here are some rodrick heffley stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡
ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I ~S- implied smut
☆ loser!bf rodrick I @fear-is-truth I F + ~S
☆ cool girlfriend I @/fear-is-truth I F
☆ whimper audiotape I @/fear-is-truth I ~S
☆ loser!rodrick I @lustagel I F + ~S
☆ perv!loser!virgin!rodrick I @/lustagel I S
☆ bf!rodrick I @draculiette I F
rodrick heffley and his plastic girlfriend
☆ popular girl meets chaotic punk boy I @multi-fandom-imagine I F
☆ social suicide I @vxlelove I F
☆ jealousy, jealousy I @/vxlelove I F
☆ the loser who won your heart I @celestiamour I F
he’s nothing to you, just a little errand boy who will do anything you ask with a bat of your eyes, so why are you starting to feel more?
☆ serving the heffleys I @fallingforfred I F
☆ maybe it was just because you guys were best friends I @/fallingforfred I F
you're rodrick's best friend and you came to see greg's play--in which rodrick embarrasses him by bringing a camera
☆ college rodrick I @snowluvvie I F + ~S
☆ myspace I @/snowluvvie I F
☆ there she goes I @liquideyes I F
rodrick's parents had just grounded him after finding out about the party him and his younger brother had thrown while they were away. and more importantly they had told him he wasn't allowed to be in the talent show with his band. and ever since then he hadn't come out of his room. his family was growing worried, so greg took it upon himself to do one thing right and call you. and of course you wanted nothing more than to be there for you boyfriend.
☆ his little secret I @stxrrkissed I A
when rodrick’s band kicks off, he keeps the image of being single to attract fame, he keeps you as his little secret.
☆ better than revenge I @lqveharrington I A
after years of friendship with rodrick, the one thing that came in between you was a girl.
peter parker’s never kissed anyone, and pretending to do it in a closet was just to spare him the humiliation. teaching him the basics? innocent enough. until he starts learning how to touch, how to beg, and how to make you forget it was ever pretend (completed)
genres: college au, fake-dating, friends w. benefits
notes: contains smut! block the tag below to not get it on ur feed! but whew. tony stark and the avengers are alive i say as they drag me back into the white room… set around christmas time bc i like the vibes lol
thinking about soft dom!choso who cries during sex.
and really, who can blame him. the heady cocktail of sensation and emotion that comes with being so thoroughly joined to you, body and soul, overwhelms his gentle heart.
your fingers stay laced together, palms warm and a little sticky with sweat. under normal circumstances, it would’ve been unpleasant. those big, bambi eyes of his stare seem to through your soul, as if he isn’t simultaneously rearranging your guts with deep strokes, the engorged tip of his cock kissing your g-spot with accuracy—oh, and the veins do a mighty good job at rubbing against your walls. drunk from bliss, the sudden warm drop of water that lands on your cheekbone startles you.
he’s crying. though he seems to be unaware, more focused is he on pounding you into the mattress—with love, of course. eyebrows scrunched, body trembling like a leaf in high wind, choso is totally enraptured by the sensation of your cunt wrapped tight around him as pearlescent tears run down his flushed cheeks.
soft dom!choso, who makes love to you so intensely you both end up in tears. who cups your tear-streaked face with genuine alarm, slipping instantly into protective-lover mode, apologising profusely under his breath—for what, exactly? you’ve just had phenomenal sex with the love of your life, but he can be adorably clueless like that sometimes.
ʚ 𝐭𝐰 : vincent (vox) x reader, sitting on his face, hooked nose, MDNI, sucking pussy, licking, rubbing his nose on her clitoris, nsfw, whining, moaning, rubbing herself on his face.
You position yourself above him, your thighs trembling slightly as you slowly lower yourself, sitting directly on Vincent's face.
The air is thick with tension, the room lit only by the dim light of a table lamp, highlighting the sharp contours of his aquiline nose, that prominent curve you know you'll use to your advantage.
His heterochromatic eyes, one intense green and the other electric blue, blink upward, full of hunger, as he lets out a low, muffled whimper against your skin.
━━ Please... ━ he murmurs, his voice hoarse and broken, his hands rising to grip your thighs firmly, his long fingers digging into the soft flesh.
Vincent, the current TV reporter, now reduced to this, lies on his back on the unmade bed, his impeccable suit crumpled on the floor, his dark, slicked-back hair disheveled. You feel the heat of his breath against your pussy, hot and uneven, even before he begins.
