#punching and screaming and crying and sliding down the wall | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

abibliophobiaa · 10 months

Text

Beyond - s.h. x f!reader.

Chapter Nine: Our Bodies Unfurl Like Smoke

summary: it’s about time you got some alone time in the harrington household.

warnings: alcohol mention and consumption; oral (f receiving); fingering (in public setting); p in v sex; with allusions to sex throughout. (5.8k words)

modern day! rich! fake husband! steve harrington au.

masterlist

——

Dreaming. Must be dreaming. There’s heat at your back. Firm, sinewy muscle. The heft of his thighs against the backs of yours, those deft fingers of his curling around your waist. Over your ribcage, up along your breast. A hum spills from pillowy lips, fingers curling around his forearm, digging crescents into soft skin as he trails up and down, up and down against warm flesh.

Toying, teasing, tempting.

He nudges at your ear, a low whisper of your needed consent. Nodding, you’re nodding as he slides the cup of your bra down, gliding over bare flesh, teasing at your sensitive skin there. Grins into your throat at the low whine that punches from your throat, greedy hips pressing back against his crotch purposefully. Relishing in the feeling of him hardening, growing harder still against your backside.

“Steve…”

It’s a breathy thing. A crack of your voice. A falter of air. You can feel your husband’s smile against your skin, can hear the hum of satisfaction behind you as you stutter over his index and middle finger sliding down to trail dangerously low, swirling over your clit.

“Steve…”

Another breathless cry. A rasp. A plea as those fingers circle around and around, before dipping into the well of slick at your center.

“Gonna have to be quiet for me, honey,” he whispers, teeth dancing along the skin of your earlobe, “think you can do that?”

No — you want to scream it at him. To cry it from the rooftops, because you haven’t known how much you’ve wanted this from him until now. The feeling of him close against you, every inch of him like a live wire against yours. And now you’re not sure you’ll be able to quell the emotions he’s stirred within. The intense need, want, desire.

Instead you nod. Grip the hand of the arm that slides beneath your head and wedges there, fingers digging into his palm as those fingers push in, robbing you of every thought that might have been scurrying around in your mind. Into the air they vanish, replaced by the sound of his harsh breath in your ear, of his praises between your thighs, the stutter of your breath at the drag of his capable fingers within your walls.

“Oh fuck — look so pretty like this.”

His hips rock against your ass, a slow press that has you turning into his bicep to muffle your moans, overwhelmed by the heat of him and the way he’s sliding his fingers in and out of you like his life depends on it — like he won’t be satisfied until you are. Fingers curl along your shoulder, his lips running over the line of your neck, until you’re turning your head to face him, warm lips against your own.

“Wanted you like this for so long,” he hums, glancing down at the way your hips roll experimentally back against him, choking on his words.

You’re suddenly rolled onto your back, his lips swallowing the question that rises to your lips at the loss of his fingers between your thighs. Another forms on your tongue as he rips away, his mouth pressing kiss after kiss to every exposed inch of skin he can find. The hollow of your throat, the skin peeking out from beneath your sweatshirt, just above your pants, your sides where he laves over flesh, leaving you giggling softly beneath him.

But it’s not enough, and you don’t think it’ll ever be enough, and he knows this. Recognizes it as his dexterous fingers pull at the band of your sweats, eyes meeting yours in a silent question. Head rolling back, you focus on breathing as he slides them down and off your thighs, his bare chest pressed against the mattress in the cradle of your hips.

Lips cover your body in warmth. Beginning at the crook of your ankle, marking a loving path up along a calf, searing across the inside of plush thighs. He takes his time coasting over both, not in a hurry, merely enjoying his path as fingers move to curl around your hips, dragging you down over the mattress, his warm breath dancing along your clothed center, drawing your pulse to that innermost point, thrumming loudly in your ears with every pump of blood through your body.

“Been thinking about this for weeks now too.”

