summary: when steve accepts a promotion to coach first year college students for hawkins’ upcoming baseball match, he expects easy money and minimal stress. what he doesn’t expect is you—a mouthy, rule breaking distraction with a talent for pushing his buttons and making his job much harder.
word count: 5k
tags: post s5, student x teacher relationship, reader is over 18 and enrolled in college, bratty!reader, explicit sexual content, graphic smut, consensual sex, rough sex, dirty talk, praise kink, power imbalance, semi- public sex, exhibitionism kink?, possessive behavior, jealousy, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, questionable professionalism, porn with little plot, and lowkey getting caught.
Steve does not mean to be a pervy bastard.
He really doesn’t. Not when he’s spent years clawing his way into something resembling a somewhat stable life, not when he finally has a job he can be proud of, and certainly not standing here, whistle around his neck and clipboard under his arm, on a sun-scorched baseball field, pretending that he's totally not checking you out in front of everyone.
And well, it's technically not his fault. Steve did not sign up for this.
He had only signed up to be a baseball teacher for a bunch of eleven-year-old kids who couldn’t hit a ball to save their lives. That was the plan. An easy plan that does not involve any hot college girl.
That was until he got that stupid damned promotion: coaching first-year college students for the upcoming Hawkins baseball match next month. The pay was good. The kids weren’t bad. In theory, it was a really fucking great idea
Reality, however, had one glaring flaw.
You.
A bratty, infuriating girl who acted like she owned the field. One particularly sharp corner of reality that Steve had not anticipated.
And right now, of all times, you were leaning against some smug jock named Jacob, laughing too brightly, shifting your weight in those short shorts that—Steve was certain—violated every dress code in existence. The top wasn’t helping either. It clung tightly to every curve he was trying hard not to catalog.
So yeah, in short Steve was fucking annoyed.
Not because he was jealous, he was a professional. He could separate work from desire. But seeing you, right now, ignoring his practice orders, teasing this bastard, and moving like you had every right to do whatever the hell you wanted on his field infuriated him.
And while Steve did not enjoy taking privilege of his job, he also did not enjoy the situation he was put in. So, he proceeds to interrupt whatever flirty conversation you're having with that jock.
“Jacob!” he shouts, voice cutting clean through the chatter. “You plan on actually doin’ somethin’ today, or you just here to decorate the field?”
Jacob startles, straightening instantly. “I was just talking, Coach.”
Steve fixes him with a look. “C’mon, man. Five laps now across the field and back. Hustle.”
A collective groan ripples through the team as Jacob mutters something under his breath, then starts jogging off, throwing you a lazy wink over his shoulder like he has won something.
You laugh and wave, arms crossing over your chest, clearly entertained by the attention.
Steve stalks over, boots crunching against dry grass, stopping directly in front of you. He crosses his arms, jaw tight.
“So,” he says, voice low but sharp. “You gonna just stand there flirtin’ with half the team, or you plannin’ on actually participatin’ today?”
You roll your eyes, entirely unimpressed. “I wasn’t flirting, Coach. I was talking. He’s just my friend.”
Steve scoffs. “Yeah, looked real friendly from where I was standing.”
“Oh, please,” you reply. “You’re acting like I committed a felony. Besides, you don’t yell at the guys when they’re joking around.”
“That’s ‘cause they still get their drills done,” he shoots back. “You’re distracting people.”
Your brow arches. “Funny. I didn’t realize talking to people was a distraction.”
He exhales through his nose, already regretting letting this turn personal. “Storage room,” he says, jerking his thumb toward the far end of the field. “Grab a bucket of practice balls and the extra gloves. We’re short.”
You huff, clearly annoyed, but turn on your heel anyway. “Whatever.”
Steve watches you go before he can stop himself. The way you move is effortless, confident, like you belong anywhere you choose to stand.
Eyes on the field, he reminds himself, dragging his attention back to the team.
Inside the storage room, the air is cooler, dust hanging thick and familiar. You drop onto a bench with a sigh just as your friend Bree jogs in after you, shutting the door behind her.
She leaned back against the shelves, arms loose, eyes drifting lazily as if she were seeing something far more interesting than the boxes stacked around her.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, voice low and dreamily reverent. “Coach Harrington is so fucking hot. I swear, he could bend me over this bench and I wouldn’t complain for a second.”
You winced, gripping the edge of the bench. “Bree,” you said, cutting her off sharply. “Stop. Jesus.”
She laughed, soft and unapologetic, her eyes sparkling. “What? You’re telling me you don’t see it? The way he moves? The way he—ugh, forget it, you’re blind.”
“Too bad he’s annoying, then,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, trying to sound casual though your stomach fluttered at the thought. “Otherwise, I might’ve let him do… whatever the hell he wanted to me too.”
Bree’s mouth fell open, already primed to argue, eyebrows shooting up in mock scandal.
“Ha!” she whispered, leaning closer, conspiratorial. “You’re not even pretending to be innocent, are you?”
Before she could get any further, the storage room door creaked open.
Steve stood there, one hand braced against the frame, the other rubbing tiredly over his face as though he had just walked into the exact last thing he wanted to deal with today. His messy hair fell into his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching in equal parts irritation and disbelief.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion. “I leave you two alone for five minutes, and you’re in here chattin’ like it’s a coffee break.”
You and Bree froze instantly, caught mid-gesture. Steve’s eyes flicked from your face to the bucket in your hands, then to the gloves still half-scattered across the bench.
“Drop it,” he said, tone sharp enough to make your stomach tighten. “Both of you. Out on the field. Line up, now.”
Bree gave you a sideways glance, lips twitching with barely contained laughter, and you groaned, standing reluctantly. “He’s lucky he’s hot,” you muttered under your breath, mostly to yourself.
Steve didn’t miss it. His eyebrows shot up, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh, I heard that,” he drawled, mock-scolding but impossibly close to amused. “You’re lucky I’m not marking up your ass for talking back.”
You smirked, brushing past him, arms crossed over your chest just enough to irritate him. “Yeah, well, maybe I like being marked,” you teased.
And Jesus Christ, when the hell did first year college students get so damn kinky?
You don’t cast a look back on your coach as you set the bucket down a little too fast, gloves clattering to the floor as Steve steps aside, ushering you out with a pointed tilt of his head.
Out on the field, the rest of the team watches with thinly veiled curiosity as you and Bree take your places at the front. Steve positions himself a few feet away, posture straight, whistle resting against his chest.
“All right,” he says. “Basic swing form. Bree, you’re up.”
Bree steps forward confidently, adjusting her grip before swinging. The hit is sloppy, her stance uneven.
Steve sighs. “Okay, stop. Your feet are too close together. Open your shoulders a bit. There. Try again.”
She follows his instructions, swings once more, and this time the contact is cleaner.
“That’s it,” he says, nodding. “Good job. Head back.”
Bree shoots you a smug grin as she jogs off toward the bleachers.
Steve’s gaze slides back to you. “Your turn,” he says. “C’mon.”
You step forward, gripping the bat, jaw tight. You swing.
Steve clicks his tongue. “Nope. Wrists are stiff. Loosen up.”
You adjust and try again.
“Still wrong,” he says. “You’re rushin’ it.”
You grit your teeth. “That’s literally the same thing Bree just did!”
He raises an eyebrow. “Focus.”
You swing a third time.
He exhales slowly. “Jesus. Are you even listenin’?”
Your head snaps toward him. “I am listening.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he replies coolly. “You’re droppin’ your elbow.”
You stare at him, heat crawling up your neck. Bree’s form had been worse. You are sure of it. Yet Steve had corrected her once and sent her on her way.
With you, he seems intent on dissecting every movement. What a fucking asshole.
Your grip tightens. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
He shrugs lightly. “Just doin’ my job.”
The bell rings across the field as groans erupt as the team disperses, collecting bags and heading off. Steve raises his voice. “Everyone’s dismissed!”
You relax, already turning to leave.
“Not you,” he adds casually.
You stop. “What?”
“Your form sucks. You’re stayin’ after to practice. We’ve got a match next month, and I’m not sending you out there like that.”
The field empties around you, the noise fading until it is just the two of you standing beneath the late afternoon sun.
Steve rolls a ball into his palm and tosses it lightly, watching you with focused intent.
“Grab the bat,” he says. “We’re not done yet.”
****
“You see this?” Steve says, tapping the knob at the base of the bat with two fingers. “Grip alignment. You don’t choke up unless I tell you to. Got it?”
You nod quickly, nerves buzzing under your skin. The bat feels lighter than expected, but your palms are slick, trembling. Your body betrays you in the worst ways.
Steve watches, chest tightening as he notices your hesitation, the way your fingers curl around the bat. Fuck, he can feel his cock swell in his pants at the thought of adjusting your hands. He steps closer.
“No, here,” he murmurs, already reaching for you. His large, warm hands close around yours, guiding your fingers into place with deliberate precision. Both hands now, his thumbs brushing knuckles, steadying you in a way that feels too intimate, too close.
You try to focus. You really do. But every brush of his gloves, every press of his chest against your back, makes your mind fray, your body react, and you curse yourself for wanting it.
Steve circles behind you, hips brushing yours as he shifts you just enough to feel the curve of your ass against him.
Every nerve in his body hums with awareness. He presses lightly, just enough to make you inhale sharply. Fuck, he thinks.
“Feet shoulder-width,” he murmurs near your ear, chest still brushing your back. “Don’t lock your knees.”
You inhale, exhale, lift the bat.
“All right. Swing.”
The ball skews off to the side. “Fine,” Steve says. “First attempts suck. Try again.”
Before you can respond, he’s right behind you again, hands over yours. He nudges your elbow, tilts your shoulders, presses just enough to make your breath hitch. His hips are against yours, and for a second, you swear you feel him hardening further.
“Pay attention,” he murmurs, voice low, hot against your neck. “We don’t have all day.”
Every nerve is alive. Every thought is filthy. You want him there, want this, and Steve knows it. He can feel it—the way your body leans into his, how your hips press back just enough to tease him. God, he wants to fold you over the nearest bench, fuck you stupid right here.
“See that?” he says softly, angling your swing. “Feel it?”
You nod, chest tight, words lost somewhere in your ribcage.
Steve steps back finally, folding his arms, but the heat between you doesn’t dissipate. His cock is still painfully evident, his mind racing with filthy thoughts.
“Again,” he says, eyes dark. “And this time, don’t fight it.”
