap off and stepping out. The fluffy porcelain coloured towel is toasty in your hands as you pluck it off the rail. A sigh in appreciation comes out as you dry off, twisting it around yourself.

It’s as you stand there, refreshed and smelling of Steve, in just a towel, do you realise you’ve forgotten to bring in clothes to change into.

On his bed, Steve sits idle — because what else is Steve supposed to do when you’re in his shower? When you’re naked in his shower. Naked in his shower and probably using his soap and lathering it up down your body and on your boobs and— oh my god, soapy boobs and—

Steve’s pulls himself from his thoughts with a rapid shake of his head, just in time for the bathroom door to rattle open and your shining face to peek through.

You look a little flushed, maybe from the heat, or from the lack of clothing. Steve can see your bare shoulder, his eyes tracking a drop as it rolls down your collarbone. None of this helps his runaway thoughts.

He stands up without thought. Then he realises how strange he might look, like a dog standing to attention.

“Feeling boober?” Steve says, like an idiot. Heat floods his face as he realises his flub. “BETTER! Are you feeling better?”

He’s thankful that you at least laugh, a pretty sound that you tuck behind your hand. You have the nerve to wiggle your eyebrows at him, a far cry from the confidence he’s come to expect from you in the past. Steve can’t deny— he adores it.

“What are you thinking about?”

“God,” Steve groans. He shoves his face into his hands and turns around, his back to you. His words are muffled over his shoulder. “Don’t even ask me that right now.”

Another laugh titters out of you. Steve can’t resist peering over his shoulder. The steam curls out through the gap of the door, leaving dew on your skin. You look ethereal, like a dewy angel from a dream.

“Alright,” you relent playfully. You’re fighting a smile and losing, badly. Steve yearns. “Can you please pass me my bag?”

This next time the door opens again and you step out, there’s less tantalising skin to tease Steve and his wandering mind. There’s still a flash of wet skin, the curve between your shoulder and neck. Steve wants to lick it, kiss it, devour it til the skin beneath is riddled with the bruises of a lover.

For a moment, you’re simply admired — Steve’s eyes on you, adoring and soft, as you creep out the bathroom like you don’t want to make too much noise.

You notice in your absence Steve has cajoled a little tray table into his room, tucked up at the foot of his bed. Atop it sits a chunky television, antennae sticking up in perfectly straight lines. The ones at home on yours are slightly warped from all the readjusting.

“Hey,” Steve says. He’s on the bed this time, and while he doesn’t get up this time, he sits up straighter as you emerge from the bathroom. You put your bag down, abandoning it by the door and try to quell your nerves.

Steve, unless he’s somehow obtained x-ray vision and hadn’t told you, can’t see the nice matching set you’ve got beneath your comfy clothes.

He won’t see it— unless this night goes where you think it might, where you hope it might, but even still, the thought manages to make you fluster.

“Hi.” You say back, voice closer to a whisper.

The bed sinks beneath your weight as you climb on to situate yourself beside Steve. He’s all soft corners and crinkled eyes, his arm raised up in an instant for you to tuck yourself under. Even warmer in his arms, your heart delights when he gives you a little squeeze.

“Alright, movie time!” The television at the foot of the bed pulls Steve away from you. He unwinds his arm enough to crawl down the bed. The grey ringer shirt he has one slips forward a bit and at your angle, you can catch more than a sliver of his tan tummy.

Without thinking, your thighs press together tightly as heat flares between them. You can trace the alluring wiry trail of hair with your eyes until it disappears into his pyjama pants, continuing out of sight. A part of your wants.

You want to see where it goes, want to curl your fingers into his waistband and work it downwards, you want find out if the moles go all the way down his thighs like you hope they do.

Hunger sinks its teeth into your skin; a hunger you’ve been getting more and more familiar with.

“Okay, pervert,” Steve’s cheeky remark shakes you from your thoughts and you start to stammer. He’s clearly caught you staring. “Can’t say I blame you for ogling—“

“I was not—“

“— because I have been told before that I have a very distracting and attractive behind.”

You sputter and despite your best efforts, a little laugh splutters through as well because well, yeah, he’s not wrong — but your brain is stuck on repeat with something else entirely.

Tummy, tummy, tummy, the hair on his tummy, the hair leading down into his pants.

“Yeah, uh huh, okay, Harrington,” You slump back against the pillows with a dramatic sigh, clearly teasing. “If you say so.”

The television flickers to life right as Steve lunges back towards you with all the energy of a labrador puppy. He squishes down onto you so quickly that you actually squeal in surprise.

“Oh, I’m back to just Harrington now?” He pouts, squeezing even closer to you. You’re laughing, flattened beneath him in a way that you can’t even wiggle your arms out. He’s draped across you dramatically. You trust him completely.

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“I thought my name was,” He leans closer and kisses your neck. “Boyfriend. Or baby. Orrrrrr,”

He kisses up your neck and onto your cheek. His hazel eyes are bright, crinkled in his grin so much that his lashes kiss in the corner. He kisses your nose. “Handsome.”

“Mmmhm,” you revel in the never-ending affection, glowing from the inside with happiness. You wiggle your arms to make Steve push himself up, just enough to free them from being smothered against your chest. Free to roam, your hands find the sides of his face.

“What about…” You begin. Steve watches you closely, evidently gleeful from the touchiness of your hands. He pushes into your palm, turning to kiss it fast. “My snookums.”

You exaggerate the word, your voice going all sugary to butter it up. You watch as emotions ripple across Steve’s face— the twitch in his nose as he tries not to outright frown at you. How polite he is.

It’s only as he catches the grin spreading across your face, wicked and just loving watching him squirm at the terrible pet-name, does he catch on to your jest. A sigh of relief and a chuckle whooshes out of him at once.

“Oh, thank God you’re joking.” He drops all his weight into your waiting hands, grinning when you let his face flops forward into your chest. His words are completely muffled as he speaks into your chest. “That could’ve been serious grounds for a breakup.”

You huff a laugh and nudge him up best you can. “Yeah, alright, drama queen. Your movie is starting.”

Steve’s head pops up, his head twisting back towards the television like he had forgotten about its existence until you had mentioned it.

“Oh true,” He says. He pushes up off you to sit himself up, shuffling back so instead you can lean on him. Re-situating his arms around you, Steve hums absentmindedly as he throws a leg over you, tangling it with yours. Thoroughly intertwined, you both sink back into the pillows.

The credits roll up and off the screen, the first five minutes of the film whisked away while you and Steve were settling down. Now, the opening scene begins, the grainy picture on the screen buzzing as it plays the VHS.

