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idontevenlistentomitski · 2 years ago

Text

This man has poisoned my mind in ways that are unspeakable.

Rolly your writing hits every right spot as always, honestly the most talented writer on this hellsite.

Montana Motel (Boxer!Steve x Fem!reader)

summary: lately, steve’s been existing at a distance. but at a motel in montana, you find each other again.

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♡ the steve collection ♡

warnings: angst, Steve being a dick as usual, possessive behavior, toxic behavior/argument, smut, hair pulling, choking (ish?)

author's note: you know the drill, kids. listen to western nights by my girl ethel ♡ can be found in the steve + libby playlist ♡

somewhere in montana, august 1990

The road is empty.

A long, winding stretch of grey asphalt against green land. Wide expanses of looming trees can be seen through every window of the SUV, and just up ahead through the windshield, the pale blue sky awaits. Montana seems to be full of nothing but land, and you can't imagine where Steve's fight could be amidst the miles of wilderness—but they called, and Steve came.

Beside you in the backseat, Steve's head knocks into the glass with every bump and jostle in the road. He seems unaffected, arms crossed, shades on, head lolling around. You came straight from his last fight in Washington, and Big and Mikey decided that a road trip was in order, to "see the sights." You weren't seeing very many confined in the blacked out car, but you supposed it was the thought that counts.

Your luggage fills the trunk—the same bunch of clothing you'd been wearing for weeks, with a few additions from Steve picked up along the way. It's been nonstop. Fight, sleep, travel, repeat. He never stopped. Sometimes, on the few sporadic days that he had off between fights, all Steve did was sleep. He could barely move with the welts on his abdomen and spine. He could only open his jaw a few inches to shove in a spoon or fork, and you had to pretend you didn't see the way he winced with every blink and swallow. Boxing was like having an eternal flu—you were always sore, you were always in pain.

Steve was never himself anymore.

You faced each other when you slept, but he never held you anymore. His lips brushed your cheeks, pecked your lips, but he rarely kissed you. Not a real kiss, not the way you wanted. The last time you made love was four fights ago, in Chicago. A month ago. It wasn't as if you hadn't tried—there were nights you were so restless that you writhed in the tub and pouted in the elevator on the way up to the hotel room. But Steve was always too tired, too sore, too angry. He was always angry.

Comfortability was a foreign feeling these days. You never stayed in one city long enough to get familiar. You often found yourself sitting on white hotel beds, with cold hotel sheets, staring at the plastic hotel telephone. You had your parents' landline memorized, and you repeated the numbers in your head until you were too frazzled to think of much else. You picked up the phone, dialed the number, and slammed it back down. Sometimes, you didn't dial anything at all.

You just listened to the dial tone humming, trying to imagine the sound of your father's voice breaking through. You worried that if you were to call, he'd hear it in your voice—how tired you were. How sad you were. He'd tell you to come home, and you'd listen.

But what about Steve? You looked at your boxer drooling on his arm beside you, just as Big whipped the wheel into the half-empty lot of a truck stop. Wasn't everything about Steve?

The car came to a stop, pulled in front of a rusting gas pump. Big popped the locks and hooked his chin over his shoulder to gaze back at you.

"Hey, wanna get out, stretch your legs? We can stay for a bit and get something to eat."

You flashed a smile, one that ached hollowly in your chest, and nodded your agreement.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

The hulking, bald-headed man tossed a look toward his sleeping protege. "Good luck waking that one up."

You giggled, assuring you'd be fine. Big stepped out of the car, jostling it with a slam of his door after. Mikey excused himself and followed suit, and you watched him sprint toward the bathroom sign bow-leggedly. With their departure, the car fell quiet. You turned to Steve again, clicking your seatbelt off. You rummaged through your purse at your feet and pulled Steve's wallet out of the zipper compartment.

"Steve." You reached over and rattled him by the shoulder gently. "Steve, do you want anything to drink?"