You lift the bat, heart still racing, and swing.
You concentrate hard on shutting out the awareness of how close he is, drawing in a slow breath as his hands settle over yours, guiding your grip and angling the bat toward the incoming pitch.
“Right there,” he murmurs.
You swing, sending the ball flying forward before striking the target and dropping to the dirt with a satisfying thud.
“Good girl,” Steve breathes near your ear.
The words hit you instantly, legs weakening before you can stop the reaction. You shift back without thinking, searching for balance, only to find him solid behind you.
His body presses fully into yours now, close enough that every point of contact feels unavoidable. Your back arches slightly as you steady yourself, the movement instinctive, and your hips brush against his before you can catch yourself.
You can feel his bulge pressed against your behind, and it feels so good.
“Coach, please,” embarrassment burns through your body at what you just did, but before you can try to pull away from him, Steve's hands grasp your hips and pull you right against him, his hands keeping you in place as you hear his breathing pick up and feel his cock grow harder in pants.
“Come on,” Steve murmurs, grip tightening. “You swing clean, follow through the way I showed you, and I’ll give you exactly what you want.”
The bat feels warm beneath your palms as your hands shake just slightly, excitement thrumming through you. You've wanted this for so long, and to hear that you're so close to getting it has your pussy soaking your underwear.
With every correction he drilled into you echoing in your head, you line up your stance, fix your grip, and swing, sending the ball cleanly into the next target with surprising precision.
Steve's hands slide under your shirt and move up from your hips to just below your breasts, his thumbs brushing against the underneath of them teasingly. You whine desperately, wanting his hands to go further, but clearly he has no intention of moving them.
“Just— just touch me.” you breathe, frustration and need tangling in your voice. A quiet chuckle ghosts your ear.
“I am touching you,” he murmurs, voice smooth, infuriatingly calm. “Just two more,” he says quietly. “C’mon. I know you’ve got it.”
You reset your stance, replaying his instructions as you swing again. The contact is solid, the ball striking the next target hard enough to jolt it, though not quite enough to send it toppling. A soft sound of frustration slips from you before you can stop it.
“So close,” Steve murmurs, approval threading his tone. “See? That was good.”
Steve’s hands remain on you, steady and instructive, but the closeness makes it hard to concentrate. Your focus fractures, thoughts drifting not towards practice but towards his fingers now teasing around your nipples.
“God,” he mutters, voice thick now. “Such a good student when you’re desperate.”
You whine, hips rocking back into him without permission.
“One more,” he murmurs. “Give me one more good swing.”
You steady yourself, then swing again, and by some miracle it hits, even though you can't focus on it anymore.
“Stop being a fucking asshole and just touch—” you gasp.
And that was it. That was all it took.
Because suddenly he spins you harshly around and his mouth is on yours.
It’s not hesitant. There was no warning, no moment of restraint. Steve moved first, decisive and unyielding, cutting you off mid-insult as his mouth claimed yours like he had been waiting for the excuse all along.
The sound you make is soft and startled, swallowed immediately by the press of his lips.
Your hands come up to his chest on instinct, meant to push him back, meant to create distance. They do the opposite. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt instead, knuckles tightening as you pull him closer.
His teeth catch your lower lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath hitch. He groaned, the sound vibrating through you, and his body shifted just enough that you could feel the hard line of him pressing against your hip.
Steve breathes, his gloved hands trailing down your curves. Your breathing becomes heavy as he does, and your cunt is soaked by now, leaving a wet patch on your underwear.
You break the kiss and1 grab him across the field without hesitation, tugging him into the storage room with a force that makes him stumble slightly, the door slamming shut behind you with a sharp click.
Your pulse races at the thought that a student—or even the janitor— walking in at any second, and it only sharpens the fire burning through you.
Before he can catch his breath, you crash into him, pressing your body against his and taking the kiss, hard and demanding.
Your fingers dig into his hair as you tug him closer, needing every inch of him pressed against you. Your desperation hums through your chest, claiming him again and again, every second a frantic, heated battle against the risk of being caught.
“You should’ve started using all that energy like this an hour ago,” he muttered into your mouth.
“God, shut up,” you whispered
He takes off your shirt, begins to undo your bra, and soon it's forgotten on the floor as his hands cup your breasts, thumbs rubbing your hardened nipples. A moan escapes your mouth, and your head tilts back, eyes closing in ecstasy.
His brown eyes held you captive, deep and intense, stirring a twist of anticipation in your stomach you could not ignore.
Strands of his messy hair fell across his forehead, soft and disheveled, demanding to be touched. His hands moved with precision, sliding along your sides, tracing the line of your waist, and brushing across your ribs in a way that made it impossible to stay composed. And then lower. Fingers slipping into the waistband of your shorts.
“Please.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, lips trailing down your throat. His hand slipped beneath your underwear, and his fingers dipped into the slick heat of you without hesitation. “You’re soaked.”
You exhaled, hips jerking.
“Stay quiet. You don’t want anyone catching us here, do you?”
“No,”
“Can you keep a secret, baby?” he whispers as his fingers start teasing your entrance.
“Fuck you—ah!”
He rubbed slow circles over your clit, light at first, then firmer when you tried to grind down against his palm. “Sounds like you’re trying to.”
A sharp sound slipped from you, half gasp, half curse. His fingers moved with maddening precision, teasing every reaction. You rocked your hips without meaning to, chasing the pressure of his hand, chasing the heat pooling low in your belly.
He groaned, clearly enjoying the show you were putting on in between his arms, and you hated that it only made it worse — how good it felt, how good he was at this.
“How long’ve you been thinking about this?” he asked, voice low and warm in your ear. “About me touching you like this?”
“S-shut up, just keep going.”
“Tell me,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “Or I’ll stop.”
You shook your head. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
He chuckled, cocky and smug, his fingers sliding lower to push one, then two, inside you. You moaned, back arching, hands fisting in his shirt.
“Tell me,” he demanded, pumping his fingers slow, curling them just right. “Say it.”
You hated him, hated how he made you betray yourself, hated that your body obeyed him while your mind screamed no. And yet, you needed it.
“Been…thinking about it,” you rasped, eyes fluttering closed. “Ever since I started practicing baseball. Since I saw you out there on the field with the kids.”
His groan was filthy. “Really?”
You nodded, unable to stop yourself. His fingers moved faster, thumb pressing against your clit just right, and your thighs trembled around him.
“You gonna come for me, sweet thing?” he asked. “Right here, on my hand?”
Your nails dug into his chest as the heat coiled tight, tight, tight—
Then snapped.
“Oh God—” You came with a sharp gasp, trembling against him as his fingers worked you through it, drawing every last wave out until you were shaking in his arms, forehead pressed to his shoulder.
He smirked as he pushed you into the wall of the storage room against a box of sport supplies. “Wait—what are you—”
“Oh baby, we aren’t done yet.” he said as he started to slowly peel your underwear down your legs, leaving you completely bare in front of him.
For a moment you feel bashful, wanting to cover yourself to hide from his intense gaze, but before you can think to do anything, his hands are on your hips, turning you around and pushing you down so you're bent over the massive box of supplies.
His hands spread your thighs open, leaving your glistening cunt exposed for him to see. You hear him let out a whimper at the sight.
“God, you’re so fuckin’ pretty and wet,” Steve mumbles, running his fingers through your folds, gathering your wetness. One thick finger circles your tight hole before slowly pushing in, drawing a deep groan out of you.
It's only one finger, and it's already stretching you out so much. You have no idea how you'll manage to take his cock.
“It's too big,” you whine pathetically, pressing your face against the wood of the container . Behind you, Steve chuckles, curling his finger inside you.
“You can take it,” he encourages you, his tone soft and teasing.
His finger pushes against that sweet spot inside you, making you moan louder than you did before and causing your cunt to clench around his digit.
“Look at you, taking me so well,” Steve muses before pushing another finger in and thrusting them both in and out of you quickly, stretching you out for him.
You can't help but blush at his praise, feeling your pussy leak even more. The pleasure builds in your stomach, but you're still not quite there.
At first, you held your breath, but the moment his head dipped, a sharp gasp tore from you, hips jerking instinctively. His hands pressed firmly against your thighs, holding you open as his mouth closed over your clit. His tongue started with gentle, teasing flicks, then grew harder, faster, mirroring the ragged rhythm of your uneven breathing.
“Fuck—” you moaned, hips instinctively rolling into him. He pinned you down, one arm braced across your stomach, the other sliding lower, two fingers pushing deep inside you.
“Shit! I—fuck, don’t stop!” Your hands clawed at the edges of the box, nails digging in, desperate for something to hold.
“Fucking hell, you taste unreal. Like this cunt was made for me.”
Embarrassment should have hit you at the sounds leaving your lips, but Steve gave you no room for shame. He devoured you relentlessly, sucking and teasing your clit as if he intended to claim every sound from your throat.
“Ah! Please, please, please!” you gasped, fist tangling in his messy hair.
A low groan rumbled from him at the sound of your begging, tongue flattening over you while his fingers sped inside you.
“Yeah? Begging now?” he rasped, pulling back just enough to speak, lips glistening with your slick. “Didn’t think that mouth of yours could beg. All that attitude earlier and now look at you.”
“Please, don’t stop,” you whimpered, thighs quivering on either side of him. Your body arched over the box, cries escaping as his fingers struck that perfect spot again and again. “Fuck—oh god—Steve—”
“That’s it,” he hissed, eating you out like a man possessed. “Say my fuckin’ name. Let everyone hear who’s making you come like this.”
You were so close it hurt, your body coiled so tight you were seconds away from breaking.
He spat on your clit. “Filthy little thing,” he panted, rubbing the wet slickness in with the pad of his thumb and spreading your ass cheeks further apart. “You like that? You like when I get messy with you?”
“Yes, fuck, yes, yes—!”
“Say it. Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to ruin you.”
“I want it!”
The second orgasm hit like a freight train. Your body slumped over the edge of the sports supply box, thighs tightening around nothing as a scream tore from you. Your hands gripped the sides of the box, knuckles whitening, legs trembling violently as waves of pleasure ripped through you.
Steve groaned low behind you, tongue and fingers working in perfect rhythm, drawing every shudder and gasp from your trembling, soaked body.
There’s a rustle of clothes behind you before you feel his cock pressed hard against your slick, twitching hole. You spread your legs instinctively, aching for him after wanting this for so long.
“Easy, baby,” he rasps, his voice low and rough. “I’m gonna put it in, yeah?”
