i will be back next friday hopefully… but i’ve just found out i might be losing my job yippee!! so fingers crossed it all works out if not i might be gone for a while
@hyperfixationstation111 thank for you this idea!! 🩷🩷🩷
type short/headcannon idk just thoughts
pairing ryland grace x reader
content drinking
A/N saw a tiktok that said when i’m drunk i fantasise about getting taken care of and ive never resonated with smth so much in my life. sorry this is so short i just wanted to get this out there and i haven’t posted in a while! im still really busy and this british weather is no joke so may be more shorter pieces like this for now!!! also not proof read sorry!
every friday you and ryland go to your local dive bar with a bunch of friends and have a bi-weekly catch up and this friday was no different. ryland had explicitly stated to you at home that tonight wouldn’t be a late one because he wanted to mark a few extra credit papers his students had handed in to him that night so his weekend could be entirely devoted to you. and so 9.30pm rolled around and he had said to the group, “right guys we better be going got some work to do before bed. see you next week!”
but your reaction didn’t seem as understanding as you were earlier, “but ryland please a little longer, me and joe were just talking about something!” you tried your hardest to convince him.
and the reason why for your sudden attitude switch was because of the 6 shots you and your best friend lily had done earlier and maybe a few more…
you didn’t mean to get hammered but everyone was in such a good mood with the weather finally improving that you couldn’t help but indulge a little.
“i’m sorry princess but like i said need to do that marking,” ryland said softer knowing that when you’re in this state if he’s even a little hard with his words you would flip.
you rolled your eyes dramatically which made ryland laugh, “ugh fine, you’re the worst” you grumbled with no real truth in your words
“yeah sure baby i’m the worst ever,” he grabbed your purse and your coat and helped you up, “now let’s get you to bed,” he slipped your coat on for you as you stumbled slightly rocking back and forth in your standing stance.
when in a sober state the walk typically takes the two of you ten minutes but with you not being able to walk straight and without the concern of you falling of the side walk it took more like thirty minutes tonight.
the two of you got home and you careless flicked your shoes off and stumbled into the bedroom and ryland presumed you would get yourself into bed. ryland sat at the dinner table and pulled out the papers necessary which would hopefully only take him an hour to grade and when he was done with the first he realised that sober you would appreciate not waking up with a raging hangover in the morning.
he knocked on your bedroom door lightly, “sweetie? are you awake?” but the only response he got was what sounded like a few things falling of your dresser.
as he entered he saw you hopping around on one leg and attempting to put on your pyjama shorts and he couldn’t help but let out a little laugh at your actions, “here baby let me help you,” he guided you to the bed where he finished off getting you into your comfy clothes and brushing you hair, knowing you hated going to bed with even the slightest knot, “what do you say about eating something before you go to sleep?” you nodded, you loved feeling like this. feeling cared for. being cared for. and with no one other than your man. “good girl, how about a drink too?”
your eyes widened at this, a child like smile taking over your face, “ooo like a gin or something?” you asked optimistically.
ryland laughed and shook his head, “love your enthusiasm baby but i was thinking something more like a water and some aspirin.”
“oh,” genuine disappointment washed over you but it was quickly evaporated when he grabbed your hand leading you into the kitchen and sitting you on the chair opposite to where he had set up station. You watched him in a drunken loved up state making you a sandwich and getting you a glass of water.
“Here sweetie have this,” he placed the cup and plate in front of you leaving you to eat it alone while he went and put a glass of water and a tablet for when you wake up on your bed side table.
“Rylandddd,” you drew out already missing his presence.
Him being as attentive than anyone came running back in, “whats the matter sweetheart? You okay? Want something else to eat?” He stared at your now empty plate.
“Noooo,” you slurred loudly, “just missed you is all,” you murmured quietly.
Ryland loved you like this, whenever you had drink it seemed to make you even more infatuated with him. He bowed his head down, hiding his smirk, “well im here now, anything thing else you need?” You shook your head, “well then baby lets get you to bed,” he began trying to pull you up but you used all you strength to keep yourself in spot. Another thing about you drinking, it seemed to make you incredibly stubborn, “nuh-uh baby up you get.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, wanna stay here with you,” you stood your ground firmly.
“No can do, gotta get your beauty sleep.”
“Pleaseeee Ry,” you gave him your best puppy eyes, turning on your charm again.
Ryland looked you deep into your eyes trying to see if you would break, but you just glared back. It was clear you were not budging.
“Fine,” he broke.
“Yay i love you so much ry,” you sprung up, wrapping your arms around his neck and planting kisses all over his face.
He indulged in your actions for a second before peeling you off and setting you back down onto the chair, “But after I finish we go straight to bed, no more funny business. Deal?”
“Deal,” you beamed just happy you could stay up and watch your lover and be in presence for another hour of your life.
okay so turns out i wasn’t even that drunk! i literally had a few drinks but this time my meds reacted badly with the drink and made me delusional and delirious but im okay now lolllll that was scary
i need to be locked in my house. i should be studying but the club keeps calling my name!! anyways going back there tonight let’s just pray i get good grades
My bedsheets are ablaze
I've screamed his name
Building up like waves
Crashing over my grave
You can't stop thinking about Steve Harrington when having sex with your boyfriend.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 7k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) porn with a plot, female masturbation, oral (fem receiving), p in v, protected penetrative sex, dirty talk, pet names, reader being a bit of a perv and listens to steve having sex, lots of fantasying about steve, best friend/roommate!steve, use of y/n, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader, emotional cheating (i guess??), inclusion of ronance because why not!! eddie is also alive and well and also bi!!
author's note: it is finally here!! i've been banging on about this fic a lot and i'm glad that part one is here. you guys have been just as excited about this fic as me so i’m so happy that i’m finally sharing it as i thought of this idea in january!! full transparency, this was meant to be just one part fic but then i realised that i wanted much more of a story and sooooo here we are!
to be added to my 18+ taglist | masterlist | requests page
“Oh—fuck—I’m so close, babe. Tell me you’re close, tell me you’re—”
You wished you could say you were. You wished your moans falling from your lips were genuine—that you were right there with your boyfriend but you’d be lying. You weren’t even close.
“Yeah, super close,” you tell him in a not so breathless voice.
James was too busy chasing his release to even notice.
You felt his cock twitch inside of you and you knew it was over before it had even begun for you.
Your boyfriend spills into the condom, with a loud grunt of your name—pressing his face right into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered against yours.
You keep your hands on his shoulders, trying to keep the disappointed look off your face as James pulls his softening cock out of you.
James was—well, he was objectively a perfect boyfriend. He was kind, attentive, always there when you needed him. He loved your family and in return, your family loved him. But in the bedroom? He left you pretty high and dry.
He never took his time—seemed to look at foreplay as an obligation rather than something to be enjoyed. He never spent more than a few minutes with his mouth between your legs. He never let you set the pace, never made sex about you. It was always about him. And after care? Well, that was a foreign concept to James. He tended to fall asleep less than five minutes after finishing.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care about your pleasure because he did—for all of ten seconds before his own needs started to outweigh yours. He’d press his fingers inside you and the moment it started to feel good for you—when you would let out a few soft moans or start to move your hips, he’d take it as a job well done. Or worse—instead he would start pumping his fingers too quickly, pistoning them in and out of you as fast as he could. As if it did anything for you.