You waited. He continued to snore, glasses knocked askew on his squished face pressed into the window. You snickered, petting his arm.

"Stevie? I can get you a Gatorade if you want," you cooed.

Crouching over him, you waited for his response, but all he did was squirm and turn to cower against the window. You huffed, pulling on his arm a little harder.

"Steve—"

"Jesus, Libby!" He yanked his arm away, knocking into the window and causing you to jump back.

"I don't fuckin' care, I'm tryin' to fuckin' sleep. Christ," he roared.

Heart sinking, stomach twisting, you swallowed hard and popped the door handle. At the gas pump outside of the window, Big peered through the dark tint with scrunched brows.

"Okay...I'll just...be right back," you murmured weakly, slipping out of the car.

The air was warm, warmer than it was a few hours ago. It warmed your air-conditioned fingers and frozen nose, and the wind that billowed through your hair felt gentle and soothing as you headed toward the convenience store. A bell above the door chimed with your arrival, greeted with buzzing white lights, neon beverage storage, and aisles of processed food. You trailed your fingers along the packets of candy on the shelves as you headed toward the refrigerators. Your heart was in your throat as you pulled it open and shivered in the cool air.

A water, a blue Gatorade, and a meekly-asked-for pack of Marlboros reds later, you stood in front of the glass door and stared at the car. Steve was still nowhere to be seen, sulking inside the blackened confines of the SUV. Suddenly, as Big and Mikey chuckled about some shared joke between them, and feverishly lit a cigarette on the curb near the restroom, you didn't want to go back out.

"Need some help with that door?"

Whirling around, you giggled nervously at the sight of a man standing behind you. Tall, dressed in what you could only describe as lumberjack attire, donning a backwards red baseball cap—he had a cigarette tucked behind his ear and smiled beneath a scraggly red beard. He was ruggedly handsome, in an unkempt, wild way. But still, your skin crawled, your hair stood to its end at the back of your neck when he dragged his tongue over his teeth and soaked you in with a slow roam of his eyes.

"N-No," you stuttered, cheeks burning. "I just...I was just—"

"Here, let me help you carry those."

Before you could protest, the tall man gathered your drinks in his hands—eyeing you with vivid surprise at the cigarettes in your other hand—and shoved the door open with his arm. He stood in front of it to prop it open, motioning toward the warm, open air of the lot.

"After you." He grinned.

You wiped your hands on the pleated fabric of your shorts anxiously as you passed through. You could feel his figure behind you, following your slow ascent toward the car. Your gaze flashed to Big and Mikey, blowing puffs of smoke and chatting endlessly. They hadn't noticed you yet. You swallow hard again, turning once you were halfway to the car to smile at the stranger.

"I can take those now, you really didn't have to do that."

He shrugged, smiling another handsome smile.

"It's no problem. I can pump your gas, too. Pretty girls shouldn't have to pump their own gas—this your car right there?"

You stuttered again, face burning and swollen with heat, shirt clinging to your spine with sweat. Big and Mikey were heading toward you, cigarettes stamped out. You suddenly couldn't breathe.

Behind you, the back door to the SUV opened and slammed closed in one quick succession.

"Hey! The fuck are you doin' man?"

Steve was standing beside you in an instant, voice as gravely and roaring as earlier. You couldn't help but flinch when he grabbed your wrist and yanked you close. Your eyes found a wad of bubblegum flattened to the pavement.

"Oh, I...I was just helpin' her out, man. Didn't mean anything by it—"

"—I'd hope the fuck not," Steve sneered.

Big and Mikey roamed toward the car, and you glanced over Steve's shoulder at their departing backs. The car jostled again as they slid into the front seats.

"Steve," you sighed, lifting your eyes to his chest, clothed in black. "He was just being nice. He didn't—"

"—uh huh. I'll take my shit now, man."

The stranger extended the drinks slowly to Steve, who snatched them rudely with a continuous glare. Your fingers trembled around the Marlboros clutched to your chest as you followed his pulling guidance toward the car. You gazed off over your shoulder at the flanneled man, hoping the sorry in your eyes was evident enough.