He rubs his cock along your slit, gathering your wetness, dragging you slowly mad with need.
“‘S too much” you whine, desperate, trembling.
“Shhh, you can take it, pretty girl,” he murmurs, guiding himself inside with deliberate pressure.
You cried out, eyes flying wide as his cock stretched you open inch by inch. He was thick, the kind of deep burn you’d fantasise about and wish you’d get it but you knew you couldn’t take it, the kind of stretch that left you clenching and gasping.
It felt like too much, like you couldn’t possibly take it all — but your body betrayed you, greedy and slick, pulling him deeper.
“That’s it,” he groaned, burying himself fully with one slow, brutal thrust. “Takin’ me so fucking well.”
You were keening, mouth open, nails scraping the mat as he bottomed out inside you. “Steve—!”
“I know, baby. I know it’s a lot,” he growled, hips pressing against you. “I’m big, huh? But look at you—fuck—this tight, pretty pussy’s taking me so well.”
Once you adjust, the sting melts into pure need, and you push back, urging him deeper. “Fuck, yeah—just like that,” he growls, his hands gripping your hips tighter, driving you harder, relentless, insistent.
“Gonna fuck you real good.”
All you can do is hum in agreement, unable to answer him properly with the pleasure coursing through your body with each thrust of his hips. Another orgasm is already building up inside you, but you know him fucking you isn't enough to make you cum.
Your hand trembles as you reach out for his that’s pinned right beside your head, dragging it down between your legs.
Pressed over the sports supply box, it’s awkward, but Steve angles his hand expertly, slipping two fingers against your clit and rubbing it harsh and fast, making you fuck yourself against him at the same time.
Groans and moans spill from your mouth, but through them you catch the sound of his low, ragged panting. The thought that you affect him just as much as he affects you makes your cunt clench around him, and he groans, pressing his forehead against your back.
“You take me so damn well,” he growls, voice thick with need. “Feels like you were made for this, just for me.” His words pull a high, desperate whine from you, and he chuckles darkly. “Like that, huh? You want me to fill you up?”
You nod frantically, barely able to process anything beyond the fire in your body, hips trembling as your pussy spasms around his cock and his fingers dig mercilessly at your clit. “Bet you’d look so good leaking all over me,” he rasps, “hell, you’d look even better with my baby in your belly.”
The filthy words push you over the edge. You cum hard around him, body shaking, tears spilling down your cheeks as pleasure overwhelms you again.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting harder and harder, slow now on your clit but relentless in driving into you, letting you ride out the aftershocks.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, hips snapping into yours with measured force. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Coming all over me like a slut, yeah?”
All you can do is whine and whimper at his words. Words have never made you feel so good before, but it isn't surprising that a man you have craved for so long would have you feeling this way.
You slowly begin to come down from your high when all of a sudden Steve pulls out of you with a hiss, and you want to whine at the loss of contact.
However, Steve begins to lift you up by your hips and turns you around, making you sit on the container with your legs spread, your juices leaking out of your cunt onto the surface below you.
“I want you to look at me when I cum inside you,” Steve orders, but the words come out rough and shaking, like he’s barely holding himself together.
You do. God, you do — eyes locked on his, breath stuttering as you spread your thighs wider while he pushes back into your wet folds.
The sound you both make is broken, helpless, like relief and need crashing together all at once.
Steve groans your name and suddenly he can’t help it anymore. He bends down and kisses you — hard and desperate — like he’s been starving for it. His mouth claims yours, messy and hungry, swallowing your gasp as if he needs it just as badly as the way your body takes him.
His pace turns fast and rough, one hand gripping your hip like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, the other digging into your thigh as if grounding himself. You kiss him back just as desperately, clinging, mouths open, breath mixing while your overstimulated cunt tightens around his thick length.
“Steve,” you gasp into his mouth, sore already but aching for more, for everything.
“Never seen anyone look this good. You were made for this. You were made to take my cock, weren’t you?”
You nodded helplessly, tears pricking your eyes from how good it felt.
“Say it.”
“I was,” you gasped. “I–I was made…for…it—”
“Good girl…God, you’re so fucking tight. So perfect for me. Gonna come inside, fuck—”
Steve groaned low as he came, thick and hot inside you, every twitch of his cock driving you tighter around him.
He pressed himself flush against your shoulder, panting and growling, and even though you couldn’t see his eyes, you felt his teeth bite you hard making you let out a loud moan at the mark he probably just left.
You could feel his warm cum as he filled you so completely you were certain it would spill out the moment he pulled out.
He slowly pulled back, and as gently as possible pulled his cock out of your and tucked himself in. You winced just slightly at the loss of contact making him freeze immediately. “Shit, did I hurt you?”
You shook your head, chuckling softly, still perched on the sports supply box. “No, I’m okay,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.
He smiled, tugging your underwear and gym shorts back into place and leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips.
“You did so good for me,” he murmured against your lips.
You smirked. “Ehh… you were okay,” you teased, letting the bratty grin spread.
“Oh, really?” he said, mock-offended, eyes glinting. “That’s all I get? After all that?”
You lightly smacked his chest. “Don’t get too full of yourself, Coach,” you warned.
He chuckled, leaning closer. “Well… I guess I owe you a date then—after, apparently, not fucking you well enough. How about Thursday night? I’ll come pick you up.”
You nodded, trying not to blush. “Fine… I’ll hold you to it.”
Just as you leaned in for another kiss, the storage room door burst open.
You both froze as a loud gasp filled the tight space. Your eyes landed on Derek, standing there with a shocked expression looking at your messy hair, wrinkled clothes, and your hands wrapped around Steve’s neck.
“You’re screwing college students?!” he screamed at his coach.
hellooo everyone currently im writing a steve harrington x oc! henderson fanfic that starts off with a synopsis from season one if anyone's interested slide into my dms! 🤍
PAIRING: pizza boy delivery! steve harrington x female! reader
SUMMARY: the cute delivery boy on your doorstep is holding your hot pizza, but oh no! you’re short by six dollars… thank god you have a mouth to repay him with!
CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ CONTENT, oral sex (steve! receiving), deepthroating, sub! steve harrington, cum swallowing, sex as a repayment, dirty talk, praise kink, hair pulling, flustered! steve harrington.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: yes, this is a classic porn trope and I do not care, I would’ve loved to see steve as a pizza delivery boy because he so would be— both him and robin because yes! they come in pairs! uhhhh, sorry in advance if u don’t like pizza, it’s for plot purposes, trust!
steve harrington was already exhausted by the time he gets to your house.
it was one of the last deliveries of his shift, he was working since three pm with the clock nearing ten pm. his hair was messy, he ditched the stupid red pizza palace hat long ago, his red jacket was unzipped because he's been running back and forth that damn car all night, having to collect so many dollar bills. he's been hauling ass around hawkins for so many hours, he was damn tired of this.
but he was going to get it done, because the tips were good enough for him to continue, so he trekked on, knowing his shift was coming to an end.
with the pizza box balancing on his forearm, he knocked on your front door, the sound echoing through the night air as he looks around, looking at the architecture of your home as he hears your footsteps.
"coming!" your voice calls out from the inside of your home. you padded around to the front door of your home, and when you swing open the door... steve damn near forgets his own name.
you're standing in front of him, in tiny sleep shorts and a loose graphic t-shirt, your hair was down, and your eyes were soft on him. your jaw was perfect, lips full and neck beautiful. you looked gorgeous, and steve had to phyiscally remind himself to breathe at the sight of you.
"h-hey." he says, his voice cracking a little like a boy going through pueberty all over again despite being well over nineteen years old. "extra cheese, breadsticks and a bottle of soda?"
you nod your head. "yep, that's my order." you tell him, looking around to the table sitting by the front door.
steve nods, looking down at the top of the pizza box. "you're total is... sixteen dollars and eighty-four cents..." he tells you.
you grab your wallet that's sitting by the front of your door and slides it open, digging into the wallet for any type of dollars you have. you were more of a card type of girl, but you always carried dollar bills on you every time you went out. you grabbed the paper, pulling it out and seeing how much you have.
your hands presented you a simple sight; two five dollar bills and a single one dollar bill... six dollars short. your shoulders slump. "I...I don't have enough." you admit softly, trying to not guilt trip him in any way— truly, you weren't. "I'm short by like... six bucks at most."
steve shrugs instantly, almost automatically. "girl, it's fine." he says quickly, waving his hand indiscreetly. "don't worry 'bout it... i've had people not have a lot more... six dollars isn't anything."
yet, you frown, running a hand through your hair as you try to find the words to tell the delivery boy. "no, no, i feel bad. i don't want you to get in any trouble."
he smiles, a little pretty smile that was too cute for his own good. he was a damn good looking man— especially for being a delivery boy. truly, he belonged on a playgirl magazine, not in a pizza palace uniform. "it's no big deal, it's really not, i'll cover it... this shit happens all the time."
you look at him for a long, slower moment and before you can stop yourself, you ask him; "are you sure there's nothing i can give you in return?"
he blinks, furrowing his brow and swallowing in a breath. "...what?" he asks, his throat tight and his fingers gripping the box a little tighter.
you step close, gently grabbing the box from his hands and putting it in your left hand, your other hand grabbing the front of his shirt to tug him into the house. he gasps softly but allows himself to get dragged into the home, your foot kicking close the door, hearing the lock click as you place the box on the table next to the door where your wallet sat.
"well, you've been working all day..." you begin, looking him up and down. "and you're being really sweet... i just want to thank you... and make up for the six dollars."
his breath stutters when your hand slips lower, past his uniform, down his torso and towards the waistband of his jeans.
he's had girls flirt with him on deliveries before— it was dumb comments by girls ordering for her younger siblings, winks by younger customers, someone's drunk older sister grabbing his arm, the gay guy trying to see if steve swung their way, older women flirting with him and whistling at him and calling him a pretty boy, he's never experienced something like this— like the damn pizza palace store owner knew he'd get extra tips for being a pretty boy.
but you? you look up at him like you actually are going to do something with him... and he wasn't about to turn you down!
he stammers over his words, fingers twitching. "h-hold on, girl." his ears are fully red, his cheeks flustered and his breaths shaky. "a-are you sure? you're not un-uncomfortable?" he begins to ask.
his words stop altogether the moment you drop to your knees, tugging his jeans down with you. right there in your entry way, his uniform still on, the steam from the pizza still trying to escape the box.
steve is so stunned, hands hoverting awkwardly in the air like he doesn't know where to pu them. "sweetheart..." he breaths, not exactly pushing you away. "you don't h-have to... swear—“
you interrupted him softly. "i want to, steve." you say, knowing his name from the name tag (and the name the caller said when you called for pizza and they said who'd be delivering your pizza). "let me... you deserve somethin' for your hard work."
his head falls back against the wall with a thud. "holy fuck..."
you free his cock from his boxers, already hard and leaking, just from the sight of you on your knees and looking up at him like he's the only man on earth. he's thick, he's not too long, but damn is he thick. he's girthy, and you love it.