You settle in completely, pressing your pussy against his open mouth, and he doesn't hesitate. His lips close around you, sucking with an avid, desperate suction, as if he's been starving for this for years.
His tongue emerges immediately, licking slowly at first, tracing the contours of your swollen lips, gathering every drop of moisture that trickles down.
━━ Mmph. ━ he groans against you, the sound vibrating through your sensitive flesh, sending shivers down your spine.
His whimpers are pathetic, yet exciting, short and sharp, as if each lick is torturing him as much as it's giving you pleasure.
You begin to move, rubbing against his face with slow, deliberate movements, feeling the roughness of his stubble brushing against your inner thighs. His hooked nose is perfect for this; you tilt your hips, positioning him exactly where you want it, rubbing your clit against the prominent curve.
It's like a custom-made, hard, angular bulge, pressing and stimulating the sensitive spot with every movement of his body.
━━ Ah, y-yes... ━ you sigh, your hands going to his hair, pulling it higher, forcing him to bury himself deeper.
Vincent responds with more intensity, his tongue now licking furiously, circling your clitoris before plunging inside you, sucking and swallowing as if he wants to devour every inch.
Your moans grow louder, muffled by your flesh, but you feel them, deep vibrations that echo in waves of pleasure.
━━ My God, you taste so good. ━ he manages to stammer between licks, his eyes rolling slightly as you rub harder, using his nose as a personal toy.
The friction is delicious, his nose brushing and pressing against your swollen clitoris, making sparks of ecstasy explode in your belly.
He whimpers again, his hands gripping your thighs tighter, as if begging for more air, but you don't stop. Instead, you quicken the pace, rotating your hips, rubbing your wet pussy all over his face, from his mouth to his nose, leaving a glistening trail of your arousal on his skin.
Vincent groans loudly now, the sound guttural and desperate, his tongue never ceasing to lick, suck, explore every fold. You feel the climax approaching, the pleasure building like a wave, and you ride him with more urgency, his nose brushing perfectly against your clit with each movement.
━━ Darling, don't s-stop.. ━ you command, your voice breathless, and he obeys, licking and sucking with renewed vigor, his whimpers mingling with his own moans.
The room echoes with the wet sounds of his mouth against yours, his muffled moans, and the creaking of the bed under your weight.
Finally, pleasure explodes, you writhing around his tongue, rubbing against his face one last time as you climax, flooding him with your essence.
Vincent gasps beneath you, his eyes glazed with satisfaction and exhaustion, but a crooked smile forms on his swollen lips.
━━ More. ━ he says softly, ready to begin again.
@OWODUCKS.ᐟ any translations, reposts, and usage of my written works are strictly prohibited. reblogs are appreciated.
A DAY AT THE TRIBUNE
[ BLACK!JOURNALIST READER & VINCENT ]
Summary: 1956. Vincent doesn't hesitate to tell you about working on TV, you similarly waste no time to tell him about your articles. Together, in the basement of St. Mark's church, you show him how good of a writer you are.
Tags: 1950s elements - racism, segregation mentions. A relationship is growing here, hidden forms of intimacy, Reader is from the South, Reader is developing a deep fondness on Vincent, Vincent has a ignorant mouth, Vincent begins to realize...Rome wasn't built in a day. Reader has a surname
Vincent Whittman was a man you never expected to become part of your life.
Now, of course, you were aware that moving from Georgia to Delaware would cause you to deal with more white people both personally and professionally, but nonetheless, you imagined a particular demeanor for all of them - steel-eyed, cold as the climate.
You heard from your father, who unlike your mother was a city man from New York, that the difference between white behavior in the South versus the North was one key thing.
In the South, they don’t care how close you get, as long as you don’t get too high. The opposite would be true for the North, where they don’t care how high you get, as long as you don’t get too close.
So yes, steel-eyed, cold, contractual. This is what you expected.
Vincent, however -
In the nicest way possible, you liken his physicality to the mailman who routed past your grandparent’s property. He didn’t permit you to know his name, but he was a slim, long-fingered man with a beak of a nose separating two enormous almond eyes.
Your mother saw in the best of everybody. So of course, she described him as a man who didn’t have problems with anyone. Yet, you had distinct memories of being ten years old, seeing him stalling at the mailbox.
