#sorry this got away from me stfdyufd

[upsidedownwithsteve]

thinking about camp!steve fighting with hawkins over something petty and they're both horny and pent up bc they haven't had any time alone

"you're gonna regret that, princess"

"oh no, i'm shaking in my boots"

"yeah, you will be shaking by the time I'm done with you"

😳🥵

It wasn’t like either of you had wanted to go in the first place, but Steve’s parents had cornered you both on one of the rare occasions they’d been home. 

Mrs Harrington had gasped and air kissed you on both cheeks as you stumbled down their stairs that morning, wide eyed and only dressed in her son's T-shirt. 

“I’m so sorry,” you croaked out, mortified. “Steve and I didn’t hear you guys get in last night.”

And so you had to stand, barefoot and clutching at the hem of Steve’s shirt as his mother cooed over their tip to Paris, how the meeting had gone so well, how their flight got in earlier than planned and did you know that the Duncan’s down the road were getting a divorce?

You had just wanted a coffee. 

But Steve had eventually stirred enough to hear his mom, launching himself out of bed in a bid to save you. It all went downhill from there, ‘cause his dad appeared, back from his morning run to jab a little meanly at his son's (flat) stomach, telling him he needed to work out more now he wasn’t on the basketball team. 

You held Steve’s hand under the table. And then came the real kicker. 

“Oh! Before I forget,” Mrs Harrington cried out over her cappuccino. “It’s the family party this weekend. You’ll both be attending, right? Cousin Michael is bringing his fiancé, Steven, so won’t it be nice that you'll be taking a girlfriend this time?”

You stared. “Family party?”

“A whole house full of Harrington’s!” Steve’s dad declared, whisking two eggs into his smoothie. You tried not to grimace. “We rent the old Manor House out by Bloomington for the weekend. You know it, it’s near that silly, little camp you guys waste your time at.” 

Your jaw clenched at the same time Steve’s did. 

—————

Two days in and you were at your wits end. The rest of Steve’s family was just like his parents. Obnoxious, brash and arrogant, all with a habit of talking about money and business, even over a seven o’clock breakfast. His younger cousins didn’t know how to knock on doors, Aunt Deniese’s toddler liked to throw things at Steve’s hair, his uncle was constantly winking at you and his grandmother kept grabbing you by the arm and asking when you’d be giving her a grandchild. 

‘Never, at this rate,’ you’d wanted to yell at her. ‘Seeing as nobody gives us a fucking second alone.’

Steve was almost unbearable. Almost. He’d turned surly and quiet, barely speaking the morning of the trip ‘cause he’d already had an argument about taking his car rather than sitting in the back of his dads.  He’d apologised to you over and over the night before, warning you about his family, how they were, how they acted. He’d even told you you could still back out, but you’d kissed away his apologies and told him you weren’t leaving him to the wolves alone. 

But the boy turned into a shell of himself at the hands of his relatives. He was prickly and constantly frowning, brow furrowed and he flinched when you tried to soothe it away. You’d have been offended if you hadn’t felt as on edge as you knew he did, constantly awaiting the next backhanded compliment from one of his aunts, a sympathetic expression written on his cousin's faces when you told them your shoes were from Target. 

You saw the way Steve looked at you though. Heated in a different way, the best way. Like he was aching to touch you and have you and kiss you without an audience, ‘cause everytime you reached for him, it gave someone in his family an excuse to berate you both. 

‘God, Steve. She’s clingy isn’t she?’

‘Can't you two be apart for more than half an hour?’

‘You know, if you want this relationship to survive, you gotta realise that money keeps it together. Where are you working, Steve?’

‘You know he’ll cheat on you right? He’ll be just like his dad.’

It only stopped when dinner was over and the table was cleared by the hired staff, Steve’s dads incoming speech about the family business interrupted by his son grabbing your hand and dragging you upstairs to your room. 

The bedroom door closed and Steve could breathe again. Just. 