You get approximately two minutes of silence, your and Steve’s heads turned towards the television, until distraction kicks in.

You do your best to ignore it as his head turns towards you, your eyes still focused on the screen, but all your attention runs to Steve. He nudges a little closer to you, his nose pressing into your temple and right as you realise he’s smelling you, he says—

“Did you use my body wash?”

You freeze.

“I— was I not supposed to?” Your voice comes out a bit weaker than intended.

Steve lets out a soft noise, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, only worrying you further. He starts to shift around a bit, retracting his leg back an inch, his nose no longer nudging close along your temple; all actions that contrast his assuring words.

“No, no, no, it’s fine, you’re fine—“ Despite his words, he shifts again. His hips shuffle backward, one of his hands moving down subtlety as he can to fuss with his pyjama pants.

It takes about two more seconds for you to get it — clued in by Steve’s suddenly scarlet cheeks and his embarrassed expression.

Your mouth drops open a bit unwittingly.

“Are you—“

“Yes.” Steve grates out. He abandons fixing the growing tent in his pants to cover his face with his hands, rolling slightly away from you. You can feel the heat of his embarrassment radiating off him. His words are slightly muffled from behind his palms.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean— I didn’t even realise that was something that got me going until, like, right this second.”

It’s adorable that he’s so flustered and that he’s apologising. You’ve never had that happen before. You’ve never had someone so conscious of how it might seem— never someone like Steve who doesn’t seem to come with any expectations.

A thread of relief jolts through you. It reaffirms what you already know; anything you want to do will be done on your terms.

And with his eyes covered up, if you glance down at his pants for good hard look…. well, that’s between you and the universe.

“Steve,” your fingers curl around one of his wrists, tugging it gently. You try to coax his face out of hiding, your smile somewhere between giggly and endeared. “It’s— it’s okay, really, you don’t have to apologise. I— I mean, I’m honestly flattered.”

Steve deflates a bit, torn between relief and his still persistent concern. He had made a committed plan that he wouldn’t make any moves until you initiated it first and yet, here he was, like every other male in Hawkins. Popping a boner the moment you settle down to innocently cuddle. God, he’s the worst!

A pout forms on his lips. He wishes he could rewind the last 2 minutes and spend the whole movie holding his breath.

“What is it about the body wash?”

Your question takes him by surprise, given the way his other hand drops off from covering his face. He blinks up at you, cheeks still with a hint of cherry red.

“I- I dunno.” He admits. “Like I said I didn’t even realise that…”

Steve’s cheeks flush with colour again. He clears his throat. “That would have that effect on me.”

Something within you preens, a fire stoked by his honest admission; a zing shooting down your spine because you don’t think you will ever get used to hearing how Steve wants you.

“Well,” you begin, the word more timid than you hoped it would be. You clear your throat and cast a glance at the television, feigning casualness. “If I was the cause…”

You let your hand come up, brushing across his warm tummy. Look up at him through your lashes, hoping, praying it looks sexier than you’re feeling— which is somewhere between flustered and foolish.

Still, Steve’s throat bobs. You watch his eyes dart down to your lingering hand, an inch or so above his waistband.

“Maybe, I can be the remedy.”

A tiny groan scrapes out of Steve’s throat, like he would love nothing more. Even so, he pins you with a sincere look, hazel eyes burning into yours.

“You don’t have to do that.” He assures you. “I mean—“ He coughs awkwardly. “It will go away, uh, in time.”

“I’m aware how it works, Steve.”

“Oh, are you?” Steve jokes— laughing when you wallop him in the chest. He grabs your hand, stopping your assault mid-motion with a cheeky smile. “Okay! Okay, I deserved that.”

He releases your hand and you let it fall onto his chest. Nerves prickle beneath your skin but with them is something new, something you’ve only gained since your time with Steve; anticipation.

Steeling your anxiety, you let your hand trail down his chest slowly— enough time that he could halt you before you embarrassed yourself. But he doesn’t. Steve watches you closely, his chest rising and falling a bit harder as your hand nears his waistband.

This time, you don’t stop. You let your fingers brush over the tented fabric hesitantly, torn between wanting to watch your hand or to see his face. As confidently as you can, you palm across his bulge— feeling the heat of his hard length thickening up under your hand.

Steve groans lowly.

You look up at him as you rub him softly, taking in his large pupils and pink lips. He’s watching you too, his eyes darting between your face and the hand on his cock.

“Is this okay?” You check. The movie crackles on in the background, idle noise. Steve nods quickly, a curl of his hair falling down onto his forehead.

“Yeah,” He says, voice breathier than it was a minute ago. You try out a harder rub, beginning to feel out the shape of his cock, and you curl your fingers around it. Steve groans again, a little bit louder, his eyelashes fluttering.

Still, he composes himself enough to ask, “Is this okay for you?”

“Hmmm,” you draw out the noise, the smile on your face giving away your faux-thinking. You squeeze him again, right as you murmur, “Maybe make that noise again and I’ll see.”

But any noise he makes is captured in your mouth as he surges forward, one of his hands curling up under your jaw. His fingers slide into your hair and his lips are sweet and soft, hungry for more against your own.

You can’t help but melt under his kisses, body relaxing into the sheets as you let yourself be kissed breathlessly. A warmth pools deep within your chest, drooling down into your stomach. Anticipations sinks in. Your thighs rub together.

Losing the nerve and the focus, your hand slips up to cup at Steve’s hip— but if he cares, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he takes it as a cue to press forward, leaning his weight onto on his elbows to hold his weight as he shifts up, his lips never leaving yours.

It’s one smooth motion, the way he slips a leg between your own, his body held up and hovering above yours. He kisses, slow and languid. You ache. Your lips haven’t ever been so kissed before.

It isn’t until his thigh shifts up and presses just right do you notice it properly — unable to swallow your shallow gasp, lips halting against Steve’s as a bolt of pleasure blooms deep in your gut. Your eyelashes flutter, a shadow of embarrassment threatening your cheeks.

“S’okay?” Steve whispers, not relenting any of his closeness. His lips brush yours.

You nod gently, a quiet hum sounding in your throat. You’re not entirely sure you can form words right now. Not when it feels like your heartbeat is everywhere — when you can feel the heat between your legs, the tightness of your nipples as they peak, the undeniable thrum of lust building within you.

And certainly not when you can feel Steve, his hardness pressed up against your thigh, his pupils bigger than usual. They’re ringed in that hazel you love— a colour that might be your new favourite ever.

Fuck, you’re in deep. What an incredibly sappy thought to have while you’re getting hot and bothered. Did Steve think that way about you too? Think about the colour of your eyes while he kissed your mouth?

