Cherry Cigarettes

[cherry---cigarettes]

No Escape

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Steve Harrington has a stamina problem: one orgasm is never enough.

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, Continuous Penetration, Creampie, Light Manhandling, Crying During Sex (from overstimulation), Unapologetic Dom Energy

Steve Harrington came once, hard, deep, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, and then he simply kept going. His cock stayed thick and slick, sliding through the mess he’d already left, and there was no hesitation in the way he rolled his hips again. No pause. No softening. Just the steady, relentless press of him filling you all over again.

He’d started the night the way he always did: slow, attentive, that easy Steve confidence wrapped around something softer. Couch in the Harrington living room, you in his lap, his hands under your shirt, mouth warm against your throat. When you finally sank down onto him the stretch had made your breath catch. He’d held your hips steady, let you adjust, then started rocking up into you in shallow strokes until you were moving on your own.

The first time you came it was quiet. Soft sounds against his mouth, cunt clenching hard around him. Steve groaned and followed right after, flooding you in long pulses. You felt the heat of it, the way it leaked out around his cock when he kept thrusting through the aftershocks. Most guys would have pulled out. Steve only got wetter, thicker, the mess making every slide filthier.

He rolled you onto your back without ever leaving you, hooked your legs over his arms, and drove deeper.

“There it is,” he murmured, watching your face. “Already shaking for me.”

You were. The second orgasm hit harder, brighter, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body seized around him. Steve didn’t slow. He fucked you through every pulse of it, grinding the base of his cock against your clit on every stroke, keeping the pressure constant until the pleasure tipped over into something sharper. Your thighs trembled. Your voice cracked on his name. He just kept moving, steady and deep, like your climax was simply more reason to continue.

By the third time you came the overstimulation was already setting in. Every nerve ending felt scraped raw. Steve noticed the change in the way you clenched around him, tighter, more erratic, and adjusted without mercy. He pulled you to the edge of the couch so he could stand between your legs, hands firm on the backs of your knees, holding you open while he drove into that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low and rough. “Taking it so well. Keep coming for me.”

You did. The orgasm tore through you without warning, wetter than the last, your body gushing around him as your legs shook hard enough that he had to pin them open. Steve groaned at the feeling and kept the same pace, cock dragging through the mess, the wet sounds filling the quiet room. Every time the head of his cock caught on your rim on the way out you whimpered. Every time he sank back in to the hilt another aftershock rippled through you.

He didn’t stop.

He carried you down the hall to his bedroom still buried inside you, laid you on the bed, and followed without missing a thrust. The change of position made everything feel new and overwhelming again. Your clit was so swollen and sensitive that even the lightest brush of his pelvis made you jolt. Steve angled deliberately so every stroke dragged against it, watching the way your body reacted with something close to fascination.

“You’re so fucking sensitive now,” he said, almost to himself. “I can feel every little twitch. Give me another one.”

Your fourth orgasm hit while he was folding you nearly in half, thighs pressed toward your chest, cock driving deep and relentless. Your hands scrambled for purchase on the sheets. Steve laced your fingers with his and pinned them above your head, still fucking you in that same unhurried, devastating rhythm. He came again somewhere in the middle of it, another hot rush of him spilling inside you, but it barely interrupted him. He thrust through his own orgasm the same way he always did, like finishing was just more fuel.

You lost count after that.

He flipped you onto your stomach, pulled your hips up, and slid back in from behind. Chest pressed along your back, mouth against your ear, one hand reaching under you to find your clit. Two fingers stroked in time with his thrusts and the dual sensation short-circuited whatever coherence you had left. The orgasm that followed was long and continuous, your whole body locking up and then shaking hard enough that the bedframe creaked. Steve fucked you through every second of it, never slowing, never easing off.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep going. You’re not done yet.”

Tears slipped sideways into the pillow, not from pain, from the sheer volume of sensation. Your body had stopped feeling like it belonged to you. Every thrust sent sparks up your spine. Your cunt kept fluttering around him even between orgasms, oversensitive and raw. Steve felt every pulse of it and used it, adjusting the angle so the head of his cock rubbed continuously over that swollen place inside you until the next climax started building almost immediately.

He shifted you onto your sides, spooning you from behind, one arm under your head, the other wrapped around your waist so he could keep stroking your clit while he fucked you in long, slow strokes. The position was almost gentle. The effect was anything but. You could feel every inch of him. every ridge, every pulse, the way the head of his cock dragged over that oversensitive spot on every thrust. Your clit was so sensitive that even the lightest touch of his fingers made you jolt.

“You’re shaking so hard,” he said against the back of your neck, voice rough with satisfaction. “I can feel how close you are again. Don’t hold it back.”

You came with a broken sound, body arching and then going loose, trembling hard. Steve kept the same pace through the entire thing, cock sliding through the mess he’d already left, never pulling out, never giving you more than a few seconds of relief before the next wave started building. Your legs wouldn’t stop shaking. Every muscle felt worked past its limit. The simple act of him sliding in and out was almost too much and somehow still not enough to make him stop.

He rolled you onto your back again and settled between your legs, bracing on his forearms so he could watch your face. The eye contact made everything more intense. His pupils were blown, mouth soft, brows drawn together like he was the one being wrecked, but his hips never faltered. He kissed you between thrusts, thorough and claiming, while his cock kept driving into you in that same relentless rhythm.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he said. “All shaky and oversensitive and still taking every inch. Give me one more.”

You did. The orgasm tore through you harder than the others, your whole body locking up and then dissolving into fine, continuous tremors. Steve groaned and fucked you through it, never once breaking rhythm. When you finally went limp under him he slowed, just a little, but he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried deep and kept rocking into you in tiny, shallow thrusts that kept the overstimulation simmering instead of letting it fade.

He came again at some point, another pulse of heat deep inside you, and still he kept moving. The mess between you was soaking the sheets. Every time he pulled back a little you could feel it leaking out around his cock, running down your thighs. He used it as extra slick and drove back in without pause.

Time blurred completely.

He pulled you astride him, hands firm on your hips, guiding you into a slow, grinding rhythm while he thrust up to meet you. The position let you feel every inch of him, every pulse, every ridge. Your clit dragged against his pelvis with every roll of your hips and the overstimulation was almost unbearable. Steve watched your face the whole time, expression focused, almost hungry.

“That’s it,” he said. “Ride it out. You’re not done until I say you’re done.”

You came again, collapsing forward against his chest as the orgasm ripped through you. Steve held you close and kept moving under you, soft and relentless, fucking you through every pulse of it. His cock never softened. The mess only grew. He shifted your legs higher around his waist, folding you open so he could sink even deeper, the head of his cock pressing continuously against that swollen, oversensitive spot inside you. Every thrust sent another bright spark up your spine.

Your hands clutched at his back. Nails dug in. Another climax started building almost immediately and Steve felt it, hips rolling harder, deeper, refusing to let the pressure ease.

“Come on,” he murmured against your temple. “I can feel it. Let go.”