You had tried to tell him this—gently, of course. Trying to let him know what felt good for you but he just wouldn’t retain the information. Or perhaps, when it came to your pleasure over his, he didn’t want to listen. You had tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the latter.
As James rolled over in bed—you felt that familiar sense of guilt build. The one that reminded you of the date he had taken you on tonight. How much money the fancy dinner had cost and how he had refused to let you pay for it. The guilt was a reminder how lucky you were to have a guy like James. In the past, guys weren't so great to you. In fact, you had dated some downright assholes. Guys who weren’t kind. Guys who didn’t respect you. Hell, some guys you were sure didn’t even really like you. And James was great. Really—he was. You were sure you loved him—sure that he was the kind of man you could marry. The kind of man who was a smart, sensible choice.
But as you looked over at the man you should love unconditionally—already falling asleep with the condom still on—you were beginning to question whether smart and sensible was the right choice.
A year ago, you had been in dire need of a roommate. Your previous roommate, Rachel, had moved out after landing her dream job in a different city. You had been happy for her but it had left you with a two bed apartment that you could not afford on your own.
James hadn’t wanted to move in at that point—you had only been together for a few months back then and neither of you were ready to take that big step yet. And so, you were without a roommate and a monthly rent that was haemorrhaging money from you.
That was until your co-worker Robin Buckley told you about Steve Harrington.
“Wait, Steve as in Steve?” You had asked her, a skeptical look on your face. “As in your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend—that Steve?”
Robin had rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the mug of coffee she had been in the middle of making. The sound of Every Breath You Take by The Police drifting into the radio station kitchen from the booth. You still had two minutes and a couple of ad breaks before you needed to be back inside for the remainder of the Rockin’ Robin breakfast show. You were tired from the early morning but mostly, you were stressed out about your current living situation and Robin could tell.
“Yes—that Steve,” she says, stirring in an unholy amount of sugar. “C’mon, it’s not weird. We’re like best friends. I can vouch for him. I’m like ninety eight percent sure he isn’t a murderer.”
You grimace a little, tired eyes flickering over to Robin. “Ninety eight percent isn’t enough for me.”
Robin huffs, turning to face you fully now with her hands on her hips. “C’mon (y/n)—you trust me right? You can trust him.”
You think about it, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet.
“But he’s a guy, Robs,” you say finally. “I don’t want to live with a guy.”
Robin lets out a snort of laughter despite herself.
“Point taken,” she says before looking at you again carefully. “Just—just think about it, yeah? His parents just kicked him out and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s been sleeping on my couch for the past week and I gotta say, I don’t think it’s good for mine and Nance’s sex life if her ex-boyfriend is snoring in the other room every night.”
You falter—make the mistake of looking at her face—at her big blue eyes that looked just the right amount of pleading to make you reconsider.
“I’ll think about it,” you told her.
Steve had moved in that Friday.
The first week had been a little awkward—tiptoeing around each other in the hallway and trying to keep out of each other’s space. But after Steve had returned from picking up the last few bits from his parents house—coming back empty handed with red rimmed eyes—you had wordlessly handed him a bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese and suggested watching a movie together.
After that, you stopped tiptoeing.
And living with him? It was pretty great. He was surprisingly neat and an excellent cook. He always took the initiative to go out and do the food shopping when you were running low on the necessities. He didn’t mind that you had way too many houseplants, that the refrigerator had too many magnets on it or that the couch was baby pink—Steve was just happy to be living with you.
Somewhere between making coffees for each other in the morning and watching old movies together on the couch—you had formed a friendship that was built out of a genuine connection to each other rather than out of convenience like it had with Rachel. You had even finally accepted Robin’s offer of going out with her friends now that you lived with Steve. You had met her girlfriend Nancy in the past but Jonathan Byers and Eddie Munson had been complete mysteries to you. They turned out to be just as Robin had described—Jonathan a little quiet but once you got to know him wouldn’t shut up about his short films when you asked how they were going. And Eddie was—well, Eddie was the kind of person who people noticed when he walked into a room.
In time, they had met James. You had a feeling that they didn’t think much of him. The way Eddie rolled his eyes when James started talking about sports. How Robin would yawn when he bought up his job as a stock broker. How Nancy would bristle when James tried to explain the stock market to her as though she was stupid. How Jonathan would go quiet around him. How Steve glared at James when he would talk over you and would interject to say “actually, (y/n) was talking”.
And so, you had never told your friends about your borderline terrible sex life. Never told them that James had only made you come once. Never told them you had to get yourself off in the bathroom after he had gone to sleep. And you probably never would tell them.
“You know what I love?” Eddie asks the group one Friday night at your and Steve’s local bar. It was grimy, located only a few yards from your apartment—hence why it was your local haunt—but it was yours. Warts and all.
“Weed?” suggests Jonathan.
Eddie clicks his fingers, smiling at Jonathan.
“You know me, Byers,” Eddie says but shakes his head. “But no—that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Something Eddie Munson loves,” Robin muses, tapping the table gently as she considers the question.
“D&D?” Steve puts forward.
“Nancy’s mom?” You say with a wry smile—Nancy shooting you a glare as Steve tries to hide his laughter.
“That deli shop by the record store that is totally going to get shut down for health violations?” Robin offers.
Eddie groans, looking pained as he looks over at Robin.
“Why do you have to remind me?”
“Eddie, that place has given you food poisoning like five times,” Nancy points out.
“And it was worth it. Every damn time.”
You laugh, smiling at Eddie’s dramatics. Sometimes you wondered why he had never considered theatre.
“So what is it you love Eddie?” Steve asks, leaning back in the booth beside you. His arm resting behind your head—comfortable, easy, just like it always was between you two.
“Oral sex,” Eddie says simply.
You choke on your drink while your friends laugh at Eddie’s admission.
“Giving or receiving?” Steve asks while you try to regain composure, face warm and looking anywhere but at your friends. Any talk about sex you tended to not engage in—not wanting to admit to your friends that you rarely enjoyed sex with your own boyfriend.
“Both,” Eddie says, smiling.
You tried your best to keep a neutral expression—to not involve yourself too much with the conversation. Trying not to recall the last time James had gone down on you—how it had lasted barely two minutes. How you had been thankful it was over. How you had ‘returned’ the favour with all the enthusiasm that James didn’t possess.
“What about you, (y/n)?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows wiggling as you look up at him.
“About me, what?” you ask, because you hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation for the past two minutes, too busy thinking of anything beside how terrible your boyfriend was at giving head.
Eddie laughs—loud and without much care who heard. “Oral—do you prefer giving or receiving?”
Your face warms—you’re sure that your friends can all tell how flustered you were by the question.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells you, glaring at Eddie as he pats your shoulder gently. “Eddie’s just being intrusive—”
“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans and nudges your knee under the table with his. “We never hear about your sex life, (y/n).”
“Not everyone is as open as you, Munson,” Nancy says.
Eddie huffs—grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I’m just curious to know which she prefers,” Eddie says innocently, hands up in surrender.
Your leg bounces beneath the table as you consider giving Eddie an answer or not. Generally, you didn’t discuss your sex life with James with anyone. You were too scared to give away your dissatisfaction with it. It made you feel shameful for even thinking of complaining. To actually voice those complaints? Well—that felt like opening Pandora’s Box. But there was a large part of you that couldn’t help but feel left out.