His fingers brush over the wet patch on your panties, embarrassment roiling in your belly over how quickly he’s able to work you up like this. That embarrassment is quenched by him pushing your panties aside, dragging a slow line from center to clit, hazel eyes watching as your hips cant up and off the mattress, back arching in your moan you muffle with the heft of a pillow against your face.

“Can I taste you, honey? Want to make you feel good.”

At your frantic nod, he’s ripping the underwear down and off your thighs, tossing them unrepentantly against the floor, and crawling back into the space between your legs, slick with your want for him. Suddenly, it’s only you and this man. The warmth of his breath at your center, followed by the first brush of his tongue, parting you for him.

It’s in that instant, as his mouth starts a dangerous path, testing and teasing at you that your vision goes white around the edges. Hands reach out to grip at the hairs at the back of his head, tangling in dark locks as he sucks with just the right pressure that has you muffling a strangled cry of his name.

Your husband’s head lifts just enough to make eye contact with you, a mischievous glint in his eye as he dives back down, repeating that motion over and over again, sliding one finger in alongside it, and the another in that come hither motion he’s seemingly perfected, until you’re dancing closer and closer to bliss, a mess of whimpers, cries and moans against a pillow.

“Steve — mmm, ah — ‘mgonnacome.”

It’s all the encouragement he needs to spur him on. Hums of his own enjoyment tingling from deep within vibrating against your center as you shatter beneath him, crying out his name behind the shelter of a pillow that he quickly throws onto the floor once you’re trembling lessens and you float back to your own body, boneless in his arms.

And then he’s kissing you. The taste of you sliding over your tongue as his mingles with yours, a breathy sigh falling from his lips where they touch yours as you scramble to untie the front or his pajama pants, a palm sliding down within to finally touch him in the way you’ve been wanting to for weeks now.

“As much as I would love that, honey,” he whispers against your cheek, fingers curling around where your palm is circling his cock, “I need to be inside you right now.”

“Right now?” you muse, helping him wiggle his hips out of his sweats. His frantic nod has you giggling, about to push down his boxers and free him once and for all when a knock sounds from the bedroom door, signaling the end of your morning activities. “No. Steve. No. I know she’s your mother, but I think we need to send her away. Another home, maybe? Another country, preferably.”

He’s laughing. The asshole is laughing as he rushes around the room, asking his mother to give you two a second. Your clothes are nearly tossed at your head, a huff of half-hearted annoyance falling from you as he bends down to deliver a swift kiss on your forehead, calling for his mom to enter once you’re both covered and back beneath the comforter on the bed.

“Well isn’t this just lovely,” she practically coos, as though her son isn’t nearly thirty years old, “Just wanted to let you know that breakfast is being served. Come down whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Steve says, and you grin widely beside him, his face pressing into your collarbone once the door closes behind her. “Later. I promise. I’ll make it up to you later.”

You flop backwards onto the bed with a groan, Steve’s melodious laughter drowned by the pillow you toss at his head for making fun of your dramatics.

——

“You know exactly what you’re doing.” Steve’s voice is low — dark — against your ear. Hot against the shell, sending shivers rushing down your spine.

You can’t even deny it, because it would be a lie.

You did know.

You do know.

But you’d been so caught up in him. Blissed out on the feeling of his body against yours, pressing you down into the mattress, so close to having him buried inside of you at last. All you could picture in the back of your mind were his flushed chest, rasps of breath spilling from you as you gasped against his collarbone, trembling when the fullness of him pressed at your center and gave an experimental roll.

Just once, but it had been enough. Enough to have you nearly furious with want, begging for him. And his words, his whisper of, “I need to be inside you now.” The harsh drawl of them against your skin, the way he had felt in your palm. It was too much and not enough — that is, until his mother knocked on the door, and suddenly you were both teenagers again and not the married twenty-something’s you were.

So if you’d foregone your underwear and wore that dress he’d seen and knew would look absolutely divine on you, it was only because you’d wanted to rile him up. Wanted him to be wound tight, pulled taut, ready to tumble back into your room later that evening and put to rest months of pent up tension and “what ifs” in your fake marriage agreement.