You did, quieter this time, a long, trembling wave that left you boneless beneath him. He kissed the tears from your cheeks and kept moving through it, hips rolling in that same unhurried rhythm that had already wrung so many orgasms out of you. His hand stayed between your bodies, two fingers gently circling your clit in time with his thrusts, never quite letting the overstimulation settle.

He flipped you onto your stomach again, pulled your hips up just enough, and slid back in from behind. One hand reached under you to keep stroking your clit. The dual sensation short-circuited what little coherence you had left. The orgasm that followed was continuous, rolling, your body shaking so hard the bed creaked. Steve fucked you through every second of it, chest pressed along your back, mouth against your ear, voice low and rough with pleasure.

“Good,” he said. “Keep taking it. You’re so fucking wet for me.”

Your legs were trembling so hard they wouldn’t stay still. He pinned them open with his hands on the backs of your thighs and kept driving into you, cock sliding through the slick heat of you with wet, filthy sounds. Every nerve ending felt raw. Every brush of his skin against yours was enough to make you twitch. Steve seemed to thrive on it, on the way your body kept responding even when it was clearly too much, on the fine tremor running through your thighs, on the broken little sounds you couldn’t stop making.

He shifted you onto your sides again, spooning you from behind, one arm under your head, the other wrapped around your waist so he could keep stroking your clit while he fucked you in long, slow strokes. The position was almost intimate. The effect was devastating. You could feel every inch of him dragging through the mess, every pulse, every ridge. Your clit was so sensitive that even the lightest touch of his fingers made you jolt.

“You’re shaking so hard,” he said against the back of your neck. “I can feel how oversensitive you are. You’re still going to come for me again.”

You did. The climax hit with a quiet, broken sound, your body arching and then going loose, trembling hard. Steve kept the same pace through the entire thing, never pulling out, never giving you more than a few seconds before the next wave started building. Your cunt kept fluttering around him even between orgasms, oversensitive and raw. He felt every pulse of it and used it, adjusting the angle so the head of his cock rubbed continuously over that swollen place inside you until the next climax started almost immediately.

Eventually the continuous waves started to ease into something slower, deeper, almost floaty. Your body was completely oversensitive now, every nerve ending raw, every brush of his skin against yours enough to make you twitch. Steve sensed the shift. He eased the intensity without fully stopping, moving in long, slow strokes that let you feel every inch of him dragging through the mess he’d left inside you. His hand stayed between your bodies, two fingers gently circling your clit in time with his thrusts, never quite letting the overstimulation settle.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice rough against your temple. “You’re shaking so hard. You’re still taking me so well. One more.”

You came again, quieter, longer, a trembling wave that left you boneless. Steve kissed the tears from your cheeks and kept moving through it, hips rolling in that same unhurried rhythm. His cock stayed thick and insistent. The mess between you only grew. He shifted your legs higher around his waist, folding you open so he could sink even deeper, the head of his cock pressing continuously against that oversensitive spot. Every thrust sent another bright spark up your spine.

Your hands clutched at his back. Another climax started building almost immediately. Steve felt it and rolled his hips harder, deeper, refusing to let the pressure ease.

“That’s it,” he said. “I can feel it. Let go for me.”

You did. The orgasm tore through you, body locking up and then dissolving into fine, continuous tremors. Steve fucked you through every pulse of it, never once breaking rhythm. When you finally went limp under him he slowed, just a little, but he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried deep and kept rocking into you in tiny, shallow thrusts that kept the overstimulation simmering instead of letting it fade.

He came again at some point, another hot rush of him spilling deep inside you, and still he kept moving. The sheets were soaked. Every time he pulled back a little you could feel it leaking out around his cock, running down your thighs. He used it as extra slick and drove back in without pause.

Steve Harrington kept going until your body was completely wrung out, until you were soft and trembling and so full of him you couldn’t think of anything else. Until even the softest brush of his skin against yours was enough to make you twitch. Until the continuous waves of sensation finally started to ease into something slower, deeper, almost floaty.

And even then, he kept moving, steady, focused, completely unapologetic, and utterly unable to stop.

[cherry---cigarettes]

Quiet For Me

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Steve Harrington has always been good at finding the edge between “we shouldn’t” and “fuck it.”

Warnings: Public/semi-public sex , car sex, workplace sex, sex during a party, unprotected sex/creampie, hand over mouth/forced quiet, light manhandling/pinning, exhibitionism, multiple rounds/consecutive scenes

You and Steve had always been good at finding the thin edge between “we shouldn’t” and “fuck it, we are.” The three of you, him, you, and the constant low thrum of getting caught, kept finding ways to meet in the middle.

The Beemer’s back seat was still warm from the afternoon sun when Steve pulled off onto the gravel track that led to the old quarry. The lot was empty except for a couple of rusted out trucks farther down the ridge. He killed the engine, killed the lights, and turned to look at you like he’d already decided how this was going to go.

“Come here,” he said, voice low.

You climbed into the back. He followed, door shutting with a solid thunk that felt louder than it should have. The windows were already fogging at the edges. Steve’s hands were on your waist before you fully settled, tugging you into his lap so you straddled him. His mouth found yours in the dark—hungry, a little messy, the kind of kiss that said he’d been thinking about this all day.

“Anyone could drive up,” you murmured against his lips.

“They won’t.” His hands slid under your shirt, palms hot against your skin. “And if they do…” He didn’t finish. He just pushed your shirt up and over your head, then went for the clasp of your bra with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this in tighter spaces.

You ground down against the hard line of him in his jeans and felt him curse into your mouth. Steve got your bra off, tossed it somewhere toward the front, and closed his mouth around one nipple while his hand worked the other. You arched into it, fingers in his hair, the soft wet sounds of his mouth loud in the quiet car. Outside, the quarry was nothing but wind and distant water.

He got your shorts and underwear down your legs in one impatient motion. You had to shift and kick a little; the back of a Beemer wasn’t built for this, but neither of you cared. Steve freed himself from his jeans just enough, the head of his cock already slick. He rubbed the tip through your folds, coating himself, eyes locked on yours even in the low light.

“You wet for this?” he asked, voice rough. “For the risk?”

You nodded, and he pushed in slow, inch by inch until he was fully seated and you were both breathing hard. The stretch was perfect. He held still for a second, forehead against yours, then started to move. Short, deep thrusts that made the car rock just enough to be noticeable if anyone had been watching. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, guiding you down onto him every time he pushed up.

You rode him like that, thighs burning, the wet sound of him fucking up into you filling the small space. Every so often he’d glance past your shoulder toward the dark treeline, and the tension in his body would spike. It made him thrust harder. You clenched around him on purpose and watched his eyes go half-lidded.

“Shit—keep doing that.” His voice cracked. One hand left your hip to slide between your bodies, thumb finding your clit in tight circles. You came first, muffling the sound against his shoulder, body locking up around him. Steve followed almost immediately, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a low, punched-out groan he couldn’t quite keep quiet.