“I…” You finally find your voice and Steve pulls back a couple inches so he can see you properly. His eyes dart over your face adoringly, his lips rosy red from all the kisses and quirked into a smile. He looks at you as if you’re everything.

“I want to…” You say, unable to find the words to finish your sentence. Embarrassment winds up inside you, ready to spring free but Steve seems uncaring at your hesitance.

“You wanna what?”

He kisses the corner of your mouth with a hum. Endlessly patient. Somehow your stomach churns a little faster at that. Nerves stand up on their end, a thousand uneasy prickles over your body.

“I want to.” You say this time, firmer. “Do more.”

It still sounds too mousy coming out and you see a flicker of something on Steve’s face.

“If you do, I mean.” You add on quickly. “I want to if you do.”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh, like the idea of checking in with him was a bit absurd. His gaze roams over your face slowly, taking his fine time just looking at you. He looks as though he doesn’t quite know what to say.

He lands on, “You don’t seem sure.”

Your heart flip-flops at the wrinkle between his eyebrows, his concern evident. He fixes you with a serious, sincere look.

You nod, your hair scrunching up against the pillow as you do. “I am. I just…”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and worry it, thinking of how to put this. You’ve said it before, you’ve told him how it was in the past, how you hadn’t enjoyed it and yet…

Feeling too squirmish under Steve’s intense stare, you avert your eyes to look at the ceiling and swallow the knot in your throat.

Your voice comes out a whisper. “I want to try but I’m not sure— I just I can’t promise that I’ll- that y’know, I—”

Eyes crushing closed, you try to seize your bubbling anxiety before it seizes you. This is Steve. You trust him wholly. Just a moment ago you were thinking about how much you like him and—

“Hey,” Steve murmurs lowly, nudging his nose into yours. Your eyes open. He smiles softly when he says, “I have no interest in doing something you don’t enjoy.”

The protest flounders up inside you before you can stop it. “But—“

“So,” He cuts you off pointedly. “If we give it a go and you don’t like it, that’s okay. We can just figure out what you do enjoy, okay?“

For a long moment, you just stare up at him.

“Yeah? So we can just try and if it… If I…” You flounder for words, sounding like you think it must be too good to be true. You stare up at the ceiling as you try to verbalise the biggest hurdle, the final niggling worry.

You peer back up at Steve’s face. “You… you wouldn’t be disappointed if we started but then I wanted to stop?”

Some emotion shutters across Steve’s face, a flash of devastation. You mistake it for annoyance.

An unwelcome hitch suddenly twists in your stomach. “I'm sorry, I know that you— we already- last time, we talked about this and I should know—“

“Stop it,” Steve interrupts with a soft shake of his head. “Stop doing that, it’s fine to feel unsure or- or to not know what you like. It takes time and experience to figure what you do like.”

His hand shifts up, brushing the hair back from your forehead. He leaves it there, the warmth of his hand a comfort. His fingers curl lightly into your hair.

“That’s all I wanna do,” He breathes softly, his lips tugging up at the corners. He looks unbearably earnest, his brown eyes shining. “Just wanna do what you like. Wanna figure out what you like.”

He leans down and kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then that soft sensitive spot under your ear. You squirm but this time for all the right reasons.

“Y’want me to do that?” He murmurs.

You’re breathing a little heavier and when Steve nips at your earlobe sparingly, just a love bite and a flash of teeth, your breath catches loudly. Desire surges through you, hot and straight between your legs.

It takes another moment to remember he’s asked you a question.

“Yeah…” you breathe. You wanna nod but you don’t want him to stop what he’s doing. Your throat bobs as you swallow. “I wanna do that. Wanna— wanna learn what you like too.”

Steve hums, a pleased sound, and he kisses languidly at your neck. His lips, soft and plush, scrape against your skin in a way that gathers heat low in your gut. Your hips tilt forward an inch, moving against his thigh almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah?”

The way he says it, the way the word rolls out of his mouth, all husky and low, makes your nipples peak.

“We get to learn together, hm?” He kisses your neck again. The soft press of his tongue and the gentle scrape of his teeth have you gripping the sheets, almost white knuckled.

Suddenly, you can’t stand to not be touching him. Your hands fly from the sheets, fingers curling around his midriff, feeling at the warm skin. His t-shirt is warmed by him. You slip your hands beneath it as he bites where your shoulder meets your neck, soft enough to make you sigh.

Your hand finds skin. Finally, finally, you get your hands on that damned happy trail that’s been all but haunting your daydreams for the past months.

As Steve kisses down your neck, you trace the line of hair with your finger slowly. Your thumb strokes the coarse hair all the way down to his waistband, gentle and hungry all at once— trying to commit it all to memory. Unwittingly, Steve shivers at the motion.

“Fuck,” his breath shudders against your neck. He tucks his face in closer, fighting the urge to press his body up against yours and grind. You feel the twitch in his hips anyway. “You drive me crazy.”

“Me too,” you gasp when he pulls off your neck, blowing cool air across the heated skin he’s been dedicating himself to. You wonder if a bruise will come up, beautiful and kiss-bitten. You clench a little at the thought, the heat between your thighs only increasing.

A mark from him— a mark of a lover.

You want to give one to him too. Managing to remember you can do things with your hands, other than just pawing at his back, you shift them up to curl into his hair. Tugging gently, you coax his face up enough so you can nose alone the length of his neck.

Steve’s panting and you can hear his breath catch when you start planting kiss after kiss on his skin— dragging your bottom lip across those glorious moles you adore so much.

Without meaning to, you press him back and Steve lets himself roll back onto the mattress, his hands tugging you closer. You take the invitation and struggle for a moment to get up over his hips, one leg too tangled in the blanket on the bed.

“My leg,” you laugh weakly, having to retract a hand from his hair to free it. When you do, you settle down, straddling his hips, and try not to lose your confidence. Still, you can’t help apologising. “Sorry.”

Steve peers up at you lovingly, frowning a little when you apologise. “What? No, it’s fine.”

He shifts one hand and grabs the loose blanket beside you and then hefts it up, throwing it as far as he can off the bed with a grunt. It lands somewhere behind you with a soft noise.

“Blanket’s fault.” He says, brown eyes back on you. “Freaking cockblock. I got rid of him, babe, don’t worry.”

You snort a little, leaning down to kiss his perfect lips.

“My hero.” You murmur sarcastically against them.

“Ooh, say that again, baby,” Steve moans exaggeratedly, throwing his head back onto the pillow dramatic, his eyes screwed shit.

You laugh, unknowingly relaxing a little further into him. You swat at his chest.

“Steve.”

“Oh!” He moans again, all girlish and fake, and twists his head in the other direction. “I love it when you say my name like I’m an idiot!”