“Giving,” you say finally without looking up. It was the honest truth. You don’t tell them that the reason for this was because you hated when James tried going down on you. Hated to pretend he was good at it. Hated how much he clearly disliked doing it. “I-I prefer giving.”
You were not sure why you felt the need to answer anyway. Maybe it was how left out you felt during these conversations. How much you wished you were having as good sex as all your friends were. Maybe because you just wanted to be included for once. You feel your face warm but you try not to shy away as you look up at your friends—all looking at you in slight disbelief.
“What?” You ask, eyes flickering between each of your friends before landing finally on Steve.
“Nothing,” Steve says, blinking in apparent shock at your admission. “It’s just—”
“I’ve never known a girl who would choose giving head over receiving it,” Eddie interjects before glancing at Robin and Nancy. “Not a straight one anyway.”
Your face warms, taking a long swig of your drink and wishing you could blend into the furniture.
“I just—prefer doing it, I guess,” you say quietly with a small shrug.
“Well,” Eddie begins with a small smile and a wink sent your way. “Either you’re incredibly giving or James isn’t doing a good enough job.”
Everyone laughs and you know you should stand up for James—for your boyfriend, the man you supposedly loved—but instead, you go quiet. Your face somehow feeling even hotter than before. You seem to shrink back further in the booth. No one seems to notice how you don’t defend your boyfriend—Eddie was too busy already recounting the tales from his latest hookup with a bartender. But Steve’s eyes linger on you for a moment. Noticing the way your jaw tenses, your fingers flexing as though wishing to grip onto the table.
He doesn’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.
At one in the morning, you walk back with Steve to the apartment as you always did. Both a little bit tipsy and laughing at things that weren’t that funny—the fact Steve had been wearing his shirt inside out the entire evening, how you had tripped over the curb outside the bar.
“Careful,” Steve warns you, laughing as his hands gently steer you away from the curb for a third time. “What would you do without me, huh?”
“Be miserable,” you reply with a tipsy giggle. Steve smiles, hooking an arm around your shoulders as you approach your apartment building. Being the slightly more sober one—Steve is the one to fish out the key from his pocket and open the door. He’s the one to drag you away from the front desk before you could get too distracted by the notice board (“but Steve apartment 9A is selling their microwave!”). He’s the one to manoeuvre you into the elevator and to stop you from pressing all the buttons.
“Okay—next week, I’m the one who is getting drunk and you can take care of me,” Steve huffs as he guides you down the hallway towards your apartment. One arm around your shoulders so you don’t try to escape.
“M’kay,” you murmur as you watch Steve unlock the door.
Once you’re in the safety of your apartment, Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He watches as you wonder over to that damn pink couch—flop down onto it and kick off your shoes.
“I’m going to get you some water,” Steve announces, taking off his own shoes and leaving them carefully by the front door before heading into the kitchen.
You simply hum in acknowledgement, head titled back and staring up at the ceiling.
Steve returns with two glasses of water a few moments later. He sets them down on the coffee table before leaning down to pick up your discarded shoes. You bite back a smile as you watch him place them neatly down beside his own shoes near the front door.
“I was going to put them back eventually,” you tell him as he sits down on the couch beside you, the couch dipping a little under his weight.
Steve shrugs, as though it wasn’t a big deal before he picks up your glass of water and hands it to you.
“Drink,” he tells you gently. You send a small, grateful smile before you take the glass from him and take a generous gulp of water. Steve watches, amused before he sips from his own glass.
It’s quiet then between the pair of you—you tilting your head back up to glance at the ceiling while Steve thoughtfully taps his fingers against the glass in his hands.
“Hey, (y/n)?”
“Yeah?” You ask, turning your head to look at Steve.
He looks back at you, a slightly apprehensive look on his face—one that indicated that he was carefully considering his next words.
“I just—I noticed that you—that you didn’t say anything back to Eddie earlier.”
Even though you were still a little tipsy, still feeling the alcohol hum through your veins—Steve’s words cut through you. Instantly, you knew what he was referring to. That little comment Eddie had made about why you had said you preferred giving oral over opposed to receiving it. You swallow—you knew you had to play dumb. The truth was too embarrassing. It made that guilt take residence in your chest again.
“When?” You ask finally. “Eddie talks so much shit that it all kind of…blurs into one.”
Steve chuckles, leaning back against the sofa—his elbow knocking against yours. “Yeah, no—you got that right,” he says with a quick nod and another glance at you. “I just—it was that dig at James he made. You didn’t—you didn’t say anything. You didn’t—I dunno, stick up for him, I guess.”
You don’t say anything, you just stare wordlessly down at your lap as you try not to react.
When you say nothing, Steve hesitates for a split second before he presses on, “I just—I wanted to check if—you know, if everything was okay between the two of you?”
“Yeah,” you say, a beat too quickly as you look down at the glass of water in your hands. “We’re good. Why wouldn’t we be?”
Steve doesn’t look convinced. He looks back at you with an expression that plainly told you that he did not believe a damn word you were saying.
“Because you just let Eddie say…what he said,” Steve says. “That James isn’t good in bed.”
Again—you say nothing. Not for any other reason than because you suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be honest. To tell Steve everything. How James couldn’t make you come. How he no longer seemed to care if you finished. How his pleasure was always placed above yours.
Steve seems to understand something in your silence—his eyes on you, watching you with careful consideration, as though he was choosing his next words carefully.
“You know you deserve better, right?”
The words pull at something deep in your chest. The alcohol makes it difficult to control the cocktail of guilt, shame and embarrassment swirling in your gut.
“I don’t,” you murmur finally—the words that deep down, you didn’t really believe. Because you didn’t truly feel as though you deserved James. He was good—not like the assholes you had dated in the past and you felt immensely guilty that you were doubting him all because he couldn’t make you come.
Steve looks at you in utter disbelief, opening his mouth as if he was ready to argue but you silence him by unsteadily getting to your feet.
“M’going bed,” you tell him, clumsily making your way into the kitchen with your glass of half-drunk water. Steve follows—just to make sure that you didn’t break anything (whether that be the glass in your hand or even an arm or a leg).
He watches you tip the last of the water into the sink and he continues to watch as you leave the empty glass on the drying rack.
“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” Steve suddenly says, making you turn to look at him—eyes unfocused due to the alcohol and your world just a little bit wobbly. “Like seriously. Even if it’s about—you know.”
Your face warms, you avert your eyes.
“Just drop it, yeah?” You murmur back, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine—I’m fine, Steve.”
Despite how tipsy you were—the words were final and Steve understood that. He looked at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay,” he says simply before he forces a smile. “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll make sure to have a hangover breakfast ready for you.”
You manage a smile—a genuine smile—because Steve always did thoughtful things like this. Even if you were drawing a clear line in the sand on the conversation.
“Thank you,” you say, finally looking at Steve’s face and seeing the concern in his eyes which did not help the guilt you felt deep in your gut. Because now you felt awful for not being honest with Steve. And so—before you head to your room, you give Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
You slip away before you see how Steve’s face flushes.
The thing about living with Steve Harrington meant that you heard him have sex. Like, a lot.