You stayed like that for a minute, catching your breath, his come already starting to slip out of you and onto his jeans. Outside, nothing moved. Steve kissed the side of your neck, softer now.

“Next time,” he murmured, “we leave the windows cracked. Just enough so you can hear if anyone’s coming.”

Family Video after closing was different. The neon OPEN sign was dark. The parking lot was empty except for Steve’s car and yours. He’d locked the front doors, flipped the main lights off, and left only the soft glow of the exit signs and the security monitor’s blue wash. The store smelled like popcorn and plastic cases.

Steve had you backed against the return counter before you’d even finished locking the side door. His mouth was on yours, one hand already working the button of your jeans.

“We could get fired,” you said, but you were helping him shove your jeans and underwear down your thighs.

“Worth it.” He spun you, bent you over the counter so your chest pressed to the cool laminate. You heard the sound of his zipper, then felt the blunt head of his cock drag through the mess still left from earlier. He pushed in without preamble this time—slick, easy, deep. The counter creaked under the force of his first thrust.

You bit your lip hard. The store was quiet enough that every wet slap of skin on skin echoed. Steve fucked you like he was trying to outrun the possibility of headlights sweeping the front windows. One hand stayed on the small of your back, keeping you pinned; the other reached around to rub your clit in rough, efficient circles.

“Look at the door,” he ordered, voice tight. “If anyone walks up, you tell me.”

You watched the glass. Empty. Dark. Your reflection was faint, mouth open, eyes glassy, Steve’s shoulder moving behind you with every hard snap of his hips. He changed the angle and you saw stars. A broken sound escaped you before you could stop it.

“Quiet,” he hissed, but it was ruined by the way his own breath stuttered. He leaned over you, chest to your back, and fucked you harder. The counter rattled. A stack of returned tapes shifted and nearly toppled. Neither of you stopped.

You came with your forehead pressed to the laminate, thighs shaking, trying and failing to stay silent. Steve followed a few thrusts later, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing inside you with a low, drawn-out groan that sounded like it hurt. He stayed there, breathing hard against the back of your neck, cock twitching as the last of it left him.

When he finally pulled out, you felt the warm slide of his come down the inside of one thigh. Steve fixed your clothes with careful hands, then his own, and kissed the side of your mouth like an apology and a promise at once.

“We should open early tomorrow,” he said, voice still rough. “Just in case we missed any returns.”

You both knew that wasn’t why.

The party at Steve’s house was louder. Music thumped through the floorboards. People spilled out onto the deck and into the backyard. Someone had already broken a glass in the kitchen. Steve had been playing host for two hours—refilling drinks, laughing at the right times, keeping an eye on the kids who weren’t supposed to be drinking—but every time his gaze found yours across the room, the heat in it was unmistakable.

You caught him in the hallway near the stairs. He didn’t speak. He just took your hand and led you up, past the bathroom where someone was already throwing up, past the closed door of the room where Dustin and a couple of others were arguing about a game. His bedroom door shut behind you with a soft click. The lock turned.

Music still bled through the floor. Voices rose and fell downstairs. Steve had you against the door in seconds, mouth on yours, hands under your shirt. You got his jeans open. He got yours down just far enough. There was no slow build this time—just the urgent push of him inside you, one of your legs hooked over his hip, the other braced against the floor.

He tried to stay quiet. You could feel the effort in the way his jaw clenched, the way his breath stayed carefully measured even as his hips snapped forward hard enough to make the door rattle in its frame. Every time someone laughed too loud downstairs or a glass broke, his rhythm faltered for half a second—then he drove in deeper, like the risk itself was part of the turn-on.

“Steve—”

“Shh.” His hand covered your mouth, gentle but firm. His eyes were dark, pupils blown. “They’re right downstairs.”

You nodded against his palm. He kept fucking you like that—slow, deep, controlled thrusts that still managed to punch soft sounds out of you that he caught with his hand. The friction was perfect. The knowledge that any second someone could knock or walk past or call his name made every stroke sharper.

He shifted, lifted your other leg so you were fully suspended against the door, held up by his strength and the way he was buried inside you. The new angle made you both stifle curses. Steve’s forehead dropped to yours. His rhythm broke. He was close; you could feel it in the way his cock swelled and the way his breath started to come in short, uneven bursts against your cheek.

“Gonna come,” he warned, voice barely a whisper. “You first. Come on. Let me feel it.”

You did, body tightening around him, a high, muffled sound escaping past his fingers. Steve followed with a full-body shudder, hips stuttering as he emptied into you in thick pulses. He kept you pinned there through it, cock throbbing, both of you shaking with the effort of staying silent while the party continued below like nothing was happening.

When he finally set you down, your legs were unsteady. Come was already slipping out of you, warm and messy. Steve cleaned you up with a discarded T-shirt from the floor, then fixed both your clothes with the same careful attention he’d used at the video store. He kissed you once, soft and lingering, before unlocking the door.

“Five minutes,” he murmured. “Then I’ll come back down like I just needed a break. You good?”

You nodded. Your pulse was still racing. Downstairs, someone shouted his name. Steve grinned, the cocky, boyish one that still made your stomach flip—and opened the door like nothing had happened.

You both walked back into the noise of the party smelling faintly of sex and each other, the secret of it sitting warm and heavy between you. The night wasn’t over. Neither of you pretended it was.

Later, when the last of the cars had pulled away and the house was quiet again, Steve found you in the kitchen. He didn’t say anything. He just backed you against the counter, dropped to his knees, and took his time making sure every last trace of the evening was licked clean. Outside, the neighborhood slept. Inside, the only sound was the soft, wet work of his mouth and the quiet, broken noises you finally didn’t have to hold back.

He didn’t try to stay quiet that time.

[cherry---cigarettes]

Tell Me I Can

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Steve Harrington has been hard since lunch, restless and aching, waiting for the sound of your key in the door.

Warnings:Needy/desperate Steve, soft/gentle dom reader, permission kink, begging, praise kink, oral , penetration, creampie, orgasm control/denial , multiple orgasms, aftercare, mouth-cleaning, soft dirty talk

Steve had been hard since lunch.

Not the casual kind. The kind that sat heavy and insistent between his legs for hours, pulsing every time he shifted, every time his phone stayed silent, every time he caught himself staring at the clock like it might move faster if he just wanted it hard enough. He’d tried to ignore it. Tried to stay busy. But his mind kept circling the same place, your voice when you told him what to do, the way you looked at him when he got like this, the quiet authority in the way you let him fall apart under your hands.

By the time the key turned in the lock he was already on his feet, heart slamming, cock straining against the soft fabric of his sweatpants. He hadn’t bothered with underwear. The second the door opened he was moving, but he stopped just short of crowding you, waiting, eyes already a little glassy.

“Please,” he breathed, voice low and rough. “Been thinkin’ about you all day. Couldn’t focus. Just kept getting hard every time I thought about your mouth. About how you sound when you tell me I can-”

You let him kiss you. Slow at first. Then deeper when you opened for him. His hands hovered at your waist, not quite grabbing until you gave the smallest nod. Only then did he touch, sliding under your shirt like he’d been given permission to breathe.