You stared at him, chest heaving with half jogging through the too big house, with holding in the anger you wanted to let out over the mahogany tabletop. You were pent up, pulled tight. So was Steve. 

Maybe you could fix it. If he’d let you. 

“Fuck this weekend,” he was seething, kicking at his suitcase that had remained unpacked on the floor. “Honest to god, this fucking family. Shouldn’t have bothered even coming, knew this shit would happen, always fucking does.”

You kicked off your shoes, enjoying the way they clattered angrily against the hardwood. The noise caught your boyfriend’s attention and he turned, wide eyed. You didn’t say anything as you unzipped your dress, angrily shoving down the straps until it pooled at your feet. 

You let out another harsh breath, “yeah?” You agreed with Steve, with everything he said. “Wanna fight about it?”

Steve’s eyes flashed, lips parting, nostrils flaring and you knew that look, you loved that look. He sucked in a breath, knocking over the stupid ceramic horse statue on top of the dresser when he backed into it. He nodded, a determined look in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” his voice cracked. “Fuck, yeah, let’s fight about it.”

You grinned, wicked, sliding down the straps of your bra, hands behind your back to snap at the hooks. It joined your dress on the floor. Steve’s head hit the wall with a thud, tipped back, pupils blown wide, panting. 

He needed this. 

“C’mon, pretty boy,” you murmured, “let’s make it better.”

Steve crossed the room in seconds, shirt shed before he reached you, some buttons popping and scattering across the room. He was rough when he kissed you, hands grabbing at your waist, almost bending you backwards when his mouth met yours, tongue sweeping past your lips immediately. 

You keened high, uncaring about the other guests, knowing that the dining room was far enough away that they’d probably not hear anyway. So you kissed back just as desperate, hands clutching Steve’s jaw, squeaking when he lifted you without warning, grasping at your thighs that he coaxed around his hips. 

Your back hit a wall, photo frames rattling and you felt the click of his teeth against yours when you grinned against each other, chests heaving. 

“Fuck,” Steve groaned, hands grabbing at the dough of your ass, pushing your thighs apart so he could grind into you, already painfully hard. “Princess.”

He said it like he used to, less softer, a little more mean, teasing and sticky with condescension. It made your toes curl. Made you think about your first kiss in a cabin in the forest, thick, summer heat clawing at your throat along with an undeniable need for the boy. It felt animalistic. Like this did now. 

“Wanna fuck me?” You cooed, voice breathy, hands raking through the boy’s hair, nails leaving marks on his shoulders, his back. “Yeah, baby? Wanna fuck me hard? Wanna mark me up and forget about everything else?”

Steve groaned, a messy, dirty noise and he sounded wild. He nodded, nose bumping yours, one hand skating up your bare side until he could catch at your jaw. 

“Fuck, yeah I do. Gonna be good for me?” He asked nicely and god, he looked so good. Tanned skin, freckles across his shoulders, lips swollen and slick from your kisses. “Gonna do as you’re told?”

You grinned, kissing sweet at his jaw. “Not in the slightest,” you whispered against his skin. 

Satisfied, you let your head fall back against the wall, watching Steve from under your lashes, hands skating across his throat. Steve wanted a fight, after all. He liked the way you pushed back, babe as good as you got, when pressed him into the pillows so you could ride him until he wanted to cry at how good it felt. 

He wanted his hair pulled, scratches down his back, your moans in his ear, lavender coloured bruises on his throat, ones that matched yours. He wanted to fuck out the anger like you were the one who caused it. 

You never caused it. Ever. 

But it was fun to play. 

Steve grinned, ecstatic with your answer. His fingers gripped your ass tighter, fingers slipping under the lace there and he spun you both, letting you drop into the bed so you bounced. He reached for his belt buckle, watching you as he stood at the edge of the bed. 

“You’re so fucking pretty.” A moment of softness, a gentle hand on your stomach before he pushed you down onto the sheets.