Steve gave you a gentle shove into the backseat, but the slam of the door was anything but kind. You jumped, and Big sighed as Steve stomped around the hood of the car toward his side.

"He's just tired," the older man assured you.

All you could do was nod.

Steve was still scowling when he slid into the backseat beside you, and you kept your eyes on your knees as you flipped the pack of cigarettes over in your palm.

"I got you a new pack," you murmured sheepishly, holding them out. "I thought—"

"—why the fuck do you always have to flirt? Huh? Every time I look away, some fuckhead is suddenly all over you."

You frowned at his sharp accusation, but when he reached with a quick hand to take the Marlboros, you snatched them away. It was your knuckles that hit the window this time, and though the collision filled your hand with a dull ache, you couldn't find it in yourself to care. You only glared at Steve, whose eyes were hard and on display without his shades. Steve tipped his chin down and huffed at your behavior.

"Fuck you. How is this suddenly my fault? I was only trying to do something nice, and you find some way to yell at me.” You frowned.

Steve rolled his eyes, rubbing at his temple.

"Yeah, and I'm sure you thought that jackass was 'just being nice,' too. You never see what I see—you never see what fuckin' creeps these guys are!"

Steve smacked his hand on his knee, and your glare deepened. Big and Mikey shared a look in the front seat.

"I don't give a fuck! I was in there buying my boyfriend cigarettes, I don't care about some random guy. I shouldn't even care about you with the way you treat me."

Steve barked out a laugh, eyes rolling toward the window where he swiped a finger under his nose.

"Wow, okay. You were fuckin' shaking me, Libby, while I was trying to fuckin' sleep—"

"—but you don't always have to yell at me. You always yell at me."

Steve shrugged his shoulders, holding his hands up, palms upended.

"Alright, I'm fuckin' sorry I yelled at you!"

"No you're not—"

"—see? It's not good enough. Nothing is ever fuckin' good enough for you."

You growled, squishing the pack of Marlboros in a tight fist and subsequently tossing the crumpled pack at Steve's forehead. His face instantly fell at the gentle impact, and you popped the door handle open again to jump out of the car.

"I'm sick of this shit!" you screeched, just before slamming the door and stomping off toward the restrooms.

The sounds of Big and Mikey shouting at Steve followed you there, and you decided, upon staring at the dirtied steel door, that you'd sit on the curb instead. You plopped down, putting your elbows to your knees and your knees to your chest, and huffed. You wished you could call your father. You wished he would tell you to come home.

"Babyyyy."

Steve's voice came from across the lot, and you scowled into your hands over your face. His shoes scuffled closer, and finally came to a stop in front of you. His looming figure blocked the remnants of sun still shining through the evening.

"Angel," Steve scoffed, and you could picture him reaching out, only to pull back. "Come on, let's just...let's just go."

"Go where," you droned into your hands.

Steve sighed.

"Let's go home—"

"—but we're not going home," you interrupted, lifting your head to tip back and look at him.

Steve's face was blank, empty, like it always was. You stared at him for a moment, waiting for some semblance of softness to shine through and soothe you. But his hands just found his hips, and he shrugged his shoulders.

"Dunno what you want me to do, angel," he muttered, gazing down at his shoes to watch them kick at the curb you were sitting on. "S' my job, it's just...what I gotta do."

You huffed, looking off toward the slow moving road past the lot of the truck stop. Cars chugged by at a comical rate, so slow that you could study the face of every driver and read every license plate. At your silence, Steve sighed, and this time you watched him reach out, only to recoil and run his hands through his hair.

"Baby, I..."

Steve sighed again, and then suddenly it morphed into a growled—his fist connected with his palm, a sharp smack that echoed off the cement wall behind you. He stepped away, putting distance between the two of you.

"I fuckin'—I hate when you do this. I hate when you make me feel guilty for doin' my fuckin' job."