When you broke the kiss he stayed close, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling forward once against your thigh like he couldn’t help it.

“Can I get on my knees?” he asked, quieter now. “Please. I need it. Need to taste you. Been so empty without it.”

You told him he could.

Steve dropped like the words had cut his strings. Knees hit the floor hard. His hands shook as he waited for you to move your clothes aside, and the second you did he leaned in with a broken, grateful sound, mouth finding you like he’d been starving.

He licked slow at first, careful, almost reverent, looking up every few seconds like he needed to check he was still allowed. When you rested a hand in his hair he melted, a soft moan vibrating against you. His free hand stayed at his own thigh, not touching himself yet. Waiting.

“Is this okay?” he mumbled against you. “Can I keep going? Wanna make you feel good. Please.”

You told him yes. Told him he was doing well.

The praise hit him harder than anything else. His eyes fluttered shut and he licked deeper, messier, tongue working with single-minded focus. Spit slicked his chin. His jaw started to ache and he didn’t care. Every time you made a sound he answered with a quiet, needy little noise of his own, like the feedback alone was enough to keep him going.

When your fingers tightened just slightly in his hair he groaned, hips twitching. Still he didn’t touch himself. Just stayed on his knees, mouth open and eager, looking up at you with those glassy eyes like he’d stay there as long as you wanted.

“Use my mouth,” he whispered. “Please. Don’t be gentle if you don’t want to. I can take it. Want to. Just… tell me how.”

You didn’t have to be rough. You simply guided him, slow pressure of your hand, a quiet instruction here and there. Steve followed every one like it was the only thing that mattered. When you told him to slow down he did, licking soft and thorough. When you told him deeper he sank in without hesitation, eyes watering a little, still making those soft grateful sounds. When you told him he could touch himself he made a punched-out noise of relief and shoved his hand into his sweatpants, stroking in short, desperate pulls that matched the rhythm of his tongue.

He was leaking steadily. The front of his sweatpants was dark and sticky. Every time you gave him another quiet “good” or “just like that” his whole body shuddered.

When you came he almost followed.

The first pulse against his tongue made him moan so loud it was almost a shout, muffled only by how hard he pressed closer, licking through it like he was trying to drink every drop. His hips stuttered. His hand flew faster on his cock. Then he forced himself to stop just short of the edge, forehead pressed to your thigh, panting.

“Almost- almost came,” he admitted, voice wrecked. “Can I? Or do you want me to wait? I’ll wait. I’ll do whatever you want. Just tell me.”

You told him to wait.

Steve nodded quickly, almost frantically, and pulled his hand away like the denial itself was another kind of gift. He stayed on his knees, looking up at you, mouth shiny, hair a mess from your hands, waiting for the next instruction.

You told him to get up and go to the bedroom.

He scrambled to his feet so fast he almost tripped. Kicked off his shoes without looking. Followed you down the hall like he was being pulled by a string, stripping as he went, shirt first, then the sweatpants. By the time he reached the bed he was fully naked, cock bobbing against his stomach, a string of precome connecting him to his own skin every time it twitched.

He climbed onto the mattress and waited on his knees, hands on his thighs, eyes on you.

“Can I touch you?” he asked. “Or do you want me to wait again? I’ll wait. Just… want to feel you. Please.”

You told him he could touch. Softly. Slowly.

Steve’s hands were careful when they found you. He kissed your mouth first, then your jaw, then lower, mapping you with his lips like he was trying to memorize every place that made your breath catch. When you guided his hand between your legs he groaned into your neck, fingers moving exactly the way you showed him, slow circles, then deeper, then back to the places that made you arch.

“Like this?” he checked. “Tell me if it’s not enough. Or too much. I’ll fix it. Just want to make you feel good.”

You told him he was doing perfectly. Told him to keep going until you said otherwise.

He did. Patient. Focused. Every soft praise made him shiver. When you finally told him he could get inside you he made a sound like he’d been given something he didn’t deserve.

Steve settled between your legs, braced on shaking arms, and waited one more time, head of his cock resting against you, slick and hot.

“Please,” he whispered. “Can I? Need to feel you.”

You told him yes. Told him to go slow.

He pushed in with a long, broken moan, sinking deeper inch by inch until his hips were flush against yours. He stayed there for a second, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing hard.

“Fuck- you feel so good. Always feel so good. Missed this. Missed being inside you.”

He started moving the way you’d told him, slow, deep strokes that made his breath hitch every time he bottomed out. His hands found yours and laced their fingers together against the sheets, holding on like he needed the anchor. When you told him he could go a little harder he did, still controlled, still checking your face every few thrusts.

“Is this okay?” he asked, voice strained. “Feels so good. You’re so tight. Can I-can I keep going like this? Or do you want me slower again?”

You told him to keep going. Told him he was being so good for you.

The praise undid him a little more. His rhythm stuttered, then steadied again under your quiet guidance. One of his hands left yours to slide between your bodies when you directed it there, fingers finding the spot that made your back arch. He rubbed in tight circles, matching the pace of his hips, determined to make you come before he did.

“Wanna feel you,” he panted. “Wanna feel you come on my cock. Please. Need it. Need to know I’m making you feel good. That’s all I want.”

He kept talking the whole time, soft, filthy, needy stream of consciousness that never quite stopped. How good you felt. How tight. How he’d been hard for hours thinking about this exact moment. How he’d touch himself later just remembering the way you looked right now. How he never wanted to stop. How he’d stay inside you forever if you let him.

When you came the second time he almost followed again.

His rhythm faltered, hips grinding deep as you clenched around him, a high broken sound ripping out of his throat. He forced himself still, shaking with the effort of holding back, eyes squeezed shut.

“Not yet,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “Not yet. Want to keep going. Want to make you come again. Can I? Please. Just a little longer. I’ll be good. I promise.”

You told him he could.

Steve made a noise like he’d been given a gift. He started moving again, slower this time, deeper, grinding more than thrusting, like he was trying to map every inch of you from the inside. His hand stayed between you, fingers working exactly the way you’d shown him. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead. His arms trembled. He looked wrecked already, flushed, glassy-eyed, mouth red from kissing, and he still kept going like stopping wasn’t an option as long as you wanted him.

“You’re so good to me,” he murmured against your mouth. “Letting me have this. Letting me be like this. I know I get needy. But you never make me feel bad for it. You just… take it. Take me. Fuck, I love that. Love being yours.”

The words spilled out without filter. He wasn’t even trying to be smooth anymore. Just honest. Desperate. Open in a way he only ever got when he was this far gone and still under your quiet control.

He shifted the angle when you guided his hips, and the next thrust made you both gasp. Steve’s eyes flew open, locking on yours.

“There?” he asked, already thrusting again, chasing the same spot. “Yeah? Feels good? Tell me. Please. Need to hear it. Need to know.”