The moment you heard loud moans coming from his bedroom, you would grab your walk-man, some headphones and drown out whatever unholy sounds were coming from the other side of the wall.
Tonight was no different. It was a week after that evening at the bar and after a long day at work, you were in your room when the moaning started. You knew he had been out on a date and you also knew—judging by the giggling that you had heard when Steve had returned ten minutes ago—that him and his date had retreated to his room. And so, what you heard next was inevitable. Your hands reached for your walk-man and—
“That’s it, pretty girl,” you hear Steve say in a low voice. “Soak my fingers—just like that. Do you hear how fucking wet you are for me?”
The words shock you. Hearing Steve say such filthy words makes your breath hitch and then—
To your absolute horror—the words go straight to your core.
Your thighs squeeze together without permission.
Holy fuck.
This is wrong. This was so fucking wrong—
“That’s it. God—keep squeezing my fingers just like that, baby. You’re going to feel incredible around my cock.”
You bite the inside of your mouth. Your fingers closing around the walkman, eyes on the headphones and—
“You want my mouth?”
“Yes, Steve—please—oh, oh god—oh—”
The moans coming from behind the wall had become obscene. High pitched, mixed with Steve’s own muffled groans.
You closed your eyes, imagining Steve’s thick head of hair between your thighs as he sucked on your clit, your slick dripping down his chin—
Oh god, no. You couldn’t fantasise about that, about him—it was wrong, it was—
“You taste so fucking good.”
Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt warmth spread through you at those words. Hot—like lava seeping through your veins.
You felt an ache between your legs you hadn’t felt in a long time. As you squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the feeling, you let out a small gasp when you realised you were wet. Like really fucking wet.
Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own—dancing down your thighs until you feel your own slick coating your inner thigh from where it had trickled down from your cunt.
The urge to move your fingers higher was overwhelming. To plunge your fingers into your aching cunt and get off like you desperately needed to. The moans coming from the woman who was being eaten out by Steve Harrington was all you could hear.
And that mental image of Steve—your roommate, your friend, the guy who was most certainly not your boyfriend—lapping at your soaked cunt was too much.
Your fingertips danced over the delicate lace of your panties before you knew what you were doing. That tiny bit of pressure was enough to make your hips buck up instinctively, stopping the whimper that threatened to fall out. You repeated the action, moving your finger around the damp spot in your panties and focusing only on Steve’s muffled groans. You have to bite down on your free hand to stop yourself from moaning as your fingers begin to circle your sensitive bud over the lace.
The nameless woman’s moans were only getting louder and louder.
And that’s when you gave in.
Your fingers slipped beneath the lace material of your panties. The first contact with your bare, wet pussy sent shock waves of pleasure through your body. You try not to think about how James never made you this wet as you slide your index and middle finger through your wetness.
You try to imagine James—your sweet, caring boyfriend between your legs. How his big blue-green eyes would look up at you sweetly. You wished it was enough to get you off. You wished he was good. As good as—
“Steve! Oh—fuck—don’t stop!”
And that was it—all thoughts of your boyfriend gone. The image of James replaced by Steve. And the thought of Steve using his mouth on you was enough to make your head fall back in ecstasy as your fingers worked faster—using your wet slick to coat your clit. The sensation sent a surge of white hot pleasure through you. You bit back a moan—your first orgasm in weeks right there. You were so close, you just need a little more—
“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve’s voice rumbles through the wall. “Come for me.”
That voice—that fucking voice—is what pushes you over the edge. The wave of pleasure was so intense, so sudden that you almost failed to muffle your moan with your hand. You feel it in every nerve in your body. Your legs shake and you feel your release dripping onto the sheets beneath you.
You lay there, chest heaving, the bliss you felt moments before slowly slipping away as the sounds of Steve and the nameless women were drowned out by the shame that had started to creep through your body. You felt it in your very bones—you had just gotten off (for the first time in a long, long time) by thinking of someone other than your boyfriend. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Steve. Your roommate. Your friend. Sweet, kind and caring Steve.
You shouldn’t have done it—you know you shouldn’t have. And yet—you already want to do it again. Especially when you could hear the sound of skin slapping against each other in the next room. It made that feeling in your gut return. Hot, aching where your fingers had just been.
No. You couldn’t. It was wrong. So very wrong.
One time. You told yourself. Just one time.
The next time James went down on you, you were determined to come.
You had decided that the morning after you had been listening to Steve and that woman.
James’ roommates were out and that meant you weren’t confined to his room as you usually were.
He had laid you down on the couch—his shirt half off and belt unbuckled. You could tell he just wanted to fuck you. But you just wanted to see if he could—
“Eat me out,” you murmur against the skin of his neck. “James—please.”
James wasn’t one for talking dirty. Not because he disliked it but because it seemed to affect him too much. At your words he groaned and his hand that had been massaging one of your breasts stilled. You could feel his hardened cock through his jeans pressed against your thigh—swear you felt it twitch at your words alone. Admittedly, it turned you on. That was a start.
“Okay,” James says, leaning back to look at your face. “Okay—I can do that.”
You try not to think that he sounds like he’s talking business. As though going down on you was a meeting—an afternoon meeting? ‘Sure, I can do that’. Need that report by Monday? ‘Sure, I can do that’.
James didn’t take his time—you knew he was aching painfully from how hard he was—and so he just pushed up the skirt of your dress, hastily tugged down your panties before his mouth met your barely soaked folds. You felt his tongue slide between them and you let out a breathy moan. It was nice—not unpleasant just…nice.
His mouth is working overtime, altering between kitten licks and slow, languid licks at your entrance. Again, it’s nice but you get this feeling that he isn’t as into it as you want him to be. It takes you out of the experience entirely. You know he’s just doing it because you asked—that he’d rather be fucking with you with his cock rather than his tongue. He’s not moaning and groaning between your legs like Steve had been with that woman. The memory of your roommates’ groans was still hot in your mind and you were trying not to think about it, trying not to—
But when you look down, you find yourself imagining that James’ shaggy blonde hair was a mop of thick brown locks.
No, no, no—you shouldn’t be thinking about Steve right now. You should be focusing on your lovely, caring boyfriend who has his head between your legs. Not Steve—not Steve.
But your mind went there anyway. Thinking of Steve’s moans, those filthy words you had heard him whisper. The way the woman he was with had reacted—
And suddenly, your hips were moving. Chasing friction, needing more. Bucking up to meet James’ mouth. Your fingers sunk into James’ hair and he groaned against you—sending a vibration through you that made you feel a spark of something. It was all the encouragement you needed, you moved his head slightly so that his nose would brush against your clit and the effect was instant.
You moaned out, unabashed and barely recognisable from your lips. Not exaggerated for once.
Again, you moved his head so his nose nuzzled your clit as his tongue continued to work in and out of you at a torturous pace. It worked—oh, god it was starting to work. Your head tilted back and moans fell from your lips without your say so. Hips following the movement of his tongue. Heat building in your gut, James’ own groans vibrating in a way that only added to the white hot pleasure that was building, building and—
James lets out a strangled moan against you that could only mean one thing. You blink as he pulls his mouth away from you. A hot look of embarrassment on his face as he glances down at his lap—a damp spot beginning to spread on his jeans.
“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly, breathless as you try to take his hand. “James, it’s—”
But he’s already pulling away from you entirely, face warm and determinedly not looking at you.