You gasp, but it’s still hidden in your laughter as you hit his chest again, for a different reason this time.

“Don’t say that!” You say genuinely. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

Steve drops the act, his eyes creasing open to shine up at you. He’s glowing beneath you, cheeks a bit flushed and grinning like he’s a little bit in love with you. You think he might be.

“No, you don’t.” He agrees. He soothes his hands up and down your sides. “Only idiot is that idiot who let you think there was anything wrong with you.”

“Ugh,” you scoff. “Please don’t bring him up ever again— least of all when we’re in bed.”

Steve squeezes your sides gently and smiles up at you like he hasn’t heard a word you’ve said. “Noted.”

And then you kiss him.

For a couple of minutes it’s this easy, lazy making out that you love. Though, it’s like there’s a furnace turning up beneath you both, the intensity getting more feverish with every kiss. When Steve finally pulls back from you, panting, he looks as flustered as you feel.

“Can I take these off?”

His fingers are curled into the waistband of your pyjama pants. You nod before you can overthink it, letting him shimmy them down your thighs and settling yourself down on the comforter. Steve sits up a bit beside you, to tug them down your legs and off your ankles.

Steve’s focus is on his hands but your gaze is stuck on his face— and you watch as he tosses your pants behind him carelessly. His eyes fix on your cunt, hidden away behind your lacy panties.

“Woah,” he murmurs softly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He leans down on his elbows, one arm on either side of your hips and pings the elastic on the cutest lingerie you own. “These are very pretty.”

He sounds like he means it, his voice tinged with lust. It gives you a moment of confidence.

“Yeah?” You ask. You slide your hands up, pushing your shirt up gingerly as you to reveal the matching bra to him.

Even from your distance, you can see how Steve’s pupils dilate, blowing way out. “You like them?”

Steve let’s out a pained noise as his head flops over, his nose pressed into your hipbone. One of his hands reaches down between his legs, adjusting himself in his pants.

He looks back up at you, hair a bit mussed, and pouts.

“That’s not fair! That’s so not fair. Did you plan this? Blindside me by wearing my body wash and then surprise me with matching lingerie?”

The way he says it, all faux accusatory, makes you grin. He sits up long enough to tug his own shirt off, discarding it behind him, and crawls up the bed to kiss you. You catch a glint of the single chain he wears around his neck before he's kissing you.

“You—” Kiss. “look—” Kiss. “so—” Kiss. “fuckin’—” Kiss. “hot.”

He pulls back, taking a moment to just gaze at you before he leans back further, scuttling down the sheets til he’s paused between above your legs.

Something within you flares hotly at the memory of the last time he was in the position. You feel a warm pulse in your cunt, a trickle of slick coating your panties. Your hips shift an inch— half nerves, half anticipation.

Steve kisses you over your panties, like last time, the first chaste and on your clit. The next is a little lower, a little slower, his lips parting further and his tongue pressing languidly against your core. You squirm, breathing a little heavier.

His hands grips gently at your hips, moving up to smooth over your thighs. He lets his fingers slip forward, the tips of them pressing lightly into your inner thighs. He pulls them further apart and ruins you a bit when he kisses sweet along the skin of your thigh.

“I’m pretty sure we could just do this every time and I’d be happy,” Steve says, but it’s paired a chuckle fringed with nerves.

He looks up at you and you realise it is a bit of nervousness— like he’s worried you might find it embarrassing just how much he likes it.

Your blood hums in response, warmer, all of it rushing down your body. You don’t know quite what to say to that, so you say, “Yeah?”

Steve smiles, that flash of nervousness already gone or cleverly hidden. He gives your thighs a gentle squeeze with his large hands and rubs his cheek up against one of them.

“Are you kidding me? I think I’d do anything you wanted just to hear those noises you made again.”

Your lips part slightly in surprise. He’s always so startlingly honest and forward with his feelings but, somehow, it still manages takes you by surprise— that he’s not at all shy about how much he likes you.

Scrambling for an appropriately sexy response, you come up blank and instead decide to press your thighs together. Between them, Steve’s cheeks squish forward, his lips forming an absurdly funny pout.

“Hey!” He exclaims.

It comes out a little muffled with his face squidged up and the mixture of both his face and voice makes you laugh. You release him, legs falling apart, feeling the breath of his laugh again your skin.

“Kidding, you can warm my ears anytime you want, honey,” He’s still grinning up at you when he says it. Part of you know he’s being completely serious.

Your gut burns low. You resist the urge to squirm, feeling the heat chase down to your cunt. It’s hard to relax when he manages to make you feel so keyed up.

“Stop getting distracted.” You jest.

“You stop getting distracted,” He jibes back, but his focus drifts back down, his eyes darkening with a fiery lust.

He rubs the skin of your thighs again, soothingly, and lets one hand creep forward til his knuckles are brushing up against the edge of your panties. His thumb presses forward, into the wet spot you’ve soaked through.

Even so, he still asks, “How we doin’? Still feeling good?”

You nod quickly, then think verbal confirmation is probably far better. “Yeah, still good.”

Realising you’re staring up at the ceiling, hard, you flick your eyes down between your legs. Even if it doesn’t feel particularly sexy, you still have to say it. “Thank you for checking.”

“Of course,” Steve says. He pinches the elastic of your panties lightly, his eyebrows raising in question. “Gonna take these off, yeah? Then you let me know if you don’t like anything I’m doing.”

Despite your history, a huge part of you wants to say yeah, fat chance of that because yeah, you’re beginning to wonder if your boyfriend has some genuinely magical fingers. And a magical mouth. And wait, does that mean his co—

The thought gets ripped away as you feel your panties get tugged downwards and you quickly lift your hips to help. Though he’s seen you bare before, it’s impossible to stop the flush that rolls through your body, hot and tinged with embarrassment. You want to close your legs but Steve between them prevents that from happening.

“Here,” Steve hums, reaching a hand up to scoop up your own from the bedsheets.

He gives it a quick kiss on the palm and then moves it up to land in his hair. “You let me know how m’doing, okay?”

Your fingers curl into his brunette locks automatically and grip tightly when he leans in, his hot tongue dipping between your folds. Pleasure drips into your body as he begins to lick softly, his skilled tongue finding your bundle of nerves quickly and twisting around it.

Heat builds. You close your eyes and let yourself enjoy it, soft pants escaping your lips as Steve kisses and suckles where you’re most sensitive, til there’s a moan lacing every breath.

Fuck, he’s so good at this. How is he so good at this?