He kept hitting it, relentless now but still careful, still watching your face for any sign to slow down or stop. One hand braced by your head, the other still working between you. His cock was so hard it almost hurt, the pressure building at the base of his spine, but he refused to let go. Not until you did. Not until he’d wrung one more out of you the way you’d asked.

When the third orgasm hit you he finally broke, only because you told him he could.

“Come for me,” you said, soft and sure.

Steve buried himself deep with a broken cry, hips jerking through it as he spilled inside you in long, pulsing waves. He kept grinding through it, like he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving even while he was coming, mouth open against your cheek, soft repeated “fuck, fuck, fuck” falling out of him like a prayer. You held him through it, one hand in his hair, the other stroking down his back, grounding him while he shook apart.

He stayed inside you afterward, still half-hard, still rocking the tiniest bit like his body hadn’t gotten the message that it was over. His face was pressed to your neck. His breathing was shaky. One hand stroked your side absently, like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“Stay?” he asked after a long minute, voice small. “Just for a bit. Don’t have to do anything. Just… stay. Feel you. Is that okay?”

You ran your fingers through his hair and told him yes. He melted further, a soft contented sound leaving him. He nuzzled closer, still buried in you, still unwilling to pull out until you decided he should.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For letting me. For… all of it. I needed that so bad today. Needed you. Needed you to tell me what to do.”

He stayed like that for a long time, warm, heavy, still occasionally twitching inside you whenever you shifted. Eventually he softened enough that he slipped free, and the quiet sound of loss he made was almost embarrassing. He rolled onto his side just enough to look at you properly, one leg still thrown over yours, hand resting on your stomach.

“Can I clean you up?” he asked, already half sitting up. “Want to. Please. Let me take care of you.”

You told him he could.

Steve leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your mouth, then lower, trailing down your chest, your stomach, until he was between your legs again. This time it was gentle, slow, careful licks, cleaning up the mess he’d left, humming softly like the taste of both of you together was something he wanted to remember. He took his time. Didn’t rush. Just stayed there until you were clean and soft and relaxed under his mouth, glancing up every so often like he still needed the quiet permission to keep going.

When he finally crawled back up he pulled you into his arms without asking, tucking your head under his chin, one hand stroking slow patterns along your spine.

“Was that okay?” he asked quietly. “I know I get… a lot. When I’m like that. Didn’t push too hard? You were still in control the whole time, right?”

He waited for the answer like it mattered more than anything. When you reassured him, told him he’d been perfect, that you’d liked guiding him, he let out a long breath, some of the leftover tension finally leaving his shoulders.

“Good,” he murmured. “That’s good. I just… I needed to be close. Needed to feel like I was doing something right. You always make it feel like that. When you tell me what to do. When you let me be needy and still… still take care of me.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, then one more to the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t quite stop.

“Stay the night?” he asked after a while, voice already getting drowsy. “Please. Don’t want to wake up alone. Want to wake up and still have you here. Maybe… maybe do it again in the morning. If you want. I’ll be good. I’ll wait for you to tell me I can. I’ll make breakfast. Whatever you want.”

Steve held you tighter, one leg still hooked over yours, like he was trying to keep you from floating away even in sleep. His cock twitched faintly against your hip at the thought of morning, but he didn’t push for more. Just stayed close. Warm. Soft. Needy in a quieter way now that the sharp edge had been taken off and you’d given him permission to rest.

“Love you,” he whispered into your hair, so quiet it was almost lost. “Love being yours. Love when you let me fall apart like that. Love when you hold me together after.”

He fell asleep still holding you, one hand resting over your heart like he needed the proof that you were still there. Still real. Still letting him have this, still the one who got to decide when he could ask for more.

And when he woke up a few hours later, hard again and already nuzzling into your neck with soft, sleepy little kisses, the first word out of his mouth was the same as it had been at the door.

“Please.”

He waited, patient and aching, for you to tell him he could

[cherry---cigarettes]

All Day

Pairing: Billy Hargrove

Summary: Despite the towns whispers, Billy is a patient man and he appreciates a patient lady

Warnings: MDNI!!!! SMUT, praise kink if you squint, oral (F receiving), hair pulling, fingering, p in v (no condom! don't be silly guys)

You wake to the sound of the shower running and the low drag of Billy’s voice through the thin bathroom door. “Don’t touch yourself today.” No greeting. No good morning. Just that quiet, certain order, delivered like he’s already decided how the entire day is going to feel for you.

You lie still in the narrow bed, pulse already kicking up, and wait until the water shuts off. When he steps out, towel low on his hips, hair dripping onto his freckled shoulders, he doesn’t look at you right away. He just walks over, leans down, and presses a slow kiss to the side of your throat. His mouth stays there long enough for you to feel the shape of the smile against your skin.

“All day,” he murmurs. “You wait for me. Understand?”

You nod. He kisses you properly then, soft, lingering, the kind that makes your stomach drop, before he pulls back and starts getting ready for his shift at the community pool. You watch the line of his back, the way the muscles move under his skin, the faded band logo on the back of the black T-shirt he pulls on. Already the ache is starting. Low. Warm. Patient.

He leaves a scrap of paper on the kitchen counter before he goes, held down by the glass salt shaker. His handwriting is sharp and quick.

Hands to yourself. I’ll call at lunch. Be good.

By mid-morning you’re restless. The house is too quiet. The window unit hums. Every time you shift on the couch the soft press of your shorts against you feels deliberate, like Billy planned even that. You try to read the magazine on the coffee table. You try to fold the laundry he left in a basket by the door. You end up standing in front of the open fridge for a full minute without taking anything out because your mind keeps circling back to the way he said wait.

The rotary phone on the wall rings at 12:10. You pick it up on the second ring.

“How bad is it already?” His voice is low, a little rough from the sun and chlorine, the background noise of kids yelling and a distant radio playing something with a heavy drumbeat.

You answer honestly. “I keep thinking about your hands.”

A soft laugh. “Which part?”

“The way you hold me still. The way you talk when you’re deciding whether I get to come or not.”

Silence for a second. Then, quieter: “You’re going to be so sweet for me tonight. I can already hear it.”

Your fingers curl against the wall by the phone. “Billy- ”

“Shh. Not yet. Just keep that feeling. Let it sit. I want you aching when I walk through the door.”

He hangs up before you can answer. The dial tone drones in your ear for a moment before you set the receiver back in its cradle. The quiet rushes back in, heavier than before.

Afternoon stretches long and sticky. You try to nap on top of the covers and fail. Every time you close your eyes you feel imaginary rope around your wrists, soft cotton clothesline he keeps in the garage for the lawn chairs, the gentle give of it, the way Billy would check the knots with two fingers and then kiss the pulse point just above them. You roll onto your stomach and press your face into the pillow. The pressure between your legs is constant now, a low, insistent throb that refuses to fade.

At three he calls again, shorter this time.

“Still waiting?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Picture me tying your wrists later. Nothing you can’t get out of if you really tried. Just enough so you feel it every time you breathe. And a blindfold. One of my bandanas. Just my voice and my hands. You’re going to listen so carefully, aren’t you?”