"that's— fuck— that’s really nice of you." he mutters, barely getting the words out as you stroke him slowly, your thumb pressing down on his tip. "j-jesus, i just deliver pizza, this is- ngh! fuck! this is way above my payroll..." he adds.
your grin is big and before you knew it, you bring him to your mouth, his tip brushing against your lips. sticking out your tongue, you run it along his warm skin, getting a good taste of him.
his whole body jerks at the touch. "oh my god." he gasps, shooting one hand down to your hair, shuffling through it.
and without a second moment, you seal your mouth around his cock and slide him into the wetness of your mouth, slow and teasing, your left hand holding the base of his cock. your thumb strokes the underside of him, your tongue switching from the sides to the underside back to the sides.
he's unraveling quicker tha nhe ever has in his entire life. he's had sex, he has experienced, but damn, you're so good right now, he can barely handle it.
"you're gonna kill me." he whines, hips shaking as his fingers tug at your hair. "i swear— this is the best tip i-i've ever— shit! ever gotten..." he admits, pressing his hand into the wall.
your hand slide up his thigh, holding him steady in your grip with your mouth working in smooth, wet strokes that made his eyes roll back. you hum around his cock, feeling vibrations shoot up his cock, bopping your head up and down from his tip down to his base.
"so good f'me, baby boy." you groan, popping off him and holding his cock, laying your tongue flat on the underside of him, licking from the base to his tip. "such a big dick... taking me so well." you praise.
he looks down at you, his eyes blown wide with a few strands of his hair falling in his face. "y-you're so unbelivable." he pants, tugging your head closer to him, he's already on the edge. "please- please continue... i was so close... you don't know what you're doing to me."
you grin. "i think I have a pretty good idea of that, handsome." you tell him and before he can speak again, you put him back in your throat, deepthroating him so easily as you quicken your pace, hallowing out your cheeks to bring him closer and closer.
he's breathless, chest rising and falling faster as he's on the brink of his orgasm. "sweetheart, if you keep doing that, i'm gonna— fuck! gonna cum!"
but you don't stop, you don't even give him a moment to think.
and steve harrington, pizza delivery boy, lets out the prettiest possible moan you've ever heard, a harsh tug of your hair as he hits his orgasm. his eyes roll back, mouth agape as his knees buck, trembling in your hands.
hot cum spurts out of his cock directly into your throat, he tastes sweet and you want all of it. he empties his balls, your throat taking all of it, swallowing it with glee. by the time he's empty, his hand loosens in your hair and your knees ache a little.
he's panting, red cheeked and completely stunned. "holy shit..." he whispers, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, watching you pop off his cock. "that was— wow... fuck... thank you, baby." he quietly says.
you wipe your mouth with your thumb, swallowing the last bit of him with a smile that was smug if anything. "so... does that cover the missing six dollars?" you ask him, slowly standing up and stretching your legs.
he laughs-- bright and breathless, stupidly charmed as he puts his pants back on, zipping them up and patting on the material to make it not seem so messy. he leans down, pressing a kiss on your lips, tasting himself on your lips. he nods. "oh yeah, sweetheart..." he murmurs. "definitely covers it..."
and when he leaves, looking over his shoulder with the same smile and his phone number written on the receipt, the taste of him still lingers, even as the taste of pizza overtakes you.
meow. stevie boy give me ur dick right now! please! I need it. whimpering! steve is my favorite steve because he needs that attitude fucked out of him! he’s just been on my mind so much, I’m trying to write for the other batboys but holy fuck, I can’t stop thinking about him.
Summary: Yes, it’s exactly what you think it is. MDNI
WC: 4.6k+
Includes: no plot all filth, unrealistic “stuck” porn trope, friends to horny idiots, dirty talk, pet names/name calling, unprotected PiV sex, oral (f receiving), briefest mention of monsterfucking, brief anal play, a smidge of humiliation kink with a healthy side of a praise kink, d/s dynamic, etc.
A/N: Literally got this idea from a certain filthy piece of DBD fanart that I can’t find, but if you know the one I’m talking about, please lmk so I can properly credit for the inspo!! Is this ridiculous? Yes. Was this originally for Halloween? Also yes. We hate rules here (and deadlines). Hope y’all enjoy it <3 (dividers from @/saradika-graphics)
Everyone told Steve he was insane to venture back into the Upside Down, but he couldn’t leave you there alone.
He felt sick for even leaving you behind at all. Quite honestly, no one felt good about evacuating without you, but it was smarter to go home, gear up, grab another working walkie, before wandering back into hell to find you.
See, among the chaos of trying to help Eddie, trying to keep Max alive, he worried about you and your unusual absence from the group, but you were strong enough to handle nearly anything— that much, he was confident on. You had fought side by side with him over the years, protecting everyone in the group, and one another; through demodogs, a shit summer job gone awry, and anything in between, you could hold your own with a bravery he wished he didn’t need to front at times.
That didn’t quell his anxiety one bit, though. When and where you had disappeared to, he wasn’t sure.
It wasn’t until your voice broke through over the airwaves, when Steve, Eddie, Nancy, and Robin were on the lake, that he felt relief you were at least alive. Your voice was tinny through the static.
“Guys?”
The only reason a signal existed at all was because the group floated just above the gate at the bottom of the lake— they just didn’t know it yet.
Steve had just thrown his sweater off, ready to dive in, when the sound of your voice made his eyes widen.
“Holy shit, give me the—“ He rocked the tiny boat a little too much for anyone’s comfort as he fell to his knees, grabbing the walkie from the floor. “Where the fuck are you?!”
“Hi to you too, Harrington.”
Robin yanked the device from Steve’s grip, “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“Long fuckin’ story, but—“ Your voice cut out, static filling the dead air for a few seconds. “And that’s—“ Cut off again. “Upside Down, but I- I don’t know where I am, exactly. Why didn’t any of y’all tell me how bad this place sucks?”
Steve laughed to himself, unaware his eyes became glassy, hearing the familiar attitude and sailor’s mouth you carried; the other three noticed just how relieved and emotional he was right away. He grabbed the walkie back from Robin with shaky hands.
“We’re gonna come find you, we think we found a gate,” He rushed out. “Are you safe at least?”
“For now, but these—“ Signal cutting out, Steve hit the walkie a few times, as if that’d fix the disconnect between literal dimensions. “— Th- they’re everywhere. I don’t know where to hi— oh, shit—“ Your end fell dead again, leaving the four on edge, waiting for you to speak. White noise droned on for less than a minute; you weren’t coming back.
Wasting not a second longer, Steve dove into the dark, chilled waters of the lake. He found the gate they suspected of, and broke the surface to alert his friends. As he relayed the information, rushed and panicked, wanting to find you as soon as possible, something tugged on his leg. Only startling the group at first, Steve was caught off guard, pulled under, back down to the bottom. He kicked, struggled, lungs burning as he fought off the urge to gasp for a breath he couldn’t dare to take.
It was all a blur, being dragged through the gate and tossed around like a rag doll; the bats diving towards him, finding an oar to defend himself with among the Upside Down’s mirrored decay of the lake, only to be bombarded by the gnarly creatures. They tore at his flesh as he was being strangled to death; brain growing fuzzy as he put up a good fight, he began to accept this fate. He wasn’t sure when his friends came through the gate, but one by one they retaliated against the bats, leaving just the one still strangling Steve.
“Get fucked!”
Unexpectedly, you appeared, slamming an ax— one you always left in your trunk, just in case— down onto one of its wings, chopping through completely, yet it still tried to flee as Steve bit down on its tail. Stunned, you all watched as Steve swung it around, slamming it down into the ground before violently ripping its spine out, fueled by pure rage.
Blood dripped from his mouth while he glanced up at you, rage and fear fading as relief flooded every inch of his heart. Despite your ragged appearance— covered in grime, soot, and blood— he was just happy to see you alive; a sight for sore eyes.
“I fuckin’ hate those things.” You wanted to run and hug him, but restrained yourself at the sight of his wounds. Taking in the sight of all four friends, you sighed, “Y’all okay?”
Another screech in the sky tore everyone’s attention away, “C’mon!” Where everyone ran off to the rocks, you made the mistake of running off in the opposite direction. The group of bats split off, heading towards both you and the others; when you looked over your shoulder, you watched Steve do the same, panic fueling you both to run for your lives.
You sprinted off towards the woods, hoping you’d find each other again soon, and alive.
Steve climbed back through the gate in Eddie’s trailer, and had searched for what felt like hours; he was losing hope of finding you by the minute. He knows you; you wouldn’t give up without a fight. You had to be alive, but dread was still building within him.
At least he caught a signal over the walkies.
“What do you mean you’re stuck?”
Your voice warbles through the speaker of Steve’s walkie, barely coherent through the sharp static.
“Okay, okay, where are you?”
“The— g—“ Feedback rips through your words, shrill and sharp. “I’m tr—“
“You’re cutting out—“
“Gate! I’m—“ A drone of white noise floods the speaker, and you’re gone.
“Shit. Fuck. God-fucking-dammit!” He hits the device with his free hand, slams the buttons and messes with the knobs and antenna— if only he actually paid attention when Dustin tried showing him how to work this fucking thing.
He did hear you say ‘gate’ at least, but which one? You clearly weren’t at the one he just entered, and the one at the lake had closed up by now.
This would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.
Steve’s exhausted, searching high and low for you, at every possible spot that crosses his mind. It had to have been another hour since he last heard from you, and he’s running out of ideas of where you could be.
“Checked around town,” He begins murmuring to himself, listing and eliminating options out loud. “No luck there… but— shit, didn’t check the library…” Could a gate even open in there? Anywhere was possible, right? And if that was the case, he’d have to tear through every room of every building, circle each structure, check any cars, houses, sheds, backyards, parks, the woods—
Christ, at this rate, he’ll never find you—
“Oof!” Steve loses his footing, tumbling over something in the stretch of woods he was combing through. Colliding with the ground, he groans on impact.