One of his hands on your thighs starts to knead gently as the other one slides forward, til his thumb is rested at your slicked entrance. He hasn’t stopped sucking on your clit but your sudden sharp inhale catches his attention.

“Sorry,” you say instinctively.

“It’s fine,” Steve soothes, his thumb circling around your soaked hole, which clenches in response.

He kisses your thigh. Desire burns you up from within, your fingers twisting a little tighter in his hair, giving away your nerves.

“We’re just figuring out what you like, yeah?” He muses, his words half comfort, half lust.

You nod but don’t speak, trying to trust him enough to let his words calm you. Steve gives you a moment to breathe before he resumes the work with his mouth, his hot mouth suckling at your clit once again.

He waits until you’re back to those quiet, shy lusty little noises before he tries again, prodding softly at your entrance in warning before he gently sinks his finger in. You gasp again, hands tightening in his hair — as something molten hot shoots right up your spine.

“Steve,” you cry out his name. It feels... good, which feels like a fucking miracle in itself. He begins to fuck the finger in and out slowly, still lapping at your clit. A heat that you’ve only felt once before starts to nip at your skin, bleeding into each nerve.

Your panting grows heavier and without meaning to, you clench down around him, desperate for a little more.

“See, you like that one, huh?” Steve mumbles against you, his dark eyes flashing up to take in your face contorted in pleasure. His cock thickens unbearably in his pants, too confined. You nod, hair scrunching up against the pillow.

“Yea—yes,” You say, feeling your hips rock down an inch. You want more of that.

Steve obliges, more than willingly, adding another finger. It slides in with little resistance. It’s hotter than anything else to get to see you like this, pliant and horny, rocking your hips against his mouth.

To get to make you like this— sucking on your cute little clit and fucking his fingers in, hearing the adorable squelch of your wetness. You’re so turned on it makes his brain melt a bit, the way you’re leaking all over his fingers. Steve’s cock throbs desperately— but he wants to make sure you’re stretched out enough to take him. If you want that, that is.

He eases one more finger in, keeping a careful watch on your face to see how you take it. You keen beautifully, back arching slightly as he curls his fingers and begins to stretch you out.

You pant deliriously, these tiny whimpers beginning to slip out your throat. Steve wishes he could see your face, the cute scrunch of your brows as you moan— but happily settles for latching his lips back onto your cunt.

Three fingers feel even better than two, you find, as you grip the sheets tightly— you’re throbbing but in this torturous way, balancing on the edge of too much and not enough. There’s a hint of pain lingering at the back, but not enough to distract you from the pleasure.

It takes you by surprise then, when the pleasure suddenly tapers off, your eyes creasing up open and head popping up. You realise Steve is slowly stopping, his slick fingers slipping out of you as he sits back up a bit.

“Why’d you stop?” You say without thinking.

Flushing, you quickly follow it up. “Every— everything okay?”

God, you sound wiped. Your chest is still heaving and your clit twitches, missing the stimulation of your boyfriend’s mouth. The air smells honeyed and perfumed with sex.

“You tell me,” Steve murmurs sweetly, his lips grazing the inside of your knee in an almost kiss. “You said you wanted to do more. Is this enough more?”

Your heart nearly bursts in the pure consideration. God, he’s so fucking nice to you. So unbothered to take things your pace, so attuned to making you feel good. You know that you could happily do this more for the rest of the night.

But it’s not what you had in mind — and the longer you wait, the more you’re beginning to crave getting Steve to a similar state you’re in. Moaning, flushed in the face, his hands buried in your hair.

“We can do more,” You say, your voice dropping back into that shy whisper.

Steve watches you closely, his hand still absentmindedly rubbing at your thigh dotingly.

You clear your throat and speak a little louder. “I wanna do more.”

“Yeah?” Steve says, his grin growing. He huffs and shakes his head a little, dropping your gaze.

“I mean, believe me, even if we just—“ He gestures vaguely between your thighs. “— did this all night? Night well spent.”

You know he means it, especially with his hungry gaze that dips back down, his tongue slipping out to lick his bottom lip briefly.

You press up onto one elbow and reach out one hand, hooking your finger over the one single chain he wears. There’s a ring looped on it, the one you gave him as a promise, and just the sight of it makes you glow inside.

You tug the chain forward lightly and him with it, Steve shifting up the bed til you’re nearly face to face, his frame hovering above you. The beds dips beneath his hands as they crawl up to either side of your waist, his intense eyes locking onto your face. He might be holding his breath.

Swallowing, you move up and press your lips to his in a slow, soft kiss. It turns deeper, hotter, heavier. You swipe your tongue into his mouth and Steve lets out a pitiful noise in response, pressing his mouth against yours desperately.

Drawing back with a little gasp, you open your eyes and repeat your earlier sentiment, “I want to do more.”

Steve watches you, his exhale shaking slightly. You dot a kiss on his cheek quick, pulling back to meet his eyes.

“I want to do more with you.”

A kiss on his other cheek, just as fast. Pink blooms beneath where your lips touch.

“I want to do more, right now.”

Steve smiles splits into a grin, his eyes shining as he chuckles, the sound doused in fondness. “Okay, okay, I got the message,” He murmurs.

Pushing back to sit on his heels, he turns and rummages around in his bedside table for a moment. You lay back on the pillows and try catch your breath, knowing it’s only a matter of time before it’s stolen once more.

When Steve pulls back, there’s a row of condoms in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other. He tears off one of the condoms and throws the rest of them behind him without thought.

You can’t help but tilt your head up, neck straining a bit, not wanting to look away for a moment as Steve raises onto his knees and pushes his boxers down. His cock kicks up, released from its confines with a soft slap against his happy trail.

Unwittingly, your mouth waters a bit.

And look, you’ve seen a dick before, okay? It’s pretty hard to sleep with someone and not see one, unless you have your eyes closed the entire time.

But Steve’s cock is… pretty.

Pink and aching, the head of it slick with a bit of pre-cum— that you realise he’s gotten from being worked up whilst eating you out. You gush a little at the dizzying thought.

You want to touch it — or put it in your mouth so you can drool over it, can suck on it, can feel the heady weight of it on your tongue. Or, as you realise what the ache of your cunt means, you really, really want him to fuck you with it.

Instinct drives your thighs apart, beckoning him between them. Steve’s eyes darken as he notes the motion, moving a bit more hastily to tear the condom packet open. He rolls it down his length, quick and precise.

“Okay,” Steve breathes, reaching out for the lube and drizzling a generous amount into his palm. He keeps the bottle within reach as he slicks it over his heavy cock, a beautiful groan pushing out his throat as he does.

“Okay,” He says again, a little breathier than before. Shuffling forward, Steve lines himself up with your core gently before halting. His eyes dart up to your face.