You don’t try to stop him as he gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom.
You should go after him. Reassure him it was okay. But part of you—the part that had been so desperate to finish—was tired of pretending it was okay.
And so, for the second time in a week, your fingers slip down between your folds—soaked from a mix of your wetness and your boyfriend’s saliva and think of Steve Harrington. You came right there on James’ sofa in less than three minutes.
Never again, you told yourself. Never again.
But it happens. More than you care to admit.
The next time it happened, it had been while James was inside you.
Your legs were thrown over his shoulders as his cock thrust in and out of you in a polite manner. He was holding back on his groans—his roommates were in the living room watching some ice hockey game. You wished that he didn’t give a fuck when his roommates were home. Wished he was proud to fuck you.
You tried not to notice how quiet it was in the room. The only sound being the squelching between your bodies—not due to your wetness but due to the lube you had needed to use. The sounds of his roommates jeering at the TV in the living room was distracting. And the fact James was making next to no noise while fucking you left you feeling a type of way. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong—the angle should be enough to make you feel good. But it was everything else.
And it was enough for your mind to wander into dangerous territory. Back to the guy you lived with who you shouldn’t be thinking about—shouldn’t be—
But of course, you do. You think of Steve as your boyfriend fucks you. It shouldn’t turn you on but it does. Shouldn’t make your walls clench around James’ cock. Shouldn’t make you moan out and claw at your boyfriend’s back.
“Oh fuck,” James groans out quietly, still mindful of his roommates as you lost your ability to keep quiet. “Sweetheart, you need to be quiet—”
But you don’t hear him over the moans you were now letting out. Too in your own head as you imagined Steve slamming his cock in and out of you—imagining him calling you pretty girl and telling you how fucking good you felt.
You should stop, you knew it was wrong. But as you felt that white hot pleasure build and build in a way it had never with James, you didn’t have it in you to stop.
And when it was over and James was looking at you in awe, you felt good. Confident. Sexy. Things you hadn’t felt before. James had even managed to fuck you a second time that night.
You’re aware you shouldn’t be thinking of someone else when you’re being intimate with your boyfriend. But it was the only way you could finish with James. It made you feel guilty after—immensely so. But it was the only thing that worked.
You were also painfully aware that you were fantasying about your roommate—of all people. But things between you and Steve remained normal. He still made you coffee every morning, still sat beside you on the couch while eating dinner and brushing his teeth by your side, completely unaware that you were fantasying about him during sex in order to get off.
You didn’t even feel awkward about it—not really. Not when your sex life was finally good. Not when you finally had your own fun sex stories to tell your friends.
And so, you didn’t stop. Weeks passed and you kept thinking about Steve as your boyfriend fucked you. Kept choosing not to put the headphones on when Steve had a girl over—your fingers pumping in and out of you as you listened to his moans and occasional whimpers. Your juices soaking your sheets and your body practically thrumming with pleasure. And then—the next morning you would accept a hot mug of coffee from your roommate.
And he had no idea what you had been doing the night before.
Steve was out—you think he was at baseball practice—and you had decided to make the most of it.
You invited James over and it didn’t take long before clothes were shed. You were on top for once, moving yourself up and down on his cock at a rhythm that had your head thrown back and listening to James’ muffled groans—his lips busy with your breasts that he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from as they bounced in his face.
Your hands were in his hair, his cock was inside you and yet—your mind was on Steve. Again. You found yourself wondering how big Steve was. You remember Nancy once being so drunk that she had told you just how big Steve was. “Monster cock,” Nancy had giggled to you as she poured herself another shot. Had told you how during her first time with him she had briefly wondered if he was going to split her in half with his cock.
The knowledge was coming back to you now—imagining Steve’s cock filling you so well that you would feel it in your stomach. Even imagined the stomach bulge it was cause—the outline of his cock nearly visible as he fucked up into you.
The mental image had your walls squeezing James’ not-so monster cock—a shameless, wanton moan falling from your lips as you grew closer and closer—
“I’m gonna come,” you gasp out, fingers gripping onto James’ shoulder as you try to keep yourself tethered to the image of Steve—of his cock splitting you open as he whispers the dirtiest words imaginable into your ear. “Steve, I’m gonna come.”
Your orgasm hits you hard. It hits you so hard in fact that you don’t feel how James’ thrusts cease entirely. How his hands fall from your hips. You don’t notice as your head falls into the crook of his neck, your body thrumming, legs shaking.
But you certainly notice how quick he was to pull out. How he didn’t finish.
You blink—heart still hammering, still a little blissed out from your orgasm—as you let him lift you off him a little more hastily than you were used to. You watch James, confused, as he hastily grabs his boxers and begins to tug them up his legs.
“Do you want me to—”
“No,” He snapped suddenly. “No, (y/n). I don’t want you to do anything.”
Bewildered, you began to grab your own items of clothing from the floor and started to dress. James had never snapped at you before and you were utterly confused at the sudden change of tone.
“What—what did I do? Is something wrong—”
“Gee, I don’t know, (y/n),” James resorts, a derisive laugh falling from his lips as he pulls up his jeans. “Does moaning out your male roommate's name while I’m inside of you count as something wrong?”
“I don’t—”
“Cut the bullshit ignorant act,” James interjects harshly as he looks at your face. “You just moaned out Steve’s name. Not my name. Steve’s.”
For a moment, there’s utter confusion. You don’t remember what you had said while you were mid orgasm. You want to deny it, laugh even but you can’t. You knew exactly what you had been thinking about, about Steve and you knew it was entirely possible you had accidentally moaned out Steve’s name in your moment of ecstasy.
“James, I’m sorry. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. It was—”
“Bullshit!” James cuts across you, his voice slightly raised. His face was flushed in anger—you could see that he was still hard through his jeans. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him and you couldn’t really blame him. You feel awful—truly awful, feeling as though you wanted to be sick. “You don’t just accidentally say someone else’s name during sex. Especially Steve’s.”
You swallow, your face hot with embarrassment, shame and a growing sense of panic that you couldn’t control. You try to conceal it by pulling on your t-shirt over your head before you look at James again.
“James, I—”
“Save it,” James mutters, pulling on his shirt and not even bothering to button it up before grabbing his jacket and shoes by the front door. “I’m not going to embarrass myself a moment longer. We’re done.”
“James—”
But your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend now, rather—was already slamming the door to your apartment behind him.
What shocked you most was that you didn’t cry. You had the overwhelming urge to but not because James had left, not because he had just dumped you but because felt so embarrassed by the situation—by the fact you had moaned out Steve’s name instead of James’. Too deep in fantasies about your roommate. And so—when you began to cry you told yourself it was because you were sad. That it was because you had just been dumped by your boyfriend of nearly two years and you were heartbroken. But you were far from it—in fact, there was a part of you that felt relieved.
The tears of embarrassment—now mixed with a sick feeling of shame—had only just started falling when the apartment door opened again. You turned around, a small part of you hoping it was James who was returning to tell you it was all some stupid joke—but of course, it wasn’t.
Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of you crying on the couch—only in a t-shirt and panties, your jeans slung over a nearby chair, your bra hanging over a lamp. But your state of undress doesn’t even seem to cross Steve’s mind as he rushes over to you—the bag he took with him to baseball practice falling to the floor beside him in his haste to reach you.