Sometimes you managed to have a conversation with him, but more often than not he left a dust trail on the dirt road.
Vincent was the opposite of the postman in that regard: he continuously sought out your company. Cold nor contractual, he possessed the demeanor of a door-to-door salesman with a matching grin to boot.
Unlike a salesman, Vincent didn’t have an angle. (And God knows you studied him for one) He wasn’t trying to sell you a dream, wasn’t looking for a cleaner, he was just a Weatherman.
“What do you do for a living?” He asked you during your technical third meeting.
You hid your nerves, sitting beside him on the public transit. Apprehension dared to melt when you recalled how he bowed his head, polite. “If you don’t mind me asking…that is…”
“I’m a journalist.”
The look on his face was priceless. His eyes widened, you lifted an eyebrow, but your smile didn’t falter. “Does that…surprise you, Mr. Whittman?”
That eyebrow rendered him into inarticulation, “No? No! I’m just thinking - I’m a meteorologist! You’re a journalist! The coincidence of us sitting here-!”
Despite not believing him, you nodded. “It is something, huh?”
At the time you were just going along with his words. Not trying to rock the boat anymore than him. But, as you got to know him, you thought it was something.
It’s something he looked like a face from home, it’s something he’s in the news field.
He was as curious about your paper just as you were curious about the magic that came with being on television. It was only a matter of time before he requested to read some of your articles.
This is why you wait for him outside St. Mark’s A.M.E. Church on King Street.
The Delaware Tribune operated out of the basement of St. Mark’s. Sermons echoed faintly through the floor above on Sundays, but on weekdays, the basement belonged to the paper.
However, whether it be Sunday or any day of the week, St. Mark served as a black communal space. In this moment, you rationalized it not as just a communal space, but as neutral ground, somewhere you and Vincent could be mostly co-exist without scrutiny.
Cold January air nipped at your fingertips more as time moved along, the bottom of your nose developing a chill. If Vincent did not show up soon, you were going to-
“Ms. DuBois!”
“Mr. Whittman!”
Today, he would be referred to as Mr. Whittman. Not the casual Vincent nor the playful Mr. Weatherman. You couldn’t risk traces of intimacy and judging by how he refers to you as DuBois, he knew the name of the game as well.
Tilting your chin, you place your hands on your hips. “I was close to going inside without you,” you threaten with a friendly tilt, “I thought we agreed to meet at five o’clock. What happened?”
“About that-” His ears and nose are awfully red in spite of the trench coat on him. You wonder how long he’s been out. “I got lost.”
“I told you I would be at the church on 12th street.”
He chuckles, “you have to understand, I don’t come by this neighborhood often-”
For a moment, you don’t see snow, you see dust lifting off a Georgia road.
You hum. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I could’ve sworn you told me you lived in Delaware since…‘45.” Your brow furrows, creating a faux worried look, “Please don’t tell me I know the city more than you.”
Vincent makes choking sounds, trying to tie together words. “That’s - that’s not what I -”
“I’m just saying, Mr. Whittman, A good newsman knows the whole city.”
His laughter is devoid of affection, “You are right! As you…often are…”
Opening the church’s doors, you miss the way he glares daggers into your back.
The warmth hit first, then the smell - a distinct odor you swore all churches maintained - floor polish, old wood, and faint dampness. A forgotten thought hits you, making you suddenly spin on your heels.
“Oh! Before I take you downstairs, you and I need to go over a few things.”
“Ground rules?” Above Vincent’s blue eye, an eyebrow raises.
“Exactly, Mr. Whittman! First, do not look around too hard. No staring, no commentary. Everyone down there is working. Second, let me do the talking unless Ezekiel talks to you. Which he’s going to do. And you’re going to say-”
“-my name is Vincent Whittman, I work at SBC and I want to know about the broader community!”
Not only does he speak in that perfect, plucky Weatherman pitch, he flashes those big teeth. You withhold your giggle: “broader community…” you repeat, gloved finger tapping your cheek. “Let’s workshop that, it sounds a little -”
Jerking your head to the side, you make hmph! of disapproval. Vincent instantly copies it, his version louder and goofier.
“Yes, exactly!” You counter, “and, third, if you’re curious…you can be curious later.”
“Later,” he repeats, almost to himself. Then, softer: “off the record.”
You don’t answer that, turning toward the stairwell.
Vincent exhales through his nose, straightens his coat, and murmurs, “All right. I’ll behave.”