And it’s a boring dinner anyway. A bunch of family friends who were nice enough, but grew bored of you and Steve quickly, preferring the conversation of their companions instead, leaving the two of you to sit at the end of the table in your own little world. Even Theobald and Cami are caught up in trying to tame their children, distracted enough that they don’t catch the way Steve presses a lingering kiss to your neck, a whisper of his breath at your ear for you to open your thighs for him against the shell.

You bite at your bottom lip as his fingers spread across the top of your thigh, parting you for him further than you already have. Thick digits trail across the inside of your skin, dancing along hot flesh until making contact with your presently bare center.

“Open wider for me, honey,” he practically purrs, delectably sweet despite the utterly sinful intention behind the command. “Thigh over my knee. Come on — that’s my good girl.”

You tremble at that, a building heat brimming low in your belly, only amplifying that second heartbeat thrumming there. Every cell in your body, every ounce of blood, rushes to your cunt, desperate with your want.

He trails his fingers against your flesh. Up and down slowly as the rest of your dinner party continues on around you, family member’s faces bent low in conversations, eating their dinner and sipping their fancy cocktails.

Beneath the table, your husband slides a single finger from your center up to your clit. Presses down until your lips part in a pleasant sigh, watching your face intently to observe your every reaction, and then circles around and around until you’re scooting to the edge of the chair, biting hard on the plush of your bottom lip.

You’re nearly drawing blood when he sinks two fingers in, muffling your moan around a swallow of your bubbly champagne. Your left hand splays over his thigh and grips tight, rings glinting stark against his dark pants, as he adds a third.

His mouth presses a soft kiss to your bare shoulder as your hips shift against the plush seat cushion. To others, it’s a sign to others of affection from a husband to his wife, but low in your ear he whispers, “Can't be riding my hand here, honey. Everyone’s going to know what’s going on under this table.”

A quiet whine spills from you. Luckily, no one notices, too wrapped up in talks about stocks, vacation homes, and business ventures.

“Also need you to save your strength,” he muses, lips pressing against your cheek. His mother flashes a grin from where she sits at the end of the table, and Steve continues, “Don't think we’ll be getting much sleep tonight.”

“Steve.” It’s a hiss, fingers tightening against his thigh when his thumb moves to circle your clit.

His words stir something low in your gut, thighs quivering around his hand, struggling to stay open for him, and he chuckles. He’s enjoying this — absolutely delighting in the fact he’s able to reduce you to this at the dinner table.

Another kiss drops against your temple, your heart thrashing wildly in your chest. “Gonna come already, aren’t you, honey?”

Your hips roll against his fingers despite his command not to.

Subtle thrusts that have stars dancing in your vision, those sparks dancing in your belly fanning into flame. The hand you have on his thigh shifts upward, curls around his bicep to dig crescents there.

“Let go, baby.”

Your eyes pinch shut, cunt clenching around his fingers as you come and come and come, head bowing and mouth rounding in a moan that never comes, because no one can know what you’ve really gotten up to at the dinner table.

His fingers keep pumping into you, thumb grazing over that sensitive nub as you lean into his shoulder, mind a haze as he presses kiss after kiss to your temple, uttering praises into your skin.

“Good girl. Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he coos, sliding his mouth over yours in a kiss.

So lost in the remnants of your orgasm, you don’t register that dessert has come. Nor do you recognize Mrs. Harrington called your name to ask if you’re feeling okay, because you haven’t touched it. Your fork dips into the rich chocolate cake, sugary treat dancing in your mouth, Steve’s smile growing as you swallow, mind still humming after your release.

“How’s your dessert?” he asks simply, as though he hasn’t just made you fall apart for him.

“Good. How’s yours?”

He glances around the table subtly, making sure no one is looking, and slides his fingers into his mouth.

His tongue drags over the slick digits and your thighs shift under the table, core clenching around nothing with the promise of what you know is to come later.

“Sweet.”