“You let me know if there’s anything you don’t like or you wanna stop.”

You nod, his ardent care only serving to fuel your lust. You’ll coo over it in the afterglow— right now you want to be around him, want to feel him pulsing inside you, want to feel full where you’re suddenly feeling so, so empty.

Steve shifts forward, beginning to sink into you with a low groan of pleasure.

The first few seconds are bliss — Steve’s done his job well at warming you up and something hungry awakens with a burst of pleasure as you take the first few inches.

Then, something a little more uncomfortable joins the mix.

You try not to squirm, disappointment inflating as your pleasure is robbed by the twinges of pain. It’s not unbearable but you’re enjoying yourself less. Steve moves in another inch and then discomfort abruptly becomes pain.

You inhale sharply, teeth gritted together, and Steve stops moving in an instant.

“Woah, y’okay?”

You nod, even as your eyes slip shut. Half of this is a mental game, you know that—you’ll never loosen up if you don’t try to relax.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, voice a bit tight. “Just— just gimme a minute.”

Steve murmurs a quiet sure but after a moment he says, “Wait, lemme—“ and moves forward so he’s hovering above you instead of sitting back, your faces much closer now. The jostling doesn’t help but having Steve closer does.

He keeps his hips as still as he can and kisses your cheek. You don’t open your eyes just yet, willing yourself desperately to relax, to enjoy it. You take a deep breath.

“We can stop,” Steve whispers.

You shake your head. Creasing your eyes open, you move your hands up so you can twine them around Steve’s neck in almost a hug. Steve leans down and kisses your cheek again, then steals a kiss from your lips.

“I wanna—“ You gasp, frustration mounting at how the pain doesn’t seem to be subsiding. You sound miserable as you cling to him closer. “I want this to work.”

“It’s okay if it doesn’t,” Steve responds, his arm shifting up so he can trace his thumb over your cheekbone.

The movement moves his hips forward another inch, pain spiking so severely that you wince aloud, your face pinched in discomfort. That’s all it takes for Steve to shift back, easing out of you gently. You’re devastated at the relief that follows.

“Okay, I’m not doing that if it hurts you—“

“It wasn’t,” You lie fruitlessly. You know Steve heard your wince—but maybe if you lie, you can trick your body.

Hands coming up to cover your face, you scrunch your eyes up, annoyed at how they sting with tears so quickly. Your voice is all wobbly when you say, “I’m sorry. I'm sorry, I really want this to work, Steve.”

Steve aches at your words, moving in to tug at your hands. His voice is soft, sweet.

“Hey, hey, I know that, sweetheart.”

You don’t let him in, hands still shielding your face. He kisses your knuckles instead, his thumbs swiping up and down your wrists comfortingly.

He waits a moment before he continues, voice buttery soft, “I know you want this. It’s not your fault if your body only likes it some ways and not others. You can’t control that and I know that.”

You take one deep breath and it shudders as you inhale, sounding far too teary for Steve’s liking. He tugs at your wrists again, relieved when you let him pull them away tentatively. You aren’t crying but you look damn near close.

“What’s got you so upset, huh?” Steve coos, nuzzling in close, his nose brushing against yours.

He releases your wrists to cup your face, tender and soft, his brows knit together in his concern. “You know I don’t mind- I told you that I don’t care what we do, just that you’re enjoying it.”

You take another shaky inhale, a little more stable than the last. Steve can feel how you move to press back against him, nuzzling him back. You take another moment before you reply.

“I just-“ You start, voice still tight. “It’s so stupid. I wanted it— I wanted to enjoy it. And that doesn’t even seem to matter to my body. It doesn’t even change how it feels and that sucks. Like I can’t control this part of me.”

Steve listens dutifully, waiting til you finish and your eyes find him.

“Well,” He starts, averting his eyes somewhat sheepishly. “Take everything I say with a grain of salt, okay? But… your body doesn’t hurt just to mess with you, right?”

He waits a moment for your tentative nod. “Right. So, it’s not for nothing. It’s trying to tell you something and- and ignoring that isn’t having control. You have to listen and work with your body — it’s your partner in all this.”

“I thought you were my partner,” you whisper, the small smile on your lips giving away your joke. Steve faux rolls his eyes and kisses the tip of your nose.

“I’m your other partner.” He smiles. Then sighs, casting his gaze above your head for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “Am I making any sense?”

Wiggling one hand up, you place it on his cheek tenderly and begin to whisper. “You’re making a lot of sense actually.”

Steve sighs, leaning his face into the palm of your hand with a huff. “Well, that’s a relief.”

For a minute, there’s only quiet. Your emotions come down from their swell and you take the time to admire the beautiful boy above you, who seems to be doing just the same to you.

After a moment of time, you clear your throat and say, “Can we try again?”

Steve seems to think on it for a moment before he nods, turning to kiss your palm.

“This is gonna make me sound like a total guy,” He says, words muffled against your hand. His brown eyes flash up to yours, darting between them. “But maybe we should try from the back. Like, different angle and all.”

You snort, unable to hold it in because it does sound like such a guy thing to say. Even so, you give a little nod, eager to try something else. You don’t even want to acknowledge the mounting dread around disappointing Steve — even with all his assurances, you can’t help but feel as though this has been one gigantic let down.

As Steve shifts back, you become suddenly aware of the lubed up slick spot on your thigh where Steve's cock was resting and scrunch your nose with a laugh. Peering down, you drag a finger through the wetness left on it.

“Ew,” you laugh.

“Ew?” Steve echoes incredulously. “Alright, that’s it.” His sits up and back, his hands darting down lightning fast, manoeuvring you all of sudden. He hooks his hands under your hips and lifts, twisting so you’re suddenly splayed on your front.

You’re giggling all the while, drunk on the feeling of your boyfriend’s hands as they trail up your sides. The hair of his tanned scrapes against your back as he leans in, mouthing along your shoulder towards your neck.

You find your knees and prop yourself up on them, lifting your hips off the sheets of Steve’s bed. At the angle he’s draped himself over you, it’s a perfect line up of his cock with your cunt, the head of it teasing your entrance when you push back.

You're relieved that your emotional moment hadn't killed the mood altogether. That same hot, pulsating want from before tears through you and Steve takes a stuttering breath, the slightest moan in his throat. You feel his forehead press against your shoulder blade, as though he’s trying to compose himself.

“You-“ He says, the word catching in his throat. As if unable to help himself, his hips grind forward, pushing his aching cock between your slick folds. You make pitiful, keening noises in response, a thread of pleasure run through the two of you.

“You ready?” Steve asks shakily. He relents some of his closeness to grab the lube, giving another generous drizzle into his palm to slather over himself.