“What the fuck?”
Steve rolls over quickly, sitting up to find he had tripped over you.
“Oh, thank fuck.” He scrambles to his feet, brushing debris off his body as he finally glances your way.
When you said you were stuck, Steve didn’t picture the sight before him now; you, halfway through a gate found in a tree trunk, unable to move because it began to close up around your waist. Your upper half is on the other side, but your bottom half is still stuck in the Upside Down.
“Oh…. You’re… wow, okay.” He snickers, “Yeah. You’re stuck, alright.”
Steve’s muffled cackling echoes through the slimy gate. You huff and roll your eyes; not like he can see.
“Just help me out of here, would ya’?!”
“Okay, okay… Jesus.” He drops to his knees, still towering over you— well, your back half, at least. “Does it hurt?”
“No, it’s just fucking annoying. Maybe try, I dunno, pulling at the edges of it, or something?”
“I don’t think that’s how these things work—“
“Steve!”
“Okay, right, yeah, sorry.” He bites his bottom lip, stifling more laughter. It’s certainly an… awkward position, leaning over you from behind, but it’s the only way he can pull at the edges with both hands at once. He gives the gate’s edge a tug, but it’s stone solid. He tries again, this time with a grunt that has your mind wandering elsewhere. “Yeah, this is, uh… that’s not gonna work.”
“Oh my god, I’m stuck here forever,” You groan, kicking your feet. “I’m gonna die here.”
“Calm down, drama queen. Gimme a second, I’ll try again.” Steve keeps himself balanced on one knee, while the other leg plants a steady foot into the ground. Again, he attempts to pry open the gate, hoping to free you; his foot slips, causing him to rub against your backside.
Okay, ‘rub’ is a generous term— more like roughly falling against your ass, then whining over the pressure on his bulge.
“Steve, what the fuck?” You crane your neck, only able to see where the tree bark opens up into the gate, snug around your waist. “Did you just—“
“I didn’t mean to, I swear! M- my foot slipped!”
“Oh, bullshit.”
“Look, it’s not exactly the easiest to move around you without touching you right now,” He argues. “You really think I’m trying to make a move on you in a situation like this?!”
“Well, I can’t see shit, Harrington. I don’t know what the hell’s going on back there.”
Ignoring you, Steve murmurs, more to himself but loud enough for you to still hear, “The hell are you wearing these tiny shorts for, anyway?” He tugs at the hem around your thigh, elastic snapping back against your skin. You bite back whatever pathetic noise threatens to escape your lips.
“It was warm out earlier!”
“It’s March—“
“And unreasonably warm for March, y- you jerk.”
“That why you’re shivering?”
“Considering the sun set, uh, yeah?”
You grumble, annoyed how wet this easily has made you. You need out, and Steve needs out, too, and the two of you need to just forget about all of this.
“Okay, just—“ You can’t think straight, mind clouded with dirty thoughts— how embarrassing. “Push me through.”
“You… want me to push you… how?”
“With your hands, St—“
“I know with my h— I meant, like, where?”
You can’t see the way he licks his lips, staring at your ass, but you sure can hear the strangled moan he miserably tries to hide in his throat.
“Wherever works— I don’t know, I’ve never been stuck between dimensions before!”
He shudders a breath before calling through the gate, “I’m gonna— if I touch anything I shouldn’t, I swear to god I’m not trying to—“
“Okay, yeah, I get it, Steve— just push me out of here!”
“Christ, you’re fucking bossy…”
His hands grip the plush of your hips, first, hoping he can grip hard enough and push this way— it’s useless; his hands lose grip, sliding up your body. His knuckles run into the tree, and he’s grateful for that barrier; who knows how far his hands could’ve slipped. He yelps and recoils away. “Sorry!”
“Dude, I don’t care, just do whatever works.” You sound exhausted, and who wouldn’t be in a situation like this? You had to have been here at least an hour, and even if it doesn’t hurt, it can’t be very comfortable.
Steve shakes his nerves off, hands reaching for the back of your thighs; his fingers splay apart, pushing as hard as he can, and you finally begin to budge. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
Until you cry out for him to stop. “Shit, that fuckin’ hurts— It’s— ow, fuck! My hips—”
He immediately backs off, hands releasing pressure, but still resting gently on your thighs. It’s automatic, the way his thumbs rub slow circles into your exposed skin to try comforting you; the shorts you’re wearing are not helping either of you. It was warm out earlier, like you said, but did you have to wear these now?
Goosebumps prickle up under his fingers, and it’s hard to miss the way you clench your thighs together.
“You, uh…” Steve gulps, fingers gently kneading at the meat of your thighs. “You okay over there?”
“Uh-huh,” Your answer isn’t very convincing, with a trembling voice. “Everything okay back there? W- with you, I mean.”
“Sure, yeah, it’s… I’m good.” He feels like such a pervert, fantasizing about taking you right here, like this. It’s wrong when you’re trapped like this. “Honey, I- I don’t know what else to do.”
The pet name twists at a coil deep within you, building up a pressure of some kind.
“This is gonna sound fucked up, but just— push my ass— Steve, that better not be you laughing!”
He can’t hold back his immature giggling, but he’d rather this than moan.
“You sure? I don’t want you to get mad or anything.” He tries to settle down, focus on getting you unstuck. “Tell me to stop if it hurts again, alright?”
You imagine hearing those words of sweet consent in a different circumstance, biting back a whimper. “Ye- yeah, I will.”
Steve slides his hands up to the curve of your ass, unable to restrain himself before digging his fingers into your soft, plushy body. “Gonna count down, sweetheart, okay?”
This time a whimper does beat you to the punch before you can actually reply. He squeezes a little harder.
“Three… two… one—“ Steve shoves his hands against you, pushing as hard as he can. Again, your hips shove up against the tree trunk, and you cry out from the pinch. He pulls you back an inch, wincing with guilt. “M’sorry, I—“
“Again,” You boldly call back to him.
“… You sure?”
“Just do it, please,” His hands are so warm, touch so soft; you wish the fabric of your shorts would just disappear. There’s an extra whine to your voice, “Don’t hold back, I can take it.”
“Oh, fuck…” He mumbles, sucking in a sharp breath. “Go— I’m gonna try again, ready?” He hears a faint noise of consent, shoving himself into you; this time, his hips rut into you, too. You still can’t get through the gate, but you’re not sure that’s either of your concern at this moment. His bulge, rock-hard now, brushes up against your ass, and you both moan out. This is bad.
The way you push back against him isn’t helping much, either.
Both of you still, falling silent while trying to steady your breaths. Are you really about to do this here? Now?
Steve makes the decision for you both, muttering, “I can’t fuckin’ take it anymore.” He’s purposefully grinding against you, head lolling back with a groan as you push into him in return. From either end, both of you are shuddering out sinful noises. “Always wanted to kiss you first, but—“
“As soon as you rescue me, y’can kiss me all ya’ want.”
“Shit, princess, never took you for the damsel in distress type.” He tugs your shorts down, choking on air when he discovers you’re completely nude underneath. “Jesus, did you think at all about your outfit today?”
“Uh, considering I don’t have a bra on… no.”
“You don’t have a—“ Steve comically pouts that part of you is through the other side of the gate; he’s grateful you can’t see the pathetic expression. “What, did you just roll outta bed and stroll down here?”
“Steve, the longer we talk about the logistics of my outfit, the dryer I’m becoming.”
“Good thing I can help with that.”
“Okay, that was goofy to s— oh…” His thumbs spread your folds apart; despite your failed quip, you’re soaked as sin.
“So fuckin’ pretty…” He leans down, kissing the swell of your ass, trailing his lips down your backside until he’s level with your heat. There’s no warning, just his tongue gliding along your folds, lapping up your arousal. A feral sounding groan vibrates through your core as he loses himself tasting you. It’s not rushed— not on purpose, at least— but any restraint is long gone now.
“Oh m’god,” You shudder while his tongue swirls around your clit, sucking it softly. His arms wrap around your thighs from behind, hooking you in place. You twitch back, like you’re desperate to grind on his face, but worried to freak him out.
Steve’s far from freaked out; in fact, he’s delving his tongue deeper, nearly incoherent when he mirrors your earlier words, “Don’t hold back. I can take it.”
That’s all the permission you need, rolling your body back as far as the gate allows, trembling as he sloppily makes out with your cunt. If only you could see the glistening mess on his pretty features. “Steve…”
He angles his nose against your clit just right, making you squeal into the empty forest around you. His tongue laps away, eventually tapering to fuck into you with it.
“Fuck, more, ple- please,” You pant, grateful Steve’s holding you upright, or you’d go limp against the tree. “Please— god!”
He slides a finger into you, curling it just right as he kisses and sucks back to your clit. He’s rougher this time when he suckles on the sensitive bud, rolling your eyes back and tensing your body up. You chant his name in whimpers, like a desperate prayer, only urging him to finger fuck you harder.
“Jesus, sweetheart, you’re gripping me so hard.” He groans into you, adding another finger. “Taste so good, I could be here all night—“
An orgasm startles you, going 0 to 100 without warning; lewd noises floating back through the gate toward Steve only challenge him to keep going.
“S- Steve, ha- hang on—“
“You want me to stop?” He slows his pace, but you ram yourself back into his hand and lips.
“No! Please, god, no—“
“Then what is it?” His tongue flits out, teasing around your sensitive nub.
“M- move your fingers up, back where you had it— ohhhmyfuckinggod—“
“C’mon, come for me, y’can do it again,” he coaxes, spitting onto your folds while relentlessly ruining you with his thick, long fingers. Your legs tremble wildly. “I can tell you’re close, angel. Make a mess, come for me again—“
This time, you cry out, praying whatever woods you found yourself in was deep enough, away from the public. Your hips twitch and convulse, while you flutter around his digits, soaking his face while he continues to delve deeper, as if that’s even possible.
The pumping pace of his fingers never relents, despite how overstimulated you feel already.
“St- Steve…”
“Got one more in ya’?” You feel his hot breath fanning over your folds again. It’s not long before he’s flicking his tongue back out, teasing your clit while adding another finger. “Christ… yeah… yeah, angel, that’s it…” He laps at the nectar dribbling from your centre, grunting as his free hand pulls you by your thigh, guiding you to bounce against his face. The fingers buried in you curl just right, earning a broken, breathy noise from the other side; he hits the right spot, and under a minute in, you’re gushing against his pretty face.