Your voice comes out thin. “Yes.”

“That’s my girl.”

The praise lands like a hand between your shoulder blades. Warm. Heavy. You stay curled on the bed for a long time after that, breathing carefully, letting the words sink in while the window unit rattles and the afternoon light turns thick and golden through the thin curtains.

By the time the sky starts turning the color of old brass you’re trembling. Not dramatically, just a fine, constant shiver under the skin. You’ve been good. You haven’t touched. The ache has settled deep, turning every small movement into something deliberate. When you walk to the kitchen for water your thighs brush and you have to stop and lean against the counter until the wave passes. The note from this morning is still there. You read it again just to feel the weight of it.

Billy’s Camaro growls into the driveway at 6:17. You hear the door slam. The soft thud of his bag hitting the floor by the front door. The sound of him toeing off his sneakers. Footsteps down the short hall. He finds you in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed like the last thing he said on the phone (Be on the bed when I get home. Clothes still on. Hands in your lap.).

He stops in the doorway. Looks at you for a long second. His hair is still damp from the shower he must have taken in the pool locker room. The late light catches the freckles across his shoulders where the black tank has slipped. There’s a faint white smear of sunscreen near his collarbone.

“There you are,” he says, soft. Almost fond. “Look at you.”

He crosses the room slowly. Kneels in front of you so you’re eye level. His hands settle on your knees, warm and steady, and he just holds them there. No pressure. No demand. Just contact. You can smell chlorine and the faint sweetness of the cheap body wash from the locker room.

“You waited all day.”

You nod. Your voice comes out thin. “I waited.”

“I know.” His thumbs stroke once, slow. “I could hear it every time I called. How careful you were being.” He leans in and presses his forehead to yours. “So fucking good for me.”

The praise unravels something in your chest. You close your eyes. He kisses you then, gentle, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like a reward and a promise at the same time. When he pulls back his eyes are darker.

“Clothes off. Slowly. I want to watch.”

You stand. He stays kneeling, looking up at you. You peel your T-shirt over your head. Unhook your bra. Push your shorts and underwear down together. Every movement feels exaggerated under his gaze. When you’re bare he rises and walks around behind you. His hands settle on your hips, then slide up your sides, over your ribs, until his palms cup your breasts from behind. He doesn’t squeeze. Just holds. Thumbs brush once, light, over your nipples. You shiver hard.

“Sensitive already,” he murmurs against the side of your neck. “All day of nothing and you’re this soft for me.”

He reaches past you to the top drawer of the dresser. The soft length of white clothesline is already coiled there, he must have put it there before he left this morning. He turns you gently and guides your wrists together in front of you.

“Hold still.”

The rope is smooth from years of weather. He wraps it carefully, checking the tension with two fingers after every pass. Not tight enough to hurt. Just enough that you feel the gentle restriction every time you flex. When he’s done he lifts your bound hands and kisses the insides of both wrists.

“Perfect.”

He picks up one of his bandanas next, faded red, soft from a hundred washes. He doesn’t put it on right away. He just holds it up so you can see it, then steps close again.

“Last chance to look at me,” he says, quiet. “After this it’s only my voice and whatever I decide to give you.”

You look. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his mouth softens when he’s being careful with you. The open want in his eyes that he’s not even trying to hide. The faint sunburn across the bridge of his nose.

“I’m ready.”

He ties the bandana gently over your eyes. The world goes dark. Sound sharpens. You hear the soft rustle of him peeling off his tank, the clink of his belt buckle, the quiet thud of jeans hitting the floor. Then his hands are back on you, guiding you onto the bed, arranging you the way he wants. On your back. Wrists resting above your head against the thin pillows. Legs slightly open because he murmurs open for me and you do it without thinking.

He settles between your thighs but doesn’t touch you yet. Just rests his hands on your hips and breathes with you for a moment. The window unit kicks on again with a soft rattle.

“You’ve been so patient,” he says. The words are low, almost against your skin. “I kept thinking about this all day. You at home, getting wetter every hour, not allowed to do anything about it. Knowing I’d come home and take care of you.”

His mouth finds the side of your throat. Soft open kisses. A quiet scrape of teeth that makes your breath hitch. He works lower. Collarbone. The upper curve of one breast. He licks once, slow, over your nipple and you arch without meaning to. The rope pulls gently against your wrists.

“Shh. Easy. I’ve got you.”

He spends a long time there. Mouth and tongue and the lightest edge of teeth, switching sides whenever you start to tremble too hard. Every time you make a sound he answers with quiet praise.

“That’s it. Just like that. You’re so responsive for me.” “Listen to you. All day of waiting and you’re already this close.” “Good girl. Let me hear it.”

When he finally moves lower you almost sob. His hands spread your thighs wider. Warm breath against you. Then the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, long and flat and unhurried. He doesn’t rush. He maps you. Learns exactly where the pressure makes your hips try to lift, where the lightest flicker of the tip of his tongue makes your bound hands curl into fists.

He pulls back just enough to speak against you.

“You’ve been aching for this, haven’t you?”

“Yes-”

“Tell me.”

“All day. Every time I moved I thought about your mouth. Your hands. Please-”

He gives you more. Deeper. A steady rhythm that builds and builds until you’re shaking, thighs trying to close around his head, the rope a constant soft reminder that you can’t pull him closer yourself. Right when the pleasure starts to tip toward something sharp and inevitable he eases off. Kisses the inside of your thigh instead. Waits until your breathing steadies.

“Not yet,” he whispers. “I want you higher.”

He starts again. Slower this time. Building you carefully, stopping every time your voice starts to break. The edge becomes a place you live in, sharp, bright, almost unbearable. Your whole body feels tuned to the sound of his breathing and the next soft word of praise.

“You’re taking it so well.” “Look at how wet you are for me. All from waiting.” “I’ve got you. Just a little longer.”

When he finally crawls up your body you’re beyond words. He settles over you, the solid heat of him pressing you into the mattress. You feel him hard against your stomach. He reaches up and adjusts the rope so your bound wrists rest around the back of his neck instead of above your head. The new position lets you hold on to him in the only way you can.

He kisses you, deep, slow, tasting of you, and then he lines himself up. The first push is careful. He sinks in inch by inch, watching your face even though you can’t see his, murmuring the whole time.

“That’s it. Take me. You’re so open for me tonight.” “Fuck, you feel perfect. All day of nothing and you’re this ready.” “I’ve got you. Breathe.”

When he’s fully inside he stays still. Lets you feel the stretch, the fullness, the way your body has to adjust around him after hours of empty ache. His forehead rests against yours. One hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone under the edge of the bandana.

“You waited so well,” he says, voice rough now. “I’m so proud of you.”

Then he starts to move.

It’s not hard. Not frantic. Just deep, rolling thrusts that keep you right on that knife-edge he built all day. Every time you start to climb too fast he slows, kisses you, tells you how good you are, how soft, how patient. The praise is constant. Soft. Almost reverent. It wraps around the physical sensation until the two things are inseparable, his body and his voice both holding you open.