——

What Steve doesn’t tell you on the way home from the restaurant is that you’re not heading to his mother’s for the night. No — you’ll pick up your bags tomorrow, because you’ll be stopping at the nearest shopping center to pick out some clothes, before heading to a still undisclosed location for the remainder of his and your holiday vacation.

A second honeymoon, he explains, your hand in his over the center console, his thumb playing with your rings on your left hand. Crazy, by your standards, but he leans over with a kiss against your temple and reassures you he wants this. He wants time away with you from the city, uninterrupted. Charlie will stay with Hailey at her place for the next week, he answers next, already knowing where your mind might venture.

It’ll just be you, him, and the sea.

Heart thumping loudly in your ears at the thought, you’re practically humming in anticipation as you pull up to the nearest Harrington Hotel in Vail. It’s looming and grandiose as ever, and you’re met by the valet service as soon as he pulls up, keys tossed their way.

Steve gets out of the vehicle, straightens his suit and shirt before he rushes over to help you up and out of the car, your hands moving to smooth your dress down into place along your thighs, back immediately warmed from the chill of the air as he drapes your jacket over your shoulders and tugs you in close.

The hotel is bustling as you enter. From where you stand at the main entrance, you can see the upscale bar elevated on the second floor, catching the chatter of inhabitants as they toast and conversate amongst themselves. Music spills out into the lobby, followed by the sounds of your heels clacking beside Steve as he walks over to the front desk like he owns the place (as he does).

The worker at the front desk immediately straightens, their eyes catching sight of the youngest Harrington, and the picture they have plastered behind them at the front desk of Steve and the late Mr. Harrington, with respect to his death, stated on the bottom of the photo.

“Mr. Harrington,” the worker greets, fixing their tie back into place, “Mrs. Harrington. Welcome to Harrington Hotel, how may I best assist you this evening?”

“A room for two — whatever you think is best,” he says evenly, squeezing your palm. You press in closer, giddy off of the evening, anticipation brimming for the rest of the evening. “Thank you in advance. I know our visit is unexpected. In the meantime, we’ll be at the bar.”

“Yes, Mr. Harrington,” they say, voice pitching higher from nervousness, “we will send you a text message when the room is ready. We hope you enjoy your stay!”

As you walk away, your arm loops tighter around his, a grin lining your lips. “I would have gone and married the kindest man.”

“Stop that,” he bemoans, but he’s chuckling to himself. A bright, gleeful sound that has your fingers sliding over his midsection. “They were terrified. I’m just like anyone else. Just a man, wanting to spend time with his wife. My name being on the building makes me no more important.”

“That’s what I love most about you,” you tell him, walking up the flight of stairs leading to the bustling bar, fingers holding up the train of your gown. “Your big heart.”

“Someone is soft today,” he muses, turning you in his arms to face him. His smirking mouth drops down to your ear, shivers running along your spine as he murmurs, “Have I told you how gorgeous you look, Mrs. Harrington?”

“You have not, Mr. Harrington.”

“How rude of me.” His lips press against the hollow behind your ear. “My beautiful —” Another kiss along your jaw. “Beautiful.” Another to your neck. “Wife.” One at your shoulder.

“Someone is laying it on thick.” Your smirk has him leaning in closer, your fingers coming to rest on the lapels of his suit as you add, “Don’t worry — I already plan on getting you back for that stunt you pulled at dinner,” before slinking away toward the bar with him hot on your heels.

At the bar it’s lingering kisses and long glances. It’s running your fingers along his forearm where it rests over the table before you, over his hand, over the metal around his ring finger. He’s gone and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, dark hair peeking out from the neckline, his tie strewn about his shoulders. His suit is still perfect, drawn tight around his biceps, his hair messy and unkempt now from where you’ve run your fingers through it in the car.

Heat simmers in your belly. Swells as he grips your hand and whispers that he’s gotten a text. The room is ready, and your heart swoops with it. Swings like a pendulum as he places your champagne glass down on the table and leads you toward the glass elevator leading to your suite.