“Hey, hey—I saw James storming out—he looked—oh honey, what happened?”
The shock of Steve walking in at precisely this moment had left you lost for words. Tears flowed down your cheeks, your face still felt hot from embarrassment but you couldn’t speak. And Steve, seemingly taking your lack of being able to talk as heartbreak, gathers you into his arm and shushes you gently while you cry into his chest.
“It’s okay,” he tells you, his hand cupping the back of your head in an effort to soothe you. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
And because you felt too much shame and guilt to be honest with Steve, you simply nodded. Clinging to Steve as though your heart was shattered into a million pieces—as though James leaving have devastated you. When in actuality, you were making a silent promise to yourself. A promise to never—never ever tell a soul about what had just transpired between you and James. To never reveal the name you had subconsciously moaned out during your moment of bliss.
"nuh uh, cut that out." You whined. Your hand still holding his cigarette box, one stick half way out as you aim your pout at him. "Come on, March—", you dragged his name. "It's just one", you almost took it out.
Almost.
His hand wrapped around your chin. Oh, your jaw fit so snuggly in his hand. His fingers softly rough against your skin. It felt so nice. He held it with comfortable pressure as he guided your face to look at him. "What'd I say, baby?"
Your head cleared from the sensation of his hand before the pout deepened on your lips. Brows furrowing before you practically threw the packet on the bed. It landed with a soft sound, one or two sticks spilling out.
You dragged yourself away from his touch. Getting off the bed as you stomped your way out of the room. Normally, when you got pissed or acted bratty with Holland, you'd just go to Holly's room and hang out with her.
But, today wasn't one of those days because she had her sleepover at Jessicas.
You stood by the window before you heard a small huff. "Come on sugar—", footsteps. He was coming closer. A hand placed on your shoulder as he turned you. You kept your frowned gaze on the floor. Both of his hands pressed your shoulders before sliding down to your waist.
Pulling you closer, you felt the warmth of his body pressing into yours now. It made your stomach feel light, it always did. His brought his hand up as he guided your face to look up at him, you did. Because, you always did what he wanted you to.
"I just don't want your lips to get stained, pretty", his thumb ran over your bottom one. Pulling it down slightly to expose your bottom gums.
"or your voice to get less sweet than it is", his hand moved with his words. Sliding down your neck, his thumb pressing slightly into your windpipe to make you feel the pressure.
"or your lungs to get tainted", he hummed. Stepping closer as he nosed at the side of your head. Breathing in as he pressed a kiss on your hairline, "I wish I could smell you. Bet you'd smell as good as you taste, isn't that right baby?", you could hear the smile in his voice. You felt your face heat up. Pervert.
Maybe the real pervert was you.
Your body moved in sync with his thrusts. Clothes scattered around. The smoke curling around you as you moaned. Moaned like a bitch in heat with a muzzle. Because you did have a muzzle. The muzzle was his thumb.
In your mouth, sitting idle. Your teeth grazed the bottom of it with every movement. Tongue slack against it. Sucking everytime you had to swallow. Pushing your tongue against it when you whined.
"yeah?", his voice echoed in your mind like it was an empty room. "Just needed my thumb, hm?", his unoccupied hand ran up and down your leg that he perched on top of his shoulder, ankle next to his ear. You could feet the wet butt of his lit cigarette against your sweaty sensitive skin as well.
"pretty baby needed her suckle while getting filled", he rocked with his words. Each word punched in with another rut. Making you float. Your back arched, a whine left your lips. Spit pooled in your mouth, making you splutter slightly.
Hips moved against his. "What? Can't even swallow now? Need me to make you swallow, baby? Yeah?", you could hear the mock.
And, Lord you loved it.
You could feel yourself inching closer and closer. You were right there. The itch started to feel good. And you wanted to keep scratching. Scratch until it keeps pooling and pooling. You don't want it to end. Holland noticed it.
"come on baby, you can do it", he drawled. His hand holding the cig moved to rub at your clit. Fast flicks. You could feel the faint heat of the cigarettes burnt end. The embers lighting orange before falling on your sweaty stomach. The grey transitioning into black when it mixed with your sweat.
"cum baby, come on. Don't hold it.", that was it. That did it. Your hands closed around the wrist of his hand. Mouth fully wrapping around his thumb as yours eyes closed from the pleasure. Hips moving, legs clenching close as you ride it out.
Feeling yourself spasm a few times before you released his thumb, breathing in properly. He took the cig in his mouth, taking a puff before moving on top of you.
He smiled at you, you looked at him through hooded eyes, lips parting to say something but he didn't give you a chance.
A puff of smoke swirled in your face. Making you close your eyes, take a surprised gasp. Mistake. You inhale it and you coughed. It burned. Small but really bad. Your eyes watered from the sudden smoke and you coughed.
You blinked up at him, your eyes teary. His teeth flashed before he laughed. "What, sugar? You said you wanted try." Smug asshole.
a/n: I'd act like the biggest baby and brat around him.. sorry...
bit of a rant/vent about why i’ve been and will absent for the next few days while i sort myself out…
anyone else going through the biggest identity crisis or just me?? reminiscing on my time going to a high standard school where if you got even a B you were considered so stupid, and i think on reflection, it’s really altered the way i perceive myself. i’ve only just realised that im actually smart, and regretting not going to uni straight away. i literally had 2 offers (one unconditional) to go to two highly prestigious film schools for screen writing, and i turned them down!???? what was 17 year old me thinking!!!?? feeling lots of regret and wish i took the opportunity, i do have an offer still on hold for me (litch been years) to study criminology and thinking of taking it next year? idk man wish i came to this conclusion earlier.
well if anyone wants some advice about going into film unis let me know i know a lot about it and always happy to give advice (advice i wish someone told me lol)
something something Ryland Grace holding you in place on his desk with his stupidly strong arms as he eats you out. It’s in the Bible trust me
The dry erase marker squeaked, loud and crudely. Your hand was flying across the white board, but it lacked conviction, your usual confidence in writing out equations. Just as Ryland walked back in through the door with coffee for the both of you, you stopped abruptly, hand and marker hovering. With a genuine growl and another obnoxious squeak of the marker, you swipe through your work, erasing bits, scratching through others.
“Hey, hey,” Dr. Grace exclaims softly, occupied hands raised. He sets the coffees down, wearing a worried expression. Your free times had aligned and he was gracious enough to let you use his classroom to work on your thesis, and help as much as he could.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you sigh, bringing your palms to your eyes and pressing in. It’d been a long week. Late nights, too many exams, and something extra. Something that lingered.
“What’s wrong? If this is about your thesis, you’re doing perfectly fi—.”
“It’s not. It’s not the work.”
You’d cut him off. You didn’t mean to sound so snappy, so irritable. It wasn’t your work that was the problem. You knew. God, you knew what was, and you sure as hell couldn’t tell your professor.
“Well, then what is it?”
You turn to finally look at Ryland Grace, his hip pressed into the corner of his desk, arms folded. He’d ditched the blazer and rolled up his sleeves a while ago. The tie he wore was still there though, if not a little loosened.
He was stubborn. As sweet as Dr. Grace was, he didn’t have the reputation that he did for nothing. He looked insistent, eyes locked on yours over his glasses. He looked good. The light in the classroom was low, bathed in a soft burnt orange from the setting sun outside. The glow of the projector casted light and shadows over the room as well.