“You can come when I say. Not before. I want to feel you fall apart on me.”

You nod against his mouth. The rope digs gently into your wrists every time you try to pull him closer. The bandana makes every shift of his hips feel enormous. You can hear how wet you are. You can hear the quiet, punched-out sounds he makes when he sinks all the way in. You can feel the way his control is starting to fray at the edges even as he keeps the pace steady for you.

He reaches between you. Two fingers find your clit and circle slow, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The dual sensation is almost too much. Your whole body tightens.

“Billy-”

“I know. Almost. You’re doing so well. Just a little more.”

He keeps you there longer than you think you can stand. The pleasure is a bright, continuous wire running through you. Every muscle is drawn tight. Your breath comes in short, broken pulls. He kisses the corner of your mouth, the hinge of your jaw, the soft place under your ear.

“Now,” he says at last, voice low and sure. “Come for me. You’ve earned it. Let go.”

The permission is everything. The orgasm hits like something breaking open after being held carefully all day. You cry out against his shoulder, body locking up around him, the rope pulling tight as your hands fist in his damp hair. He keeps moving through it, deep, steady strokes that draw the pleasure out longer, softer waves following the first sharp crest. He praises you the whole time.

“That’s it. Just like that. So beautiful when you come for me.” “I’ve got you. You’re safe. Keep going.” “Fuck, yes. Perfect. My perfect girl.”

When the strongest waves finally ease he doesn’t stop. He just slows, gentling the rhythm while you shake through the aftershocks. Only when you’re soft and pliant under him does he let himself follow. A few deeper thrusts, a low groan against your neck, and he comes with your name in his mouth, buried as deep as he can get.

He stays inside you afterward. Unties the bandana first with careful fingers. The light is soft and gold through the thin curtains. His face is open, flushed, eyes darker than usual. There’s a faint white line of dried sunscreen still on his collarbone. He looks at you like you’re something rare. Then he works the rope loose, rubbing the faint marks on your wrists with his thumbs, kissing each one in turn.

“You okay?” he asks, quiet.

You nod. Words feel far away. He gathers you in, pulls the sheet over both of you, and holds you against his chest. One hand strokes slow lines up and down your spine. The other stays tangled in your hair. Outside, a car passes on the street with the windows down, some song with a bright guitar riff fading as it goes.

“All day,” he murmurs after a while. “And you still waited. Still trusted me.” A soft kiss to the top of your head. “I’m not going to forget that.”

You press closer. The ache is gone, replaced by a deep, liquid warmth that settles into your bones. His heartbeat is steady under your ear. The window unit clicks off. Inside, there is only the quiet sound of his breathing and the occasional soft press of his mouth against your hair.

He doesn’t rush to get up. Doesn’t reach for the remote or the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. Just keeps holding you, fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, every touch still carrying the same quiet praise he gave you all day long.

“Next time,” he says eventually, voice already half-asleep, “I’ll make you wait even longer. See how sweet you get.”

You smile against his chest. The idea should feel like a threat. Instead it feels like a promise- soft, certain, and already starting to warm you again from the inside out.

He feels the smile and answers it with one of his own, pressed into your hair.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s what I thought.”

[cherry---cigarettes]

Good Little Thing

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Reader

Summary: One night in the Camaro, fogged windows, and a quiet girl who never stood a chance.

Warnings: MDNI!!!! SMUT, praise kink, hair pulling, fingering, p in v (no condom! don't be silly guys)

You’re in the passenger seat of the Camaro again. The engine’s still ticking as it cools in the empty quarry lot, late enough that the only light is the weak yellow of the dash and the distant glow of Hawkins. Billy’s got one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the back of your seat like he owns the space you’re sitting in. He does.

He hasn’t said much since he pulled you out of the party. Just that tight, restless energy rolling off him, jaw working, fingers flexing. You can still smell the beer and cigarettes on him, the sharp bite of his cologne. Your pulse is too loud in your ears. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or something worse.

Billy turns his head. Looks at you. Really looks.

“You keep staring at me like that and I’m gonna take it as an invitation.”

Your mouth opens. Nothing useful comes out. He smirks, that mean little curl of his lip, and reaches across the console. His hand closes around your jaw, not gentle, just firm enough that you feel the pressure of his fingers against the hinge.

“Innocent little thing,” he murmurs, thumb dragging over your lower lip. “You don’t even know what you walked into, do you?”

You swallow. He feels it. His eyes darken.

He doesn’t ask again. He just pulls you in.

The kiss is messy, all teeth and tongue and the bitter taste of whatever he’d been drinking. He kisses like he’s trying to take something from you, pressing in hard, tilting your head exactly how he wants it, not giving you room to breathe properly. When you make a small sound against his mouth he growls, low and satisfied, and shoves the seat back with a sharp movement of the lever.

“Get over here.”

You scramble. It’s awkward in the Camaro, knees bumping, but Billy doesn’t care. He hauls you into his lap like you weigh nothing, settling you straddling him so you’re forced to feel the hard line of his cock already straining against his jeans. His hands go straight to your hips and dig in, grinding you down against him once, hard enough that a shocked little noise escapes you.

“That’s it,” he says, voice rough. “Feel that? That’s what you do to me. Sitting there all quiet and soft like you don’t know.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. One hand slides up under your shirt, palm hot and rough against your bare skin, and he cups your breast without preamble, squeezing, thumb flicking over your nipple until it tightens. The other hand is already working at the button of your jeans.

He gets your jeans open and shoves his hand inside, past your underwear, fingers finding you already wet. The sound he makes is filthy, half laugh, half groan. He slides two fingers through your folds, gathers the slick, and pushes them into you without warning. You’re tight around him. He feels it. His eyes flash.

“Fuck. Look at that. Barely taken anything and you’re already clamping down.” He works his fingers deeper, curling them, stretching you open with deliberate, rough strokes. “Gonna ruin this little cunt. You know that, right?”

You try to rock against his hand but he pins your hip with his free hand, holding you still while he fingers you harder. The wet sounds fill the car. His mouth finds your throat, biting, sucking marks that will last for days. Every time you gasp he presses his fingers in deeper, scissoring them, making sure you feel every knuckle.

When he finally pulls his hand free it’s shiny with you. He brings it up between your faces and pushes two wet fingers against your lips.

“Open.”

You do. He pushes them in, watches you taste yourself, and his cock twitches hard under you.

“Good girl.” The praise is almost mocking. “Now get these off.”

He helps, more like manhandles, your jeans and underwear down just far enough. You have to lift up, awkward, and he uses the moment to shove his own jeans open and free his cock. It’s thick, flushed dark, the head already leaking. He doesn’t give you time to look for long. He grips your hip, lines himself up, and pulls you down onto him in one continuous, unyielding thrust.

The stretch is sharp. You cry out. Billy’s head drops back against the seat for a second, a raw sound punched out of him, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps sinking you onto him until you’re seated fully, thighs trembling, full of him to the point of ache.