Below, the world lives on. Bright headlights flash in your periphery, lighting up Steve’s face in the dimly lit corridor, your body pressing against his. A palm slides low over the smallest part of your back, curls over the swell of your ass, pressing you against the cradle of his hips.

Delight skitters across your form, fingers running up along his chest, toying with another button at the center of his chest, pulling it free just as his fingers curl around the back of your neck.

A slow exhale falls from your mouth into his, teeth nipping along his bottom lip as he claims your mouth once more, body pressing yours into the wall of the elevator. Over his shoulder you can see your reflections. Your hands in his hair, his hands on your neck, on your hips, his thigh between yours. Utterly wanton and sinful in the best way.

“Fuck.”

He stutters the word along your shoulder, mouthing along hot flesh, plucking a whine from your throat as a hand curves over your waist and bunches up the fabric of your dress, dragging you even closer.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispers, “that this marriage is real.”

“It’s been real,” you tell him, pulling back to look him in the eye. His eyes are blown out, lips parted and swollen. “You, me — us. This is real. I choose you, Steve.”

His mouth opens to speak. To say something else. But the words don’t come, the door sliding open to the elevator and revealing the hall to your suite. It’s a short walk, the first door on the right, but it feels like an eternity.

Inside, you’re met with a beautiful view. Open windows as far as the eye can see, spanning over what looks to be a creek and the tops of endless rows of trees. Their branches, darkened in the night, sway to and fro in the fall breeze, still unshed for the incoming winter season. Steve appears behind you, arms looping low around your waist, swaying back and forth as you run your fingers along the outline of a particularly large tree.

Unraveling yourself from his arms, you take in the California king bed against one wall. An endless array of rose petals line the mattress, a bucket of chilled champagne in the center, with a note wishing you both a lovely stay at the Harrington Hotel.

Steve chuckles as you pick a couple up in hand, blowing them his way, nose wrinkling as you duck beneath his arm in search of the bathroom. Even that is grandiose. A giant tub in one corner, a shower with a bench on the other, a mirror that spans the entirety of one wall.

“You Harringtons,” you tease, leaning up against the doorframe, “and your ridiculously fancy hotels.”

Steve’s there with a forearm on the frame above you, hands sliding up to cup the curve of your waist. “Don’t get too comfortable, we leave for St. Lucia tomorrow.”

“You really didn’t have to do all of that,” you tell him for the umpteenth time since he said he wanted to get away.

“I know,” he says softly, coming in closer, your eyes darting to his, darkening rapidly in the moonlight. “But I wanted to. Let me.”

“Okay,” you hum, eyes fluttering shut as he leans down and kisses you soundly, quieting the thoughts swirling around in your mind.

It’s not like the kisses shared in the elevator. It’s different. Fueled by months of wanting, waiting, yearning. He's insistent, fingers curling loosely around your throat, thumb nudging your chin up in the slightest before his tongue slides over the seam of your mouth, parting you for him.

One of your thighs slides up and over his hip, his other hand reaching down to hike it higher against him, hips pressing into yours. Like this, you can feel the heat of him hard against your center, that perfect pressure driving your head back against the doorframe.

A whimper falls from you as he drops down onto his knees and tosses his tie onto the floor. The suit goes next, a crumpled and forgotten heap. He’s pushing his sleeves up when you finally lock eyes with him, heart thundering away behind your ribcage as he hooks your thigh over his shoulder and slides both palms up the back of your thighs, giving you a reassuring squeeze.

“So wet already honey,” he tuts, thumb swirling over your clit in a way that has you seeing stars.

A stiletto clad foot digs into his back at the first lick of his tongue against you. “Mmm — ah-all for you, Steve.”

Throbbing. You’re throbbing from head to toe at the way his nose bumps your clit with every precise press of his tongue. Heat crawls up your spine, tingles low in your belly. Fingers reach down to tangle in his hair, chest heaving as his hands clutch at your thighs tighter, sensing the orgasm rushing up to meet you.