You can hear how drenched he is when he speaks, licking his lips between his words, “That was… oh, fuck, that… that was so… can we do that every day?”
Winded, you manage to laugh weakly, “If you can figure out how to get me un-stuck, I’ll let you do that as much as you fuckin’ want.”
You’d kill to see his face right now, dripping with your release, but until then you’ll just need to use your imagination.
“…. Can we—“
“Please.”
The head of his cock slides along your folds, teasing as it runs over your sensitive clit. You jolt back, and he grips you by the hip, holding you in place with one hand.
“Be patient for me, angel. I don’t wanna hurt you,” he slides in, taking his time, paying attention to your gasps. “You okay?”
“Uh-huh, ju- just go slow.”
Like earlier, when Steve tried pushing you through the gate, he soothes you with his touch, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your skin. He sinks a bit further, feeling you clench around him with anticipation. “Angel, gotta relax to let me in…”
“I- I know, m’trying, you’re just— you’re so… so…”
“Shhh, it’s okay, I have you. You’re okay…” He slides deeper, hips almost flush against your backside. “Just relax… that’s it, that’s my girl.”
The praise elicits a pornographic moan out of you, only triggering his cock to twitch against your walls.
“God, wish I could see your face right now,” his mumbling fades into a gravelly groan, sinking deep into you.
“Y’can if you fuck me when we’re outta here,” you strain out, taking him to the hilt. His cock twitches again, making you both shudder.
“I dunno, what if we can’t get you out, sweetheart?” The tides turn with his tone. He pulls out slowly, teasing your clit with the head of his cock. You twitch and clench around nothing, making him smirk. “What if you’re stuck here forever?” Slamming back into you, your walls clamp down on him, tighter than before. “Oh, what, you like that idea?”
“Steve…”
“You wanna be left here? Where anyone can walk by, use you however they want?” He draws back, snapping his hips back into your ass, relishing in the way you cry out. “Anyone can find you in the woods over there, use that pretty mouth of yours…” Gripping your hips, he pulls back slowly, thrusting in with everything he’s got. It’s becoming a torturous pattern, but he can tell you’re enjoying it with the way you’re soaking his cock.
“Oh my— fuck…” You gasp from the other side, throwing yourself back into him as far as the gate allows you. He grunts as you meet his thrusts.
“You’d be up for grabs over here too, y’know…” Hands trailing back to your ass, he spreads your cheeks, spitting lewdly on your pretty, puckered hole. “But maybe you’re not that much of a freak—“ You don’t hold back the sinful sound building in your throat over his unfinished concept. “Oh. Oh. You’d like gettin’ fucked by some monsters too, huh? That’s so fuckin’ gross, babe.”
“That ain’t even the half of it,” you manage to reveal through panting and whimpering.
His mind races over the possibilities, slamming into you a little faster.
Steve circles the tight entrance with the pad of his thumb, throbbing deep inside you as he tests the waters, sinking in just a bit. You squirm and whine, relaxing as he continues on, eventually making it past his knuckle— which, wouldn’t be too much, but with the size of his hands, you feel so full off that alone.
“You’re so fuckin’ tight, I don’t think I’ll l- last long,” he murmurs while he pistons his hips into you, growing sloppier by the minute.
“S’okay… m’not…” You can’t grasp onto the words you need, not when he’s fucking you absolutely brainless between dimensions. “God, Steve, you’re so deep.”
His thumb slips out of you, leaving you emptier than before, making desperate, pathetic mewls and cries. Ignoring you, his hand slides underneath, pressing down onto the peak of your mound. “Where do you feel me? Here?”
“N- no, deeper…”
Steve splays his hand wide, fingers blanketing over your skin; he inches his touch up, just where your belly and pelvis begin to meet. The further he stretches his touch, the more he leans over you, kissing along any bare skin on your back he can reach.
“Here?”
You shake your head, but he can’t see. Your lapse in verbal response earns a smack on your ass, causing you to cry out into the expanse of the woods.
“Where, babe? Tell me.”
“Up,” whimpering, you push back into him. Hand gliding up to your belly button, he stops.
“Here?”
Eyes rolling back, you let out a broken sob, “Yes!”
Steve pushes down on your belly, just enough for the pressure to meet his thrusts.
“You’re takin’ me like a slut… sound like one, too.” He grunts while bucking wildly into you. His hand disappears, only to join the other in grabbing you by the thighs, nearly lifting your lower half off the ground against him.
The sound is absolutely what you’d expect from two, hopelessly horny idiots, fucking in a circumstance like this one right here. Skin on skin slapping roughly, echoing out into the woods of the Upside Down, in time with his near-feral grunts and throaty groans. On your side, in your world, you can only imagine how close to an injured animal you might sound like, or someone in actual distress, unable to cover your mouth as you hold yourself up while he fucks into you relentlessly.
“M’pretty close, angel,” Steve pants through the gate, hips stuttering while he still gives his all, thrusting mercilessly into you. “Where— where can I—“
“‘Side…” You groan out, lost in a lust-driven delirium.
Attitude softening, he manages to ask, “In— you mean inside?”
“Uh-huh, wanna be full,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear. “Make me yours—“
“Oh, fuck,” Steve’s hips freeze over your words, finally reaching his high. One final cry tears out of you as your fourth and final orgasm trembles through your body, rolling into his. The delicious squeeze and fluttering around him helps milk his release, doing just as you asked, filling you up with his spend.
Involuntarily, his entire lower half twitches violently into you, and finally, finally, the gate gives, allowing him to tumble through to the other side, shoving you out first. He lands on top of you, rolling over onto the forest floor while you both groan. The woods are quiet, aside from occasional crickets and your loud, ragged breaths, weaving through the branches above.
Though the two of you are ready to fully collapse, the squelching sound of the gate constricting catches your attention; the damn thing closes completely.
Steve chuckles weakly, while you push past any shame that might still linger, shyly smiling over at him.
“Hey…” You attempt to greet him, now that you’re face to face— which, speaking of, his features are still glistening from sweat and your multiple releases.
“Hi,” he breathes, eyes trailing over your figure, landing and pausing on your exposed core, dripping a lewd mixture of fluids. “Fuck…” He leans forward, but stops himself, mumbling, “If we weren’t in the woods, I’d, uh, help clean you up, but…”
Your eyes widen, taking in his words; neither of you are in a state to fuck around any further, but you make a mental note of the suggestion for the future. “I’m— I’ll remember that.”
Surging towards him with an ounce of renewed energy, you capture his lips in a long-awaited kiss. He makes the cutest noise of surprise, melding against you. Pausing, he murmurs against your lips, “Sorry we couldn’t do that first.” It’s a wild shift in his demeanor post-sex, from a dominant, feral wreck, to this soft, precious person before you.
“We can make up for it though.”
“After a super long fuckin’ nap.” Then he cringes, “And the— y’know, the whole—“ He waves his hand around, rolling his eyes, “the Vecna thing.”
“Right. Yeah. Priorities.” You’re looking forward to all of this coming to an end. All you want is to curl up in bed with Steve, and sleep a whole day away, but that’ll have to wait.
As clarity brings you back down to earth, you realize you’re still naked from the waist down… which means—
Hi, darling! I just saw that episode of House where he is wearing a hoodie and it got me...Could you maybe write something with that please? It's all up to you, just make it smutty *smirk face* Thank you take care!
The kind of silence that was too awake to be comforting. The room was dim, moonlight ghosting across your sheets. And there it was—a faint amber glow, bleeding in through the cracked door.
The living room lamp.
Again.
You sighed, rolling over, stretching one arm across the empty side of the bed where he should be.
Typical.
You threw back the covers, muscles sighing in protest. Your sleep shirt was practically nonexistent—a gauzy, see-through tank that didn’t even pretend to be innocent. The pair of tiny jersey shorts you had on were riding up with every step, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you in less.
Or hadn’t fantasized about worse.
Padding barefoot down the hall, the low rustle of paper greeted you first. And then, rounding the corner—
There he was.
Gregory House.
On your damn couch, at 2:03 in the morning, sitting like the poster boy for “do-not-disturb asshole”: hoodie slouched over his frame, hood up like a smug little gremlin, sweatpants, and his legs obnoxiously spread like he owned the floor in front of him. Case file open. Reading glasses low on his nose.
He didn’t even look up right away.
Just said, “If this is a sleepwalking booty call, I gotta say—your subconscious has excellent timing.”
You folded your arms, half amused, half exasperated. “You left the lamp on.”
That earned you a glance.
A slow, lazy once-over, from your bare thighs to the cling of the tank top, where it definitely wasn’t hiding how cold it was.
His eyes dragged back up to yours, voice a low drawl. “You left the tank top on. Guess we both made decisions.”
You blinked, then grumbled, “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re practically naked,” he said, tossing the file on the coffee table like it offended him. “So either this is a late-night performance piece, or you actually came out here for something.”
You moved closer, arms still folded. “Maybe I was checking to make sure you hadn’t died of ego poisoning.”
“Aw, concerned fiancé,” he said, patting his thigh. “C’mere and make sure I still have a pulse.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not even warm.”
“You could fix that.”
Smirking despite yourself, you stepped between his knees—and the bastard had the audacity to lean back, arms sprawled across the couch like you were a lapdog and he knew you were going to climb in.
And… well.
You did.
Straddling him felt inevitable, familiar. His thighs were warm under yours. His hoodie smelled like coffee and Vicodin and him. Your hands rested on his shoulders, his slid—without permission—around your waist like he owned the whole situation.
“Is this your idea of aftercare,” you murmured. “Letting me get cold in bed alone while you get horny over puzzle corpses?”
He chuckled low. “I wasn’t horny till you walked in looking like a slutty fever dream.”
You rolled your eyes, shifting in his lap. “Can’t believe I put up with this.”
“Can’t believe I put up with you putting up with me,” he replied, tilting his head just enough that your lips brushed his jaw.
You kissed there. Slow. Deliberate. Tracing the rough stubble down his jawline with your mouth, letting your lips drag warm against his neck.
His hands tightened on your waist.
Then lower.
Fingers digging into your ass, pulling you flush against him. You felt the heat of him through two layers of thin fabric and nothing else, and God, the way he smirked at your breath catching…
“You’re not exactly subtle,” he murmured, his voice a rasp against your ear.