You laugh gently, leaning down to pick up the marker, to find something to do with your hands. Shaking your head you tell him the only thing you can, “It’s nothing. Just something I’ve been…having trouble with.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing. I mean, I’ve been watching you all week. You’re here but you’re not. You’ve been quiet during lectures, unfocused.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
You try to apologize, try to explain and brush it all away. Ryland Grace doesn’t stop though. He keeps talking, and he starts walking closer, stepping right into the glow of the projector with you, your back to the board.
“You’ve been frustrated. You’ve missed questions that are like child’s play for you. You’re taking it out on my whiteboard,” he rambles, huffing a little laugh.
You know he means well, know he’s not trying to be an asshole, but it pushes you, that hair trigger you’ve been so quick to pull all week. It doesn’t help that he’s so close now. The way he looks, the way he smells, that pushes you too.
“I can’t come.”
Your words are blunt, and heavy. They’re immediately followed by the sound of Ryland choking. His eyes widen, in part confusion, part shock. When he realizes he didn’t mishear you, his cheeks turn pink and you fully expect that to be the end of it. You’d laugh if you weren’t so pent up, maybe even find his flustered state cute if it didn’t add to the pressure wedged between your hip bones.
“What? What do you…mean?”
You don’t expect it. The follow up question, the way his voice drops a little, to a soft whisper between you both. You don’t think it’s meant to be sexy, but rather…inquisitive? He’s not being suave. He’s not making a move. He’s gentle, albeit a little awkward.
The frustration kicks off again. It’s like when you said it, it took the lid off, and now you can’t put it back on. You grumble, voice raising slightly, falling into a ramble, “What I said. I can’t fucking come! All week, no matter what I do, what I’ve tried, I can’t get there and it’s driving me absolutely insane!”
“Hey, hey,” Ryland says again, even softer this time, sweeter. He rushes closer to you, his body dipping down to your height, trying to catch your gaze, but you’re frantic at this point. He unlatched the gate and now you’re twisting and turning on your feet, your fingers tangled in your hair. Ryland’s hands land on your shoulders, planting you still in one place. You keep talking though, hot tears starting to sting your waterline.
“I mean, I just can’t relax and my brain, my brain won’t shut up, and I get all tense and shaky and my chest starts hurting, and then I get anxious…I feel like I’m broken.”
Something in Ryland’s chest squeezes when you say that last part, when your glassy eyes finally find his. The words are out and you seem to deflate now that they’re gone. You lean back against the whiteboard, his hands still firm on the upper, outer part of your shoulders.
Grace softens his voice, tries to find the perfect tone so that you’ll hear him. His thumbs move gently, back and forth, soothing when he speaks.
“You are not broken. A lot of people…struggle with that. You’re young. You’re figuring out what you like, what you don’t. God, even outside the classroom, you’re so hard on yourself. Stop doing that.”
You just stare up at him, feeling defeated, exhausted, and the next thing you do is definitely blame worthy. You blame on it your lack of sleep, lack of sanity, and orgasms. You’ll blame it on a million other things too once you got home tonight.
None of that stops you from leaning in though, from pushing off the whiteboard, the tiptoes of your shoes scuffing against the floor. Your lips press against his. Warm, gentle, closed mouthed. Ryland doesn’t move. From nerves, shock, or if he’s just trying not to hurt your feelings. You’re unsure.
It’s not until you move again, relaxing your jaw and leaning in harder, your lips actually parting his, that he pulls away.
“Help me,” you whisper, cutting him off before he can say anything. His grip tightens on your shoulders, fingers flexing. You reach out and grab his tie, gently. Your voice wavers again, “I can’t fix it on my own, Dr. Grace. Please. Help me.”
You’re kissing him again. Small kisses, pressed to his lips, the corner of his mouth, his nose. They’re peppered between your broken words, your pretty pleases and his name. His fucking name. You pull on his tie, needy, pathetic. He can’t stop himself.
Your back collides with the whiteboard, his larger fingers coming up to frame your jaw. You have no choice but to open up for him, his thumb pressing in at the hinge, spit pooling across your tongue. The kiss is consuming. Not in a dominant way, or an aggressive way, but like he’s trying to breathe you in.
It’s slow, and deep. The sweep of his tongue against yours pulls a whine from your chest. He groans in response, almost standing to his full height, his grip still on your face, making you scramble farther up onto your toes. You bow off the whiteboard, and then slam back into it with a thud when he pushes you back again.
It trips something inside you, the way he handles you. That hunger, that need you’ve felt all week. You feel desperate, reaching out to grasp at his other arm. You pull at him, tugging, your fingers clasped tight around his wrist, shoving it down towards the hem of your jeans.
He rips his mouth from yours, and halts your rushed movements. His hands slip into your hair, pushing back the flyaways, and he shakes his head, forehead pressed to yours.
“Slow,” he whispers, “we go slow.”
You know he’s right. It’s been part of your issue. The longer your problem kept persisting, the more your impatience built. Your movements every night turned too fast, too much, chasing instead of feeling.
Dr. Grace doesn’t give you a chance to agree. You’re pulled into another kiss, and pulled, and pulled, across the tiles of the floor. Eventually you feel the edge of his desk, bumping into it. He lifts you, stepping between your knees.
His voice is low and broken, “Tell me. Tell me what you’ve tried. Hmm? How’d you try to make yourself come?”
You physically shiver at the question, your mind spinning at the reality of having this conversation with your professor. Ryland. Dr. Grace, who’s standing between your legs, whose desk you’re currently sitting on. You take a deep breath, “Um, my fingers, and then…toys. They didn’t…work either.”
“Fuck,” he breathes. “What kinda toys?”
You whimper, your cheeks burning. “A vibrator, and a…a dildo.”
Embarrassment floods you, every limb. Your skin feels too hot. You let out a groan. You swear you can feel him physically shake where he leans into you, and you wonder if he’s picturing it, you using it on yourself.
His mouth is on yours again, slow and prying, licking deeply inside. He pulls away, his voice sounding like gravel, his chest heaving. “And what do you want from me?”
“I want you to make me come,” you whine.
He squeezes your cheeks between his fingers. “No. What do you want? How?”
You freeze, swallowing hard. You hadn’t thought that far ahead, your brain too foggy, mind racing too fast. This was your problem. You felt stuck. Overwhelmed.
You feel the tap of his thumb against your jaw, your eyes refocusing. He was looking at you, hard and gentle all at once. “Don’t do that. Wherever you just went…don’t. Focus on me.”
He kisses you again. Softer this time, like he’s just trying to give you a moment to settle. You can’t help but stare when he pulls away. His lips are kiss bitten, and red. You reach up, trailing the tips of your fingers over his bottom lip. You don’t expect it, when he leans in and takes the three of them into his mouth. It’s so warm, and wet. The feeling of his tongue swirling around each one makes your eyes start to roll back.
He has an honest to god smirk on his face, watching you like he’s not the one sucking on your fingers. He looks so sexy, so dirty. He pulls off your fingers with a pop. “Is that what you want? My mouth?”
“Oh god…yes, please.”
He only hums. You hear the hooking sound of his shoe catching the desk chair, pulling it towards him. He sits.