Your cheeks swelled with more heat, and you sank your teeth into your lip to keep the wobbling tears at bay as they kissed your eyes. You rubbed at one of them furiously. Steve came back with a scuffled stride and hovered, palms held out in front of him—out to you.

"I love you. You get that?"

Steve bent, leveling your faces, crowding you. You cowered back, still refusing to meet his gaze. But you could see him in your periphery, dark-eyed and brooding. His voice was tight, sharp, edged with impatience.

"I love you. And you just...you fuck with my head. You fuck with my head, and it makes me go fuckin' crazy." He tapped his temple with two fingers like a pistol.

You shook your head, letting go of your swollen lip.

"You just feel so far away, Steve," you whispered. "It's like you're not even there anymore."

Steve guffawed, making another sweeping motion with his open palms toward himself. "I'm right here."

You crossed your arms over your lap and frowned, looking off toward the car where Big and Mikey waited. Big's finger tapped the wheel in the driver's seat. You wondered how they had the patience to put up with the two of you.

"I’m right here, baby.” Steve kicked at the curb again, hair flouncing across his eyes as he shook his head. “What more do you want from me?" His voice had the faintest whimper of a whine.

You pulled your eyes away from the car and set them on his feet. You reached out and pulled on the laces, adjusting them around the arch of his foot. You twisted the dirtied white lace around your finger, and Steve watched you.

"I just...want you to show me, Stevie."

When you tipped your head back—the prettiest pout on your face, eyes catching the low-setting, golden sunlight, hair glistening and glowing—Steve's breath caught in his throat.

"Show me you love me."

Steve's brows rounded, furrowing together.

"I do. Baby, I thought...I-I do."

You shook your head.

"Not for a long time, Steve."

Steve's shoulders drooped, and you tore away from his shoe. You pushed off on your palms and stood, avoiding his hand reaching out for you. You still wore that pretty pout as you sulked toward the car.

Back inside, they turned on the radio, and Steve fumbled for the crumpled back of Marlboros as the car rolled back onto the road.

♡♡

Half the pack was gone by the time you reached nightfall. Still a few hours from your destination, far from civilization and deep in the mountains, Big pulled into the nearest motel for the night. You lingered in the back as they secured your rooms, and trudged after Steve quietly when he got your key.

The motel was smaller and much cheaper than what you were used to, but it was quiet. Surrounded by trees, insects and birds chittered and chirped as you ascended the metal stairs. The room smelled distinctly of cedar when Steve pushed the door open, and, oddly, you found it soothing. You dropped your bags on the bed, covered in a pale pink quilt. The sheets were green, pulled and folded neatly over the top quarter of the quilt. The pillows were fluffed and neatly stacked, and everything seemed to have gone untouched for decades.

Steve clicked on a small lamp, sitting on a wooden desk across from the bed. The walls, wood-paneled and rough, illuminated with a warm yellow glow. He swung the door closed and tossed the keys on the nightstand, duffel falling from his shoulder to sit beside your bags on the bed. You wandered toward the bathroom, and Steve stood, at the end of the bed, watching after you longingly.

The overhead light in the bathroom was dim, but it bathed you in the reflective, peachy pink of the gleaming tile. Steve watched as you stood in the doorway, hesitating to close the door with your back to him. His breathing grew shallow just watching you contemplate. Finally, you turned, but your eyes merely skimmed the end of the bed as you swung the door shut. The lock clicked, and Steve sank down on the end of the bed with a knot in his stomach.

The bathroom was cold, and you shivered as you peeled your sticky clothes off and toed them into a corner. It was clean, at least, and you turned the knob over to hot and filled up the deep, salmon-colored porcelain tub. You sighed as you sank into the wading warmth of the water, easing back against the cold tile with another shiver. Sporadic droplets plopped into the pool around you from the rusting spout, and you listened with your eyes closed. The other side of the door was silent.