“Please,” you whisper, pushing yourself back an inch.

This time when Steve pushes himself in, the bliss stretches out, lasting more than just the first couple seconds. You make a high, breathy sigh of a noise and your head drops forward.

Steve pauses, his breathing on the ragged side, and checks in. “Still feeling okay?”

You nod feverishly, a whine building up in your throat that threatens to escape if Steve doesn’t move. Or maybe if he does move. You can’t tell — can’t tell anything other than how good it feels to have him inside you, hot and throbbing.

“Yes,” you manage to gasp out. “Yeah, keeping going, please,”

Steve grunts, complying in an instant, sinking his cock further in. Something inside you tightens up again— but it’s not nearly as noticeable as last time. Still, Steve recognises it and he slows for a moment.

“I’m okay,” you assure breathily, face nearly pressed into the bed. You need him to keep moving.

And he does; his cock sinks in another inch right as his hand creeps around your hip, searching for something blindly. You barely get one moment of confusion before his calloused fingers drag through the slick on your cunt and move up, pushing against your clit purposefully.

You moan, loud and high. The friction of your clit is enough to make your thighs spread a little wider and your hips move back before you even realise what you’re doing, almost the rest of Steve’s cock sinking inside you. It feels good but something else pinches up inside you.

Steve moans, muffling the sound into your skin as he hides his face in your neck.

You pant, suddenly dreading how you can feel the prick of pain on the fringes of your pleasure if Steve stretches you too far. "Don't- n-not too much," You warn gently, the words all breathy, still swathed in your pleasure. "I—uh— fuck, I don't think I can take it all."

You feel Steve's nod against the back of your neck, accompanied by a low hum in his throat.

“Y-yeah, okay,” He stammers. His hips roll forward and he follows your word, not quite pushing all the way in. "F-Fuck."

His breath is hot on your neck and the sudden urge for his kiss is nearly overwhelming. Even not facing him, the way Steve drapes himself around you, gentle even with how he grinds his hips into yours, feels intimate. Your cunt gives a soft squelch.

“Oh fuck,” Steve gasps, stilling completely — the feeling of you wrapped around him is enough to nearly push him to the edge. He screws his eyes closed and whimpers, trying to keep himself together.

“Y’okay?” You whisper breathily after a couple of moments, forehead pressed into the sheets. Your hips move just a little bit, shifting in a little circle so his cock slides out an inch, his fingertips grazing across your clit again.

“I—ngh-“ Another whine slips out from his throat at your movement and Steve’s hand slips back, gripping your hip tightly. “Jesus Christ. Y-Yeah I’m good, just trying not to— fuck- end this too quickly.”

He moves a bit, readjusting him arms to hold weight up a little easier.

“But you’re really wet and, like, really warm,” He grunts, almost accusingly. “And I really like you, so,”

You can’t help it — a little laugh titters out of you, one of pure delight because Steve is sincere about his feelings. The laugh only serves to make Steve groan louder.

“Shit,” He gasps, his forehead pressing into your shoulder. “You can’t laugh right now, it’s so not helping.”

“Sorry,” you laugh again, a little more apologetic this time.

Then, after a moment of gathered bravery, you say, “I don’t think I like this position. I can’t see your face.”

Steve makes a pained noise from behind you, a breathy and sharp inhale, and suddenly his grip on your hip is twice as tight.

“I’m gonna need you to stop talking. Please.” He grits out, voice sounding tight and barely restraining the moan in it. “I’m trying really hard here but you’re making this impossible.”

Steve shifts on his elbow again, bicep bulging as he lowers himself to one side. His hips press into your backside, sinking himself further into your wet heat, as he settles his weight down onto the mattress. The springs make a noise in protest.

You’re still closely intertwined, Steve pressed up against you, still throbbing within you, but now it’s more like… you’re spooning.

You settle down too, forcing out an exhale to let yourself melt back into Steve’s chest.

He lets out a soft groan again but the new position means he can bury his face in your neck properly— and when you turn your head right, he seizes the chance for a kiss.

He kisses sweet and slow to begin with, plush lips nipping at yours as if you’re not already in the throes of sex. Like he kisses you hello. His nose nudges against yours and he shimmies an arm beneath you on the bed. It curls itself around your stomach and Steve uses it to bring you even closer.

“Is this better?” He whispers. He nudges his hips for a bit, giving a gentle thrust. Something warm flares at the pit of your belly, hungry for more. “Still okay?”

You nod, a whimper escaping your throat as you steal another kiss from his lips. “Yes,” You whisper, lips scraping against his, hardly believing it. “Feels— feels good, baby,”

Steve finally gives in to his moan, a beautiful noise that sends heat rushing between your thighs. He begins to move more, building a gentle rhythm as he fucks into you, sensual and adoring all in one.

Time drips away. You feel much warmer now, pressed up against Steve’s chest, with his kisses all around. One of his hands stays dutifully between your legs, pushing around your bundle of nerves and pulling weak, soft noises from you. The other, you cling to, your fingers twisted as best they can with his.

Pleasure wraps the pair of you up til a soft glow of sex and love settles over the both of you. Steve murmurs doting words, an endless stream of encouragement pouring from his mouth as he nibbles at the shell of your ear.

Still feelin’ good? Yeah, you are. Just listen to you- sounding so pretty wrapped around my cock.

Fuck, your pussy makes the cutest noises. So wet f’me, isn’t she? God, you drive me crazy.

You’re taking me so well, yeah? Being so fuckin’ good f’me- letting me know how you feel. M’so lucky - fuckin’ love— love this with you.

You don’t even realise when every gasp out your mouth has turned into a moan, each breath building and mounting. Your chest heaves and Steve’s motions go from lazy to focused. His hips slow a little but his fingers over your clit speed up, dancing across the nerves perfectly.

You clutch desperately at the arm he has wrapped around your waist, your head thrown back to rest on his shoulders with your eyes screwed shut. Your hole clenches wildly as you hurtle towards your orgasm— and go right over the edge without warning.

You make this cute little gasping noise, high pitched and wrapped in a pretty sigh, and Steve doesn't think he's ever heard something so sensual, so pretty. His blood seems to thrum in response, pleasure turning the coil in his gut tighter and tighter.

Euphoria melts into your body and you sag into it with a drawn out soft moan, turning your face to search for Steve’s in an instant. One of your hands darts up, sloppily reaching for the back of his neck, suddenly starved of a kiss.

You find his lips right as Steve finds his peak— his handsome face screwing up as he all but whines into your mouth. You capture it, some heavy, open mouthed kiss of desperation shared between you.