He’s sliding out from under your thigh at the strangled cry of his name falling from your lips. Holding your hips as you make quick work on the rest of his buttons, nearly ripping the shirt clean from his body when you struggle on the final hole. His belt is next, trembling hands wiggling the latch free, before ripping it free from his belt loops, tossing it to the wayside carelessly.

A hand reaches up to cup the back of your neck, mouths colliding in the middle, following as you walk him backward toward the bed, kicking his thighs free from his pants along the way. Steve props himself up on his elbows, dark eyes meeting yours as you reach down and grip at the bottom of your dress, inching it up enough to slide it free from your form.

And suddenly you’re bare, completely exposed, watching nervously as his eyes trail over your form. Wondering if he notices the little imperfections that might be revealed in the moonlight. Wondering if he thinks you’re as beautiful as you find him.

“Honey.”

It’s a wonderful sound. The way he whispers it brokenly in the night. Like he can’t believe you’re real, here, standing before him in this room. A breathless thing that spills from him, like water rolling over your skin, licking at your heels deliciously. He’s gripping your hand and pulling you down beside him, sliding his boxers down and off his thighs, hovering over your form.

You can feel him. Every perfect inch of him against your abdomen. Test the weight of him in your hand, smirking to yourself at the way his eyes roll a bit as you trace the vein running along the underside, thumb gathering the precum pooling at the tip.

“Real?” you ask him.

The marriage. This moment. This man.

“Yes, sweetheart. No more faking.”

He cups himself in hand, sliding his head through your slick folds, tip nudging at your center. You’re whispering you’ve been on birth control since before the wedding and he’s telling you to watch as he slides in, the size of him a delicious burn settling into a perfect fullness once he’s bottoming out. Your eyes pinch shut, his movements stilling as he simply holds you, waiting for your command to move.

And once he does, it’s that new and lovely drag along your inner walls. A slow rise and fall of his hips against yours, fingers that hitch around your thigh to part you further for him, cock brushing against that elusive spot that has you shuddering within his arms.

“Fuck — you’re so tight.”

You never knew it could feel like this. A fullness not only within your physical body, but within your heart. Growing with each thrust, threatening to overflow.

“You’re beautiful, honey.”

Fingers lace with your own, joined palms thrown back against a pillow, clutching you tight as you urge him on to move faster. Relish in the huff of his breath along your skin, in the muscles of his back, rolling with each powerful movement.

“God, you feel so good.”

“Steve, need more.”

“Hold on to me, sweetheart.”

Your forearm slides over those broad shoulders, thighs hitching higher on his hips as he draws back and slams back in. Over and over again, the sounds of your skin slapping against his and your slick melding together with his breathy moans, your pleading whimpers.

A cry of more, please, faster, harder.

His gasps of my beautiful wife, you’re perfect honey, pussy was made for me.

You’re barely coherent. Each thrust pushing you higher against the mattress, sheets rumpling as the hand holding him up against you tightens in the fabric. Nails press deep into his shoulder blade, scoring marks as your forehead meets collar bone, breath coming faster now.

“Right there, Steve,” you whine, starting to unravel at the seams, vision whiting out at each brush of him within.

“Tell me you’re close,” he manages to get out, “wanna come with you.”

You’re nodding, “Like that — yeah yeah yeah.” He’s rolling against you harder now. Movements faltering with each erratic thrust, both of you chasing your ends in tandem. Flames kick up in your belly, heart ready to burst when he cups your ass and angles your hips in a way that has him bullying that spongy spot within, leaving you breathless, lightning cracking through your body. “Fuck.”

Bliss. Complete and utter bliss settles over you as he slowly lowers himself down onto the bed beside you, arms keeping you held closely to his body. His lips are at your forehead and you’re running your fingers along his chest, the thump of his heart hard and heavy against your fingertips. Every inch of you is heavy and sticky sweet, molten lava still bubbling in your blood, practically humming in the post-orgasm haze.