You used the dry, rose-scented soap still in its dusty box on the edge of the tub and scrubbed until you felt clean enough to leave the water. Too eager for solitude, you'd left a change of clothes in your bag on the bed, and you clutched a scratchy towel tight to your chest as you cracked the bathroom door open.

The motel room was empty, but through the open curtains at the head of the room, you could see Steve clearly against the metal railing. Leaning forward on his elbows, the orange ember of a cigarette illuminating his face with a faint orange halo. You pushed the bathroom door open all the way and walked toward the bed.

Your towel had just dropped when Steve turned to peer in. He stopped at the sight of your bare body, cigarette paused before his parted lips. His mouth went dry just at the sight of you—his girl. His angel, his baby, the prettiest woman he'd ever seen. If you knew he was watching, you pretended otherwise. He watched your torso stretch and your arms lift to fit a t-shirt over your body, and when it fell to your thighs, he knew it was his. You bent and shimmied to fit a pair of panties over your hips, and when you spun around to pull your hair away from your face, he exhaled heavily at the sight of your black lace-clothed ass, round and waiting.

Chest tight and jeans pulsing, Steve hurriedly stamped his cigarette out on the railing and rushed for the door. You whirled around in a fright at the latch opening, and paused as Steve pushed the door closed behind him. The stench of Marlboros overwhelmed your rose soap immediately. Your fingers twisted in the hem of his soft, faded red t-shirt over your thighs as he toed his sneakers off. He instantly became an inch shorter. He snapped the curtains shut, and in the soft glow of the lamplight, he faced you again. You swallowed as he padded toward you.

He stopped at the edge of the bed. You hadn't moved. You were a corner of a mattress apart. He could see every shaky lift and fall of your chest. You could see every flicker of his eyes, bouncing around your form. His hands twitched at his sides. His throat bobbed with a swallow. The wet sound of his tongue gliding over his lips made your hair stand to attention. On his wrist, his leather-banded watch ticked.

He didn't say a word, but you moved closer. Rounding the corner, you came to stand before him at the end of the bed. Your head tipped to accommodate his height, and his hand instantly came to cup your cheek. His palm big, his skin warm and callused, fingertips dry and moving on their own as they slipped into your hair. His thumb slid along your lips and they parted, allowing the digit to slip in and out to spread slick across your mouth. Heart pounding, you pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb, and he tugged you closer by his hold on your face. Your head cocked, cheek rubbing against his palm with fluttering eyes.

Steve's sigh fanned across your face. His defenses crumbled, and he eagerly sought your company with the other hand against your cheek. Framing your face, he pulled you into him, chest to chest, and connected your mouths. Your eyes fluttered closed, a gasp hiccuped in your chest and caught in your throat, easing out when Steve's hands slid down to your waist.

His touch was warm and firm, but gentle. His hands roamed the shape of your curves, tracing and kneading, but never squeezing. It had been so long since he touched you like that.

Blindly, Steve whirled you toward the bed. The back of your thighs brushed the mattress, and he waved his hands wildly until the contents of your bags were strewn across the floor. With the mattress empty, he guided you back—you crawled backward on your palms until you could ease flat against the center of the bed, splayed out for him.

Steve mounted over you, bracing on his forearms, sinking down to press your pelvises together. For a moment, you just touched noses. Rubbing, grazing, breathing each other in. You scanned the expanse of his face, eager to memorize the sight of it over you as your heart thumped in your throat. Then he dipped his head, hair tickling your neck, and nuzzled his cheek against yours. Your eyes fluttered closed again, fingers finding their way through the thick mop of locks at the back of his head.

"Wanna show you," Steve murmured, sliding his mouth to the warmth of your throat. He left hot, open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck. "Wanna show you...how much I love you."

His teeth grazed your throat, and like a magnet pull, your spine arched into a crescent up against him. You pressed into him, breasts to his chest, and his hands instantly came to press against the sides of your neck where his mouth had been.

Steve pulled back just far enough to see each other.

"Will you let me, baby?" His thumbs made gentle circles just under the hook of your jaw against your throat.