“Fuck- yeah. Take it.” His hands clamp on your hips hard enough to bruise. “That’s mine now.”

He starts moving you himself. Lifts you and drops you back down, using your body like he wants, setting a pace that’s deep and punishing from the start. Every downward slam forces a broken sound out of you. The car rocks. His hips snap up to meet yours, driving in harder, the wet slap of skin loud in the closed space.

“Look at you,” he grits out. “Sitting on my cock like you were made for it. Innocent little thing getting fucked in a parking lot. You love it. Don’t you.”

He doesn’t wait for the answer. One hand leaves your hip to wrap around your throat, not choking, just holding, thumb under your jaw so you’re forced to look at him while he uses you. His other hand finds your clit and rubs in rough, circular strokes that make your thighs shake.

“Gonna come on me. Right now. I can feel you getting tighter. Do it.”

The order, the pressure on your throat, the relentless way he’s slamming up into you, it crashes through you hard. You clench around him, pulsing, a broken cry tearing out of your throat as you come. Billy doesn’t slow. If anything he fucks you through it harder, chasing his own, the wet heat of you milking him until his rhythm stutters.

“Fuck- take it-”

He drives in deep and holds you there, cock throbbing as he comes inside you in thick pulses. You feel every spurt. He keeps you seated on him while he empties, breathing hard against your neck, one hand still loosely around your throat like he’s not quite ready to let go of the control.

When he finally moves it’s only to shift you slightly, still buried in you, so he can look at your face. His thumb strokes over the marks he left on your throat.

“Not done with you,” he says, voice low and rough. “Not even close. You’re staying in this car until I say otherwise. Understand?”

You nod, still shaking, still full of him.

Billy’s mouth curves into that sharp, satisfied smile.

“Good. Now lean forward. I want to feel how wet you are after I filled you up.”

He starts moving again, slower this time, but no less intentional, already hardening inside the mess he left. The night is long. The Camaro’s windows are fogged. And Billy Hargrove has no intention of being gentle with what’s his.

You lean forward like he told you to, bracing your hands on his shoulders. The shift pushes him even deeper. You can feel every thick inch of him still buried in you, the wet heat of his come already starting to leak out around where you’re stretched open. Billy’s hands settle on your ass, fingers digging in hard enough that you’ll carry the bruises tomorrow.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough against your ear. “Feel that? All messy for me already.”

He rolls his hips upward in a slow, deliberate grind. The wet sound is filthy. His cock is still half-hard, but it’s swelling again fast, thickening inside the slick mess he left. You make a small, helpless noise and he laughs under his breath, mean, pleased.

“Sensitive already? Good. I like you like this.”

One hand leaves your ass and slides between your bodies. He presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing in tight, rough circles while he keeps grinding up into you. You’re still oversensitive from the first orgasm; every stroke makes your thighs jump. Billy watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and hungry.

“You’re gonna take another one,” he says. Not a question. “Right here on my cock. Then I’m gonna flip you over and fuck you properly.”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. He starts moving you himself again, lifting your hips and dropping you back down in a steady, deep rhythm. Each time you sink onto him the wet slide is louder, his come and your arousal mixing until it’s dripping down onto his jeans. He doesn’t care. He just keeps using you, pace building until the Camaro is rocking again and your breath is coming in short, broken gasps.

“Look at you,” he grits out. “Sitting on my dick like a good little slut. Innocent thing. Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this before.”

His free hand comes up and closes around your throat again, firm, thumb pressing just under your jaw so you’re forced to keep your eyes on him. The pressure makes everything sharper. Your cunt clenches hard around him and Billy’s eyes flash.

“There it is. Squeeze me just like that.”

He fucks up into you harder, the wet slap of skin loud in the closed space. His fingers on your clit don’t stop. The dual assault is too much, stretch and pressure and the relentless grind against that swollen spot inside you. You’re shaking, trying to hold yourself up, but Billy just tightens his grip on your throat and keeps going.

“Come,” he orders. “Now. All over me.”

The command hits you like a physical thing. Your body locks up, thighs trembling violently as the second orgasm rips through you. You cry out, high, broken, and clamp down around his cock in rhythmic pulses. Billy groans, low and raw, and keeps thrusting through it, working every last spasm out of you until you’re whimpering and oversensitive.

Only then does he ease the pressure on your throat. He doesn’t pull out. He just sits there for a moment, breathing hard, still buried to the hilt while you twitch around him.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re a mess.”

He reaches down between you and drags two fingers through the wetness leaking out around his cock. Then he brings them up and pushes them past your lips again, making you taste the mix of both of you.

“Clean them.”

You do. He watches, eyes heavy-lidded, while you suck his fingers clean. When he’s satisfied he pulls them free with a wet pop and gives your ass a sharp slap.

“Turn around. Knees on the seat. Hands on the dash.”

Your legs are shaky, but you obey. It’s awkward in the tight space of the Camaro, you have to climb off him carefully, feel him slip free with a filthy wet sound, then turn and settle on your knees facing the windshield. Billy shifts behind you, jeans still open, cock slick and hard again. He doesn’t wait. He grips your hips, lines himself up, and drives back into you in one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out against the dash. He doesn’t pause.

He fucks you like this, deep, hard, relentless, hands locked on your hips so tight you’ll wear the marks for days. Every thrust forces another wet sound from between your legs. His come from earlier is still inside you; it makes everything louder, messier. Billy leans over your back, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair and pull your head back so you’re arched for him.

“That’s better,” he growls against your ear. “Can get deeper like this. Feel how full you are?”

He emphasizes the words with a particularly hard snap of his hips that knocks the breath out of you. His other hand reaches around and finds your clit again, rubbing roughly in time with his thrusts.

“Gonna fill you up again,” he promises, voice rough and close. “And you’re gonna take every drop. Then maybe, if you’re good, I’ll let you rest for five minutes before I put you on your back and do it properly.”

He doesn’t slow. The car rocks harder. Your hands slip on the dash. Billy just tightens his grip in your hair and keeps using you, chasing his own pleasure now with single-minded intensity. You’re already close again, overstimulated, stretched, dripping, and he can feel it.

“That’s it. Give it to me one more time. Come on my cock while I fill this pretty cunt.”

The third orgasm hits you harder than the others. You sob as it crashes through you, cunt fluttering and clenching around him. Billy curses, hips stuttering, and then he’s burying himself as deep as he can go and coming with a low, guttural groan. You feel every pulse of it, hot, thick, flooding you all over again until it’s leaking out around his cock and down your thighs.

He stays there for a long moment, breathing hard against the back of your neck, still buried inside you. One hand strokes down your side almost absently, possessive.

“Not done,” he says eventually, voice rough. “Not even close. You’re staying right here until I’m finished with you. Understand?”

You nod, shaky, still full of him.

Billy’s mouth curves against your skin in that sharp, satisfied smile.

“Good girl.”

He doesn’t pull out yet. He just starts moving again, slow, deep rolls of his hips, already testing how much more you can take. The night is far from over. And Billy Hargrove has every intention of making sure you feel him for days.