Perfect. He’s perfect and wholly and utterly yours, kissing you slow and deep like he’s thinking the same very thing.

Three words.

Three words weave into your heart, still unspoken, and yet there all the same.

Three words that will change everything once spoken out loud.

But for now — for now you roll over and press your head over his sternum. You lace your fingers in his and allow him to pull blankets over your body, blocking out the chill in the air as your sweat cools and you relax into the heat of his form.

For now, you lean up and kiss him goodnight. Whisper for him to sleep sweet, and he tells you the same.

Not now, you think, but soon.

——

Insatiable.

Steve is utterly insatiable, you find, in those first few hours of arriving in St Lucia. Your suite overlooks the ocean, but that first evening you don't leave the bed, except for when room service comes to bring you food and drinks for nourishment.

From the moment you’d entered, he’d had his mouth on you. Hot and determined to see you fall apart before he rolled you over onto your knees and slid in from behind, coaxing you to watch your reflection in the mirror as he fucked into you with abandon and you shattered around him with a cry of his name on your lips.

You’d managed to find yourselves in the shower after regaining your breath, only to drop down on your knees and take him into your mouth, grinning to yourself as you watched your prim and proper businessman of a husband be reduced to nonsensical babbling of your name, praising your mouth.

Later, you both stood in the kitchen, his arms around your waist, yours around his neck, swaying to a song spilling from his phone speaker. You’d both woken in the middle of the night and slipped away to grab some of the chocolate covered strawberries gifted by the hotel staff. You in a long tee shirt that reached the top of your thighs, him in a pair of pajama pants. All laughter as you snacked, fingers lacing beneath the table, giddy and bright in newfound intimacy.

He’d put on your wedding song and held out a hand, held you close as a candle flickered and haloed the room in a yellow glow.

“You’re my favorite person, Steve.” You’d whispered it to him, fingers gliding along his cheek, over his temple. He leaned into the backs of your fingers, brushed a kiss along the inside of your wrist.

Your eyes fluttered closed and his forehead rested against yours. “And you’re mine, honey. So happy I saw you that day on that rooftop. Asked you to marry me.”

And you’d do it again. A thousand times, you’d do it again — so long as it led you here, to this moment, with this man.

His skin gleamed golden in the dark. Noses brushed, chests flush against one another, hearts beating in tandem. He spun you outward and drew you back in, your back against his front, his mouth on your shoulder, hearts alight.

You stumbled into the bathroom soon thereafter. A bottle of champagne in one hand, glasses in the other, as Steve flicked on the water for the tub and tossed in a ball that smelled like vanilla and reminded you of Steve. Sat with your back against his chest as you both sipped champagne, his fingers rubbing your shoulder, the both of you talking and kissing until every last bubble was gone. Relishing the quiet and solitude of being alone as a couple, without his phone calls, other obligations, without the business or your work and school pulling you away from one another. An oasis, sheltered away from the rest of the world, untouched and singularly yours.

Come morning, you wake Steve with long, languid kisses. With your fingers sliding up and into his hair, running along scalp, mouth unfurling into a smirk as he starts to stir more. With the slide of your knee over his hip when you feel his cock kick up against your abdomen. With the gentle push of his pajamas down his thighs.

He grips your hip as you clamber up and over him, exhales shakily as you take him in hand and sink down slowly onto him, inch by inch, until you’re flush against his skin. You rock slowly, hands against his abdomen, head thrown back in a strangled moan.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that,” he rasps, rising up to hold you in his arms, a hand guiding you, his hips rolling up from the bottom of you.

And you know, as your chests later press tight together and you slump against his form in satisfaction, everything has changed.

——

please let me know what you think! comments, reblogs, messages are all loved and appreciated — as always. 💌

next chapter, you head to hawkins and spend time with friends and family, and steve gets a look into another world…

#lunalovessteve #steve harrington x reader fanfic #steve harrington x reader smut #Steve Harrington x reader #steve harrington x f!reader #steve harrington x you

402 notes · View notes