You whispered back, breath hot, “I wanna ride you.”
That got you a look. A Look.
Half-lidded, cocky, smug and dark.
“That’s a bold negotiation tactic,” he murmured, shifting his hips just slightly—enough to make you gasp this time.
His lips crushed into yours.
Mouths open, tongues sliding, your fingers curled in the front of his hoodie like you’d pull him deeper into you if you could. The kiss turned hot, messy, all biting lips and gasped breaths. His hands gripped your hips like he owned your body. Like he’d earned it.
God, his mouth felt so good.
Hot, possessive, needy in the way House never admitted to being. It started with just a kiss—if that’s what you could even call it anymore. One second you were whispering in his ear about how you wanted to ride him, and the next he was pulling you into his mouth like you were oxygen and he hadn’t breathed in days.
His hands were under your thighs now, lifting you into him, rough and demanding, like the idea of being apart was suddenly offensive. The hoodie bunched around your waist as his fingers roamed beneath it, sliding up the bare skin of your back, gripping, tugging you tighter until there was no space left. Only friction.
Only heat.
You couldn’t help the little moan that left your throat—not even a real sound, more like a gasp—when he shifted his hips beneath you and you felt him. Hard. Warm. Pressed right between your legs.
Your thighs clenched around his. Your hands dug into the front of his hoodie as you kissed him harder, deeper, teeth scraping his bottom lip, tongue greedy against his.
He groaned low in his chest—that sound, the one that always made you unravel. It was so him, like a growl barely tethered behind all that arrogant self-control.
“You’re dangerous like this,” he muttered against your lips, breath hot and ragged. “Tank top? See-through? Shorts so small they should be illegal in most countries? What exactly were you expecting to happen when you climbed into my lap like a needy little nymph at two in the goddamn morning?”
You tried to answer. You really did.
But then his hand slid down and gripped your ass again, fingers spreading possessively, like he liked the way you gasped. The way your hips moved without your permission. The way you whined a little, breath catching in your throat when his other hand tugged the front of your tank top down just far enough that your nipple peeked through the fabric, hardened from the cold—and now his gaze.
His mouth was everywhere.
Your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—kisses turning from slow drags to open-mouthed, wet and warm, tongue flicking over your skin like he was learning it all over again.
“Greg…” you breathed, dizzy, hips rocking against his abs now because you needed something, anything to ease the pressure pooling inside you.
“Mmm,” he hummed darkly, voice muffled against your skin. “So breathy already. You’re not even naked yet.”
You pushed back to look at him, breathing hard. Your tank was wrinkled, askew, practically pointless now. Your thighs trembled a little, straddling his lap, still feeling the imprint of every line of him against you through your shorts.
“I want to ride you,” you whispered again, voice hoarse with need, trembling in your throat.
His eyes locked on yours—hot, heavy-lidded, burning with that mixture of lust and smug amusement he wore like armor.
He smirked.
“I know,” he said softly, dragging a thumb across your bottom lip. “I could feel it the second you sat down. You’ve been wet since the hallway, haven’t you?”
Your breath hitched. “You’re such a cocky bastard.”
“Uh-huh.” He leaned in, grazing your ear with his lips, voice dropping to something dark and delicious. “And you’re the one grinding on me like a desperate little pillow princess in a slutty tank top.”
You shivered.
“You want this on the couch?” he asked, tongue flicking against your neck, slow and deliberate. “Or are we dragging our half-naked asses back to bed and pretending to be civilized?”
You ground down against him again, eyes fluttering shut as you felt his cock pulse beneath you, hot and hard and barely restrained by the thin fabric of his sweats.
“I don’t wanna be civilized,” you whispered, mouth brushing his.
House’s hand slid between your bodies, pressing his fingers over the thin fabric of your shorts, dragging them along the dampness he already knew would be there.
His grin was pure sin.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured, voice thick and wrecked now, but still smug. “Fuck, baby. You really did wake up needing it.”
“I woke up needing you.”
That broke something in him.
One hand came up to cup the back of your neck, dragging you into another filthy, open-mouthed kiss, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your whole body melt. The other hand pulled your shorts aside, fingers teasing along your slit, slow, slow, so slow it was maddening.
“I’m gonna let you ride me,” he rasped, panting into your mouth. “Right here. You’re gonna take me slow, understand? I want you to feel everything.”
You whined, rolling your hips helplessly against his hand.
“Say it,” he growled.
“I—I’ll take you slow,” you whispered, barely able to speak. “I wanna feel it all.”
“You’re goddamn right you do.”
And with that, he tugged your shorts down, one-handed, like he’d done it a thousand times. You lifted yourself just enough to let them slip to your knees, then off completely, trembling in anticipation as you looked down between your bodies—at the hard line of him pressing against his sweats, at your own thighs slick with want.
House shoved the hoodie off his shoulders, lips still burning against your jaw as he fumbled his sweats low enough to free himself.
Your eyes dropped, breath catching when you saw him—thick, flushed, already dripping at the tip.
You reached down, fingers wrapping around him, lining him up.
His head dropped back against the couch, groaning deep as you rubbed him against your entrance, just once.
“Jesus Christ,” he hissed. “You’re so wet I could slide in without even trying.”
You didn’t want to wait. You couldn’t.
You sank down slowly—so slowly, just like he said—feeling every inch stretch you, fill you, steal your breath until you were seated fully in his lap, thighs shaking, nails biting into his shoulders.
Your eyes met his.
And he looked ruined.
“This is the best 2 a.m. of my life,” he whispered, voice rough and broken. “Don’t stop. Fuck—ride me, baby.”
He was so deep.
You didn’t even realize you’d stopped breathing until you sat all the way down in his lap, thighs trembling from the stretch, nails buried in his hoodie like you needed something to ground yourself. You could feel every inch of him inside you, thick and hot and pulsing, pressing into that perfect, maddening spot that made your vision blur at the edges.
House groaned beneath you—head tilted back, jaw clenched, throat tight. His hands gripped your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you down harder or just hold you there, buried around him like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.
“Fuck me,” he panted, voice rough and low. “Look at you. Taking it so slow… like you want me to die from it.”
You gave a breathless little laugh, but it cracked halfway through. You couldn’t help the way your hips rolled against his, slow and deliberate, dragging him against your walls so deep it was almost too much.
Almost.
“Maybe I do want you to die from it,” you whispered, breath warm against his ear, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “If you’re gonna die… might as well be with me wrapped around your cock.”
He let out a dark, broken laugh—more a groan, really—and dragged your hips forward, grinding you down against him with a filthy sound of approval.
“Jesus, you’re insufferable,” he muttered, but his voice was shaking now. Shaking because you had the control.
And you were going to make him feel it.
You started moving. Slowly. Lifting yourself just enough that he nearly slipped out, then sliding back down, dragging your nails over his chest as you rocked your hips with a rhythm that was downright sinful.
House’s hands were everywhere—your thighs, your ass, the small of your back. His lips were parted, eyes dark and so focused on the way your body moved, like the image of you riding him was being burned into his brain forever.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he growled, fingers digging into your ass as you rolled your hips again, teasing yourself with every inch. “And you’re milking me like you want to make me beg.”
Your head fell back, a soft moan slipping from your lips as you clenched around him at the sound of his voice—low, desperate, filthy.
“Say it again,” you whispered, breath catching. “Tell me what I do to you.”
His hands slid up your body, under your tank top, thumbs grazing over your breasts now, teasing your nipples through the thin fabric as he thrust up into you once—hard, sudden, enough to make you cry out and grab his shoulders.
“You’re ruining me,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You hear me? You get on top of me in the middle of the night wearing that, with that look on your face, and I lose every fucking ounce of self-respect I ever had. I’m yours, sweetheart. Yours to use, yours to break—just keep moving like that and I’ll give you anything.”
That—God, that—set you on fire.
You kissed him hard, biting his lower lip, moaning into his mouth as you started riding him harder now—still slow, but deep, grinding your hips in circles with each thrust, dragging him through every nerve in your body.
Your hands fisted in his hair, and his mouth was everywhere—your jaw, your throat, the curve of your chest. His lips latched around your nipple through the tank and sucked hard, making you gasp and grind harder, the feeling going straight between your legs.
“Greg—fuck, I’m—” You couldn’t even finish. Couldn’t find words. Every stroke sent sparks up your spine, your body trembling as pleasure coiled tighter, tighter inside you.
He felt it too.
“I can feel you squeezing me,” he breathed, hips snapping up into yours with more desperation now. “You gonna come for me like this? Ride me till you fall apart in my lap?”
You were nodding before you could even think, your hands sliding down to brace against his chest, your hips slamming down faster now—messy, breathy, desperate. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, and you didn’t care how loud you were anymore. Didn’t care that you were practically crying into his mouth as you kissed him again.
“Greg—I’m—I can’t—”
“Yes you can,” he rasped, gripping your ass tighter, guiding you now, thrusting up into you perfectly. “You’re mine, remember? My girl. You take this cock like you were made for it. Come on, baby. Give it to me.”
That pushed you over the edge.
Your whole body clenched, vision white-hot as you broke apart in his lap, crying out as the orgasm hit you—hard, rolling through every muscle, your hips still grinding helplessly as he held you down and groaned into your neck.
“That’s it—fuck—” he growled, losing control completely. You felt him twitch inside you, the hot pulse of him spilling deep as he gasped your name against your throat, both of you a mess of sweat and breath and pure wreckage.
You collapsed forward against his chest, still shaking, your legs jelly, lips pressed to the hollow of his throat.
You felt him laugh—quiet and smug, his arms wrapping around you, lazy and satisfied.
“Well,” he murmured, breath still uneven. “That was… not what I expected from tonight’s reading session.”
You smiled into his neck, still panting. “You’re not gonna finish that case file, are you?”
“Not unless it has a plot twist involving you riding me again in ten minutes.”
You laughed, smacking his chest lightly.
He caught your hand and kissed it, his mouth surprisingly soft.
Then he looked down at you, eyes half-lidded and hazy with affection.
𝒢reg house ੭୧ f! reader ┇ head (f!receiving) ⋆ age-gap ⋆ secret relationship
It was a boring Friday evening with both of your parents sitting with you by your dining table. Your mom, Dr. Samantha Wilson made your favourite dish, yet the only thing you could think about right now was what was waiting for you later on.
If you managed to lie your way through out of the house, of course.