The height difference is intimate. He’s close. Your legs are spread wide for the chair, his arms around your waist, your hands in his hair. You remember from earlier. Slow. Slow is better. So you don’t try to rush him. His face is level with your chest, and he just leans in, breathing deep, nuzzling.
His glasses slip down his face, and then he’s kissing your chest through your shirt. It feels so juvenile, but not. Not really. It feels good. So good. You just want his mouth for real, not the teasing.
He rubs his face across your chest again, over the top swell of your boob, and then he sinks his teeth in. Hard. You gasp, curling the fingers you have buried in his hair. He moans when you tug at the strands a second time. It spurs him on, but not enough to give up teasing you. He reaches up to yank your bralette down beneath your shirt, still keeping you covered.
You’re confused, until he pinches one of your nipples through the fabric. He keeps teasing, rolling them and tugging. Eventually you feel the warmth of his mouth, still through your shirt, but your pussy clenches anyway. He sucks on your nipple, soaking the fabric with his spit.
It’s not until you hiccup, your arms shaking, unsure if you wanna push his mouth away or pull him in, that he finally relents. He shoves your shirt up, and starts all over again.
His mouth is hot, and wet against the bare skin of your chest. He doesn’t rush. Grace uses every part of his mouth to torture you. His teeth, his lips, his tongue. When he’s not sucking dark marks into the fatty parts, he sucks on your nipples, so slowly, and softly you think you might scream. It’s like he’s savoring it.
“Dr. Grace. Dr. Grace, oh fuck, please. Please. I need more,” you cry, your voice actually wavering as you claw at him.
The next few minutes are filled with soft shuffling, a foot precariously balanced here and there as Dr. Grace pulls your jeans off. All your nerves float to the very top, painting your skin in little goosebumps. He notices. Of course he does. How couldn’t he with the way you’re sitting awkwardly on the edge of his desk still.
With a soft smug smile, he places a hand to the certain of your chest, and pushes you to lie back. You catch yourself on your elbows, keeping your knees pressed together.
Dr. Grace gives you a look, an amused one, his eyebrows quirked. He simply leans back himself, unbothered. He settles into the chair, and drops his voice. “Show me.”
Your cheeks burn, and Ryland only gives you those puppy dog eyes in return. “C’mon, baby. How can I make it feel better if you don’t show me?…Show me your pussy.”
It’s startling. Not just the sound of his voice, but hearing those words come from his mouth. Dr. Ryland Grace’s mouth. The professor that wears glasses and cardigans, and converse sneakers. He just told you to show him your pussy, so he could make it feel better. It’s filthy. It makes your nipples harden, and somewhere between your legs pulse.
Slowly your knees start to part, and all the cockiness slips from Grace’s face. You swear his eyes darken. Along with his cheeks. The cool air hits your pussy, and you can feel how wet you are. Dr. Grace must see it, with the way he reaches down to squeeze himself through his pants. His eyes flutter shut, and a soft, “fuccck,” leaves his mouth.
“Dr. Grace, please…please make it feel better,” you beg.
And that’s all he lets you say before he’s grabbing you, dragging your bare ass to the edge of his desk. He slips your legs over his shoulders and lowers his face.
You almost ask him to put his glasses back on, the mental image of him eating you out while wearing them popping into your head. You don’t get the chance though, before his mouth is on your pussy, and it’s like he knew. Your thighs instantly clench around his head, your back bowing, muscles tightening. You would’ve crushed his frames.
Any and all teasing Dr. Grace had in him was gone. He eats like he’s starving, his face buried, jaw working. The burn of his stubble is just on the right side of painful, dragging up and down your pussy as he licks you open. His lips wraps around your clit, sucking it into his mouth.
It’s not too long before you feel it. That pressure in your back. It feels off though, like it has all week. It’s too heavy, too hard. The muscles in your legs start to burn, and not in a good way. You feel the sole of your left foot start to cramp, but it’s still close. It’s still something. So you push towards it. You hold your breath.
Ryland feels it, all of it, and pulls away.
“Uh-uh. Breathe,” he pants softly against your pussy, “breathe for me baby.”
You gasp, growl, and then whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”
A frustrated groan bleeds from you. You feel like crying again, the tears stinging your eyes. It’s Ryland’s hands that ground you, that slide up from your hips, up and over your belly, your ribs. The feeling of his hands on your body helps, some of the tension melting away.
He does it until your legs fall open again, a little more, a little easier. It’s so intimate. Ryland’s just there, his head resting on the inside of your thigh, face inches away from your bare pussy. His eyes are on yours though.
“You are trying too hard,” he says softly. He brings his thumb to your pussy, spreading the wetness all around, circling your clit lightly. “Don’t chase it. Let me give it to you.”
His hands don’t stop. They run up and down your body, his fingers finding your nipples again, playing with them gently. His mouth comes back to your pussy, slower this time. He kisses it so messily, his face soaked, his tongue running through you, nose brushing your clit repeatedly.
He zeros in on it, drawing these tiny figure eights with the tip of his tongue. Over and over again. You feel it then. Your hips lift, pushing up into his mouth. Ryland’s arms come down immediately, folding over your hips and your tummy, not hard, just there. He keeps the pace. His tongue swirling, and swirling.
That spark, the right one. It catches, and you feel like you could cry. You actually do. It’s a choked out sob. Broken and pathetic. “R-Rylan—.”
Your fingers slide through his hair, and you try, you do. You try so hard to keep your hips down, to not tense up. It’s building fast though. A warm heat right where Ryland’s mouth is, and at the base of your spine. You can’t help it.
Your thighs tighten around his head, and your hips start raising off the table…only for Ryland to slam you back down. His arms lock like steal across your hips, pinning you.
That’s what sends you over the edge.
Your brain gives you one crucial piece of cognitive advice. Don’t scream. You’re on campus property, currently getting your pussy eaten by your professor, and coming harder than you ever have before. Do not scream.
You don’t. Scream out loud that is. Your orgasm rips through you though, hard and deep. You feel it in the bottom of your feet, tingling, your toes curling. Your eyes roll back.
It feels like an instant high. Your limps go all floaty, and heavy. You’re trying to remember how to start breathing again while Ryland’s mouth is still working between your legs. Softer now but he keeps going, licking you through it, cleaning you.
It’s not until you cry out again and tug at his hair that he pulls away, slowly standing from the chair and draping himself across your body.
You kiss him. His face wet with spit, and your juices, your come. It’s so fucking hot. You lick into Ryland’s mouth, chasing the taste. He groans deeply, his voice wrecked.
“Yeah? You like the way your pussy taste, baby?”
You moan, letting your head fall back against the desk. He laughs. You do too. He kisses all over your face, your neck, while you slowly come back to him. Your eyes are still a little fuzzy when he says, “I wanna make you come again…can I?”
You run your fingers through his hair gently. That’s when you feel him for the first time. He’s hard, and still wearing his jeans completely buttoned. You swallow, and press your knee up into his cock. His breath catches, head falling to your shoulder.
oh boy i’ve just realised a short/ headcannon i wrote for ryland grace is SOOOO long for the first headcannon, and then the rest is so short. who did i think i was thinking i was able to continue that length for the whole thing 😭😭😭 sorry guys for when i post it, it got kinda lame
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