All you could do was nod, mouth hanging open like a dumb-struck puppy. But Steve didn't smirk, didn't snicker or laugh—he only bent, slow and steady, to kiss your lips. You sighed into his mouth, taking hold of his hair with both hands as he fumbled with one hand for his belt. As he struggled, you tore your hands from his soft locks and slid them down his torso, replacing his own over the cold metal buckle of his belt. His hands found the bed again on either side of your head, and he pulled back to gaze into your eyes as you slid the leather through the loop.

The zipper snicked nosily against the quiet of the room. In the room over, the television mumbled, grey static humming through the wall. The lamp on the desk behind him made Steve glow the prettiest shade of gold. You guided his jeans and boxers over his hips and across his ass in one pull, and he pulled away to finish tearing them off. Hovering on his knees over you, straddling your squished thighs, he took ahold of his t-shirt and whipped it over his head.

You instantly deflated at the sight of his naked body—lean, firm, sculpted with cut muscle. Your fingers instantly found a path to explore when he returned to his mounted position over you. He pawed at the hem of his red t-shirt over your torso, bringing it to rest over your breasts below your chin. His palm skated through the valley of your stomach and breasts, and he bit back a smile at the full-bodied shiver that made you squirm and writhe against the quilt.

Pinching his fingers around the base of his cock, Steve used the slick tip to push aside your panties and breach your pulsing cunt. You both gasped at the same time, an echoing hiccup of breath silenced by your teeth clanking together. His forehead fell into yours, hair curtained over each side of your face, and you watched his eyes crinkle and round with desperation as he sank in to the hilt.

For a while, he just rested there, stretching you out, bringing a burning sting to the apex of your thighs. But when your thighs began to shake, and your heels sought balance at the small of his spine, you whimpered into his mouth squished against yours.

"Steve," you whined.

Steve's thumbs pressed into your throat again, hands bracing either side of your neck.

"Shh," he huffed against your lips, pecking them lazily. "Not goin' anywhere. S' all yours...m' all yours."

Steve's thrusts were slow and deep, brushing the most sensitive parts of your cunt with every lazy hump. Each tilt and push of his hips had you hiccuping and gasping against his mouth, but he never went far. He was always right there, holding you, watching you fall apart—loving you.

His thumbs pressed a little harder into your throat, just enough to have your head fuzzy and your eyes blurry. It felt like you were floating, and the hum of the tv a room over, the flickering glow of the lamp on the desk, the scent of rose soap and Marlboros—it all washed away. It was only Steve. Steve above you, touching you, kissing you, loving you.

One hand left your throat to rake through your hair, a handful of fingers tugging at the strands just hard enough to make your scalp tingle and your cheeks flame. Your hands slipped from his hair to his biceps, nails piercing the firm, bulging muscle.

"St-Steve," you whined again.

"You're so good, angel, you're so good," he mumbled breathily, gazing down where your bodies were connected. "So good t' me. Fuck, you like that?"

More than anything, you liked the lazy slur of his voice when he got lost in you, enraptured by the sight of your body bared to him, the feel of your skin against his, the squeeze of your cunt around his cock. His head snapped back with another twist of his face, nose scrunched and teeth clenched. He groaned, and his thumb slipped along your pulse point to push again. You stuttered, thighs tightening around his hips, and relaxed into a spasm.

Steve's hand left your neck to slam into the mattress, scrunching the fabric of the quilt as warmth flooded between your legs. It took only a moment for his arms to start to shake, and he collapsed into the crook of your neck with a heavy sigh. Your skin sticky and slick, your bodies clung together while you rested. You played with his hair as you caught your breath, turning to press a kiss to the damp spot on his hairline just above his temple.

Tomorrow, you would call your father, and when he would ask you to come home, you'd happily decline.

♡♡

#icannotbreathe #Ilovethatmanlikenobodycan #rollyyoudiditagain #boxer!steve harrington #ineedhimtokillme #smut

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