“So how was your day?” Your dad, Dr. James Wilson, oncologist at Princeton-Plainsboro asked with curiosity laced in his tone.
You swallowed your food before opening your mouth to speak, debating on your answer.
“Great, except for the fact that I got traumatised by Dr. White. He made me write a whole essay on how estrogen would work in a male body. And I have to present it, in front of the whole hospital next week.”
“That’s amazing.” Your mom spoke while you gave her a look.
“No, Mom, it’s not. Didn’t you hear the part where I said I have to present it to the whole hospital? And I only have a week.”
“Well, better get to it then. As I heard Dr. White is very cold-hearted. He won't expect any less than perfect from you.”
“Thanks.” You murmured. “I’m not even qualified to become a diagnostician any time soon. I don’t get why I have to study biochemistry when I signed up for a course in psychology.”
“Well why wouldn't you want to be a diagnostician?” Samantha asked.
Wilson pressed his lips together to keep him from smiling, but the subtle twitch of his cheeks and the way his eyes glinted, you could see that your dad had a really hard time keeping his laughter in.
“You want me to work at Plainsboro, right?” You asked.
“Well obviously. Why would you work in a different hospital when your Dad already works in one?” She raised a brow while you dropped your shoulders.
“Well, I don’t think they would need another diagnostician anytime soon. Unless House decides he’d want to die of Hydrocodone-Paracetamol overdose, I’m sure Plainsboro won't need another doctor playing “Who’s the killer?”
Sam smiled before taking another bite out of her food.
“Um…I was thinking since it’s Friday and I practically got an excellent on all of my assignments…maybe I could spend the weekend at Cathy’s place?”
“Catherine just moved out from her parents place, no?” Sam asked while you nodded.
“I thought I could go over, and spend a girly night with her, you know. She needs me. Just as much as I needed her when I was going through recovery.”
“Oh let her go, they don’t even meet anymore that often.” Wilson leaned back in his chair while your mother was still sitting in front of you with raised brows, chewing softly on her food.
Shit.
Did she find Greg’s shirt in my laundry?
“Okay.” Samantha spoke, chugging down her water. “But your father will drive you.” She continued. “Public transportation has been nasty these days. And I don’t want you to get lost in New Jersey. Potential place for serial killers.”
Yeah that’s exactly why she decided to settle down and marry a man from here.
“Actually I can't.” Your dad responded. “Car’s been breaking down since I drove home from the hospital. I’m sorry, Sweetheart. You either go by bus or metro.”
A big rock fell down from your heart. You couldn't even put it into words how grateful you were that the damned Volvo finally broke down. You always had to go from Cathy’s place and take the metro to Baker Street.
“It’s alright, Dad. Don’t worry. Thanks though. Dinner was nice, Mom. I’m going to pack my stuff.”
The walk from the station to Greg’s place wasn’t that far away. The weather was humid, but still warm due to it being only early October.
The fact was that since you got treated for your kidney stones and have been under the care of your dad’s so-called best friend, things have maybe changed a little bit.
Okay.
They changed a whole lot.
In the past few weeks, you tried to seem normal about the fact that every weekend since the first day of your first semester you’ve been spending your time at House’s place.
Anyway, your relationship wasn't much of a Girlfriend and Boyfriend type of bonding. Some would assume that maybe what you two were doing was just the result of some kind of sexual tension that lived in the both of you.
But the thing is with the Forbidden Fruit that the more it’s forbidden, the more you want it.
And that was exactly your case with Greg House.
Except for the fact that it wasn't all that sweet and dovey and lovely as others around your age expected a relationship would feel like.
Sure there were moments where both of you felt vulnerable around each other. You more because well let’s be honest, Greg’s not a man of feelings.
You turned a corner up to Baker Street, looking out for the number 221 as you walked straight by the apartments. Your sneakers creaked slightly on the leaves that fell down on the pavement.
Even though you knew exactly which apartment was he living in and how far was it from the beginning of the street you tried to brace yourself. Your breath hitched whenever you thought about what happened the last time you were at his apartment.
That poor piano…
The door clicked softly behind you as you stepped into the familiar apartment at 221 Baker Street, Apartment B.
It was dim inside, the only real light coming from the flickering TV screen playing some late-night crime documentary, the volume turned down low — almost just a whisper in the background. The place smelled faintly of old books, leather, and a hint of something sharper — antiseptic, maybe. Or him.
Gregory House was exactly where you expected him to be: sprawled out carelessly on the battered brown leather couch, one long leg thrown over the armrest, a thick medical file balanced precariously on his stomach. His reading glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, half-sliding down, but he didn’t bother to fix them. His cane was tossed carelessly on the coffee table, along with a half-eaten container of Chinese food and an open bottle of Vicodin — standard décor for him.
He didn’t look up when you entered. Just turned a page with a lazy flick of his fingers, his voice dry and sharp as ever.
“About time. I was starting to think you got kidnapped by one of those serial killers your mom’s so worried about.”
He finally glanced up at you over the rim of his glasses, the smallest smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Which would’ve been a shame. Finding another emotionally unstable young woman to warm my bed sounds like a lot of paperwork.”
You rolled your eyes and tossed your bag onto the armchair by the door.
“I had to dodge my mom’s twenty questions. Thought she found your shirt in my laundry.”
House barked out a short, sarcastic laugh, returning his attention to the file.
“Well, if she’s smart enough to connect the dots, maybe she deserves the horror of knowing who’s been defiling her little girl.”
You kicked off your sneakers and padded over the worn wooden floors toward him, your fingers brushing your pocket — the small silver key he’d given you a few days ago burning against your fingertips. Your own key. To his place.
He didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t have to. It meant something, even if he’d pretend otherwise.
You stood in front of him for a moment, arms crossed, watching the way his fingers absentmindedly drummed against the folder. The way his body moved, even in stillness — relaxed, confident, like he had the entire world already figured out and it bored him.
The silence stretched between you, taut and electric, until finally you shifted onto the couch beside him.
“You gonna keep pretending I’m not here?” you murmured.
He didn’t miss a beat.
“Depends. Are you going to do something interesting, or just sit there looking needy?”
You narrowed your eyes at him, but a smile tugged at your lips. He wanted you to make the first move — smug bastard.
You leaned closer, slow, deliberate, until your knees brushed his thigh. He tilted his head slightly to glance at you, his expression unreadable, except for that slight, infuriating smirk.
Without giving him a warning, you climbed into his lap, straddling him, feeling the roughness of his jeans against your bare thighs where your skirt rode up.
He grunted — not from surprise, but more like mild amusement — letting the file drop carelessly to the floor with a soft thud. His hands immediately settled on your hips like it was second nature, fingers flexing slightly.
“God, you’re needy,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough, low.
You kissed him before he could throw another jab at you — pressed your mouth against his hard, demanding. He kissed you back instantly, no hesitation, no tenderness. House didn’t do soft. He kissed like he argued: messy, fierce, and like he needed to win.
You felt him shift under you, like he was about to stand up with you in his arms.
You pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth, breathless,
“Don’t. You’re not—”
“I’m not what?” he interrupted, raising an eyebrow, voice thick with mockery. “Strong enough? Gonna break my leg in half?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly — and then stood up anyway, effortlessly lifting you into his arms.
You gasped, clutching his shoulders.
“You’re a stubborn ass!” you hissed.
“You’re welcome,” he shot back smugly, carrying you through the short hallway to his bedroom like it was no big deal, no strain in his gait, only the faintest limp — still cocky as ever.
You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until he tossed you gently onto the bed, the mattress bouncing slightly under you.
He followed immediately, kneeling above you. His eyes pinned you to the bed, sharp, gleaming, and darker now, like a predator ready to devour.
“Clothes. Off. Now.” His voice was rough, commanding, but still dripping with sarcasm. “Or do you need a PowerPoint presentation on how sex works?”
You glared at him, cheeks burning, but the way he was looking at you — with that pure, hungry intensity — made your fingers fumble at your blouse anyway.
He helped, of course. With House, “helping” meant him undoing your buttons at an agonizingly slow pace, his knuckles brushing your skin with every movement, smirking when you shivered under his touch.
The blouse slipped off your shoulders, and he made a low sound in his throat when he saw the white lace of your bra.
“Well, that’s unfair. Bringing weapons to a knife fight,” he muttered, hands reaching behind you with shocking dexterity to snap your bra open in one move.
House stared for a beat longer than he probably meant to, then leaned down, his mouth closing hotly over your breast, worshiping you in a way his words never would.
You tangled your fingers in his hair, moaning softly as he trailed kisses lower, down your stomach, teasing the waistband of your skirt.
In no time, he was pulling down your tights and skirt in one smooth, careless tug, tossing them somewhere onto the floor.
His fingers slid under your thighs, prying them apart, his breath warm against your inner thighs as he kissed along the soft skin, slow and deliberate. You felt his stubble scraping lightly, sensitizing every nerve ending.
Then you felt his fingers stroke the fabric of your panties — slow at first, just barely there, featherlight — before he tugged it aside roughly. The cool air hit you for a second before the warmth of his mouth replaced it.
He spat lightly against you, the wet heat of it making you whimper, your hips jerking upward without thinking.
“Relax, drama queen,” he murmured against you, before licking a slow, firm stripe up your center, making you cry out his name, high and needy.
He sucked your clit into his mouth, humming low in satisfaction at the way you squirmed under him.
His fingers slipped inside you, slow, deep, while he talked you through it, voice low and rough against your skin.
“That’s it. Good girl. Just like that. God, you’re so easy — fall apart the second I touch you…”
Your thighs were trembling, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter, until your orgasm hit you like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping, crying out his name.
He didn’t stop right away — kept working you through it, letting you ride the waves until you collapsed back against the mattress, boneless.
He finally pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking wickedly as he crawled up over you again.
He leaned in close, so close you could feel his breath against your ear as he whispered, voice full of that cocky arrogance that somehow made your heart race faster:
“That was just the warm-up. Hope you’re not planning on walking tomorrow.”
seeing house play the piano and the electric guitar does some inexplicable things to wilson's insides.
something about deft, fast-paced, slender fingers rhythmically hitting and dragging the right places on the instruments makes him wish he was one of those instead.
Those few casual pictures of Hayden where he's walking around, wearing a shirt that's soaked in his sweat, not only by his armpits, but also over his stomach, mullet peeking from under the cap, nipples visible through the thin material, neck THICK and a few-day stubble on OH MY LAWRDS PIE IN ME NOW