Pleasure flows over you, hot and heavy, fuelled by the frantic grinds of Steve’s hips into yours as he whimpers into your mouth. Even though some part of you feels vulgar, another, louder, part of you feels like you've taken part in something sacred. Steve's fierce kiss certain feels akin to something holy.

After a minute, the euphoria fades. You settle back into your body, feeling the scratch of the cotton sheets beneath you, the sweat of Steve’s chest on your back, the slightly discomfort in between your thighs.

Steve can feel it, the moment you tense back up, some unwelcome twinge of pain in your gut. He’s shuffling back and pulling out before you even have to ask.

Without his chest to lean on, you roll backward naturally and flop onto your back, still panting lightly. Steve shifts up to hover above you.

“You good?” He asks, that same breathlessness in his voice. He smiles handsomely, his hair a little limper than usual, flopping over his forehead. He looks gorgeous. “You did great.”

That almost makes you laugh, the sincere praise so like one might give a child, but Steve seals it with a kiss to your forehead. Your laugh turns into a sheepish but giddy grin. “I’m gonna take the condom off, I’ll be right back.”

He disappears from your line of sight for a minute or two and you can hear him rustling around in his room.

Without any distractions, you suddenly remember the film you’d put on in the beginning, still running at the end of the bed— the final credits are just starting to roll. The streetlights glow a little brighter in the evening dark through the curtains.

You huff out a breath and your smile comes without even trying. In fact, if Steve hadn’t come back when he did, you’re sure you would’ve started giggle to yourself madly, cocooned in your own contentedness. That same awed, gleeful smile just like the first time round.

“You look like a dope, smiling like that, you know that?”

Steve’s wearing a pair of boxers, green plaid, and he’s got a fresh, warm wash-cloth in his hands.

"I didn't know that," You muse playfully.

“Hey,” He changes tone to less playful, kneeling on the bed. You notice the change of clothes in his other hand when he throws them onto the duvet beside him. “M’just gonna clean you up a bit, that okay?”

You’re sure there’s a pinch of embarrassment in you somewhere but, still blissed from your orgasm, you can’t manage to find it. Steve is quick and precise, the warm cloth wiping up any excess sticky fluids. He kisses the inside of your knee when he’s done.

“All done,” He murmurs, climbing back off the bed in the direction of the bathroom, switching off the television as he does. He gestures to the clothes at the foot of the bed as he walks. “Y’can wear these if you want.”

Finally feeling less flattened, you shift up to lean on your elbows. He’s grabbed you a pair of his boxers, the matching blue pair to his green, and one of his old Hawkins swim-team shirts. You slip into both quickly, your heart going a bit fuzzy with how soft the shirt is.

Then you crawl beneath the covers, blood still rushing far faster than usual and a satisfied tiredness beginning to sink into your body. You can't help but thinking it all over — Steve's mouth between your legs, the feel of him sinking into you, the ecstasy of falling apart in his arms.

Part of you hadn't wanted to acknowledge that, well, it fucking worked this time and you enjoyed it. A niggly fear about jinxing it. Like if you pointed it out, it would incite the likelihood of your body turning on you once more. Robbing you of pleasure and experience in equal measure.

But when Steve comes bounding back to the bed, dragging back the covers to join you beneath them, you speak first.

"So, that didn't suck." You say excitedly, biting back your grin as Steve settles down beside you.

Together, you share one pillow as he scooches in closer. His hands reach out, searching for you amongst the sheets. When he finds your hips, he uses them to drag you closer to him, a halfhearted cuddle.

He lets out a puff of air against the pillow, a light snort. "I mean, hopefully it didn't just not suck."

If you had more energy, you might give him a playful shove because you know he knows what you mean. He'd seen the whole display of nervous emotions attached to sex all the way leading up to it.

Instead, heart feeling awfully gooey in your chest, you seize the opportunity to press in closer to him. Your head tucks beneath his chin, your lips barely grazing his throat.

"It was really good." You whisper, lashes fluttering as your eyes fight to stay open. Steve's warm on a good day. He's hot as a furnace with all the blood that's pumping around still. Perfect for snuggling up with.

"Yeah?" He sounds delightfully pleased, but not the smug kind. He sounds happy that you enjoyed it.

Then he whispers, "Told you it wasn't you."

His big palm sweeps up your back soothingly.

He's right. You've never been so glad to be on the receiving end of an I told you so before. Not that Steve would say that (at least, not right now).

Cuddling in closer, you wriggle one hand out from beneath the covers, not bothering to pull back or open your eyes when you murmur, "Just had sex high-five?"

You can feel Steve's laugh as it rumbles through his throat. It's an inside joke now, it seems.

"Hell yeah." He wiggles one hand free and slaps it against yours, probably a little harder than necessary. You laugh too, the sound a mixture of joy and sleep.

And yeah, okay, you might get it now. The whole big fuss around sex that everyone seems to make—but maybe you don't entirely agree with them.

There was something more in the... trust. In knowing that Steve wouldn't have cared which way it happened, as long as you were both enjoying it. In the intimacy shared, even before you had ever slept together. In the waiting. In the wanting—for both yourself and for Steve.

There's some grandeur discovery you've uncovered, you're sure of it, about the mystery and craze around sex. You just keep losing the string of thoughts to your slumber which drifts ever closer.

Oh well. You can always put it all together in the morning when you're not so tempted by sleep and bundled up in the arms of a boy who you love. For now, you drift off, fulfilled and content.

tags below! (seven months later...)

@roanniom @madaboutjoe @huang-the-geek @pootcullen @superskittles

@hales-who-loves-to-reid @spear-bearing-bi-witch @daisiesandinvasives @season4steve @thelauraborealis

@mmmunson @everythinghasafacee @katethetank @sorry--for-the-mess @matterdontminduntildone

@blowing-mikey @astoryreader @mulletmcghee @sugarcoatedstarkey @pullhisteeth

(these are just the ppl in the tags that mentioned wanting to be tagged! if i know u follow me and are a regular, i didn't bother tagging u cos i know you'll see it hehehe <3)

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #jay writes #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x you smut #steve x reader smut #all my chatter goes after the tags now cos did u guys know that after twenty tags apparently they just dont count tags???#lawd knows im not wasting my first twenny on my rambling #i have MUCH to say about this piece #but mainly im so glad its fookin FINISHED #i can literally see the line breaks in the fic where i stopped and left it for a month #i know the fandom be quiet between seasons but hopefully people be down for some #good ol super into each other figuring it out sex <3 #again - this is entirely indulgent tehe !#but i know there's lot of peeps out there with similar experiences and i hope this resonates for them #mwah!#enough jabbering !

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