Folding tables served as desks. Lined with typewriters, reporters worked shoulder to shoulder. Low-ceilinged and cool, the basement offered little comfort to the dozens braving the winter chill.
Co-workers barely glanced as you entered, but when peripheral vision caught straight brown hair and pale skin, one by one heads turned, trying to make sense of the unusual sight.
“Ezekiel!” You smile, approaching a gray-haired gentleman. “This is Vincent Whittman, the man from Channel 6 I mentioned.”
“Haha, hello!” Vincent lifts a friendly hand, bestowing the editor a practiced smile. “Vincent Whittman-”
He wondered if he could get away with calling himself a reporter. It would be nice to fit in with these people who clicked and clacked away, but unfortunately, he recalls telling you he would behave.
“Meteorologist.”
“Ezekiel Bowers,” the older man takes his hand with a firm grip. “I’ve seen you on air.”
Just as Vincent basked in the glow (and the relief he didn’t lie), he finds the man soon after folds his arms, looking over him as if he were a headline that doesn’t quite hit. Dimming, Vincent can’t help but think of similar gestures in his own newsroom.
“What made you seek out the Tribune?” Ezekiel asks.
You brace yourself as Vincent flashes his pearly whites. “Well, you see, I’m interested in learning about all communities in the area! And, as a fellow member of the media, I’m taking it upon myself to be better aware!”
He fixed up his little introduction in that short span of time? You bite your inner cheek. He’s good.
“That’s respectable, Mr. Whittman.” Ezekiel nods, “when it comes to our issues, how far back do you want to go?”
“The papers from this month are fine!”
As Ezekiel and Vincent fell easily into conversation, you knew that there was no longer a place for you.
You find an unoccupied chair along the wall, opening your notebook. The workspace hums around you and fades with the clock’s tick.
By 5:59 PM, on the fifth page of your notebook, your pen stills. Your gaze drifts to the corner of the room where Vincent stationed himself with a small fortress of newspapers.
One article after another, you could tell his eyes are darting left and right in concentration.
You’ve told him about your stories - this is why he’s here, to read your stories. Still, this is different from the bright, somewhat sensational, recountings you’ve given him over the phone. You wonder what he sees on the page.
What does he keep?
What does he judge?
He has to like it, of course! Your ego prevents you from wallowing in concern. At some point, everyone in this newsroom has claimed you’re a woman with a bright perspective, so why wouldn't Vincent think the same?
In the guise of giving yourself a break, you make your way to the wall. “Tired yet, Mr. Whittman?” You ask, low.
“No, no!” He beams, “I’m really enjoying myself! But, let me just say,” Vincent lowers his eyelids - a glance almost too familiar for its own good. “I am looking forward to reading about that home invasion.”
Your chest flutters, but you keep your expression neutral. Pretending to adjust the stack of papers, your fingers linger on the edge just a moment longer than necessary. “That would be here,” you murmur, your voice low, letting him lean in to see the page.
Vincent’s face becomes so joyous it looks like someone offered him a million dollars.
“Woman Defends Her Home From Scorned Lover.”
Your abdomen tingles. He reads the headline so clearly, right as you settle in a spare chair. You want to lean forward, cup your hands into your cheeks.
But no, you are a professional woman. And as a professional woman, this was not a display of intimacy. You were just explaining to him how long the publication has existed, which reporters were here the longest.
As someone who brought him here, it was wise you take it upon yourself to explain things, right?
He adjusts his glasses, clears his voice:
“Ruth Jones shot Lucius Childress shortly after midnight at her East Side residence, preventing what she describes as not only an attempted home invasion, but a direct threat to her livelihood.
According to Jones, her apartment was not selected at random by an unknown assailant as previously, Childress and Jones were in a relationship.
This relationship, which was once fulfilling, became a source of dissatisfaction when Jones learned Childress’ social lifestyle consisted of gambling and violence.
“I am not a woman who dabbles in vice,” Jones said. “And when I told him this, his response was to hit the wall over my head. It was at this moment I knew I would leave him and never come back.”
Jones feels Childress refused to heed her order. Initially, he made appearances outside her job and she would note his presence throughout the community while tending to daily tasks.
Finally, when he entered her home uninvited, she stood her ground. Neighbors report raised voices, a struggle, and finally silence. By the time police arrived, the danger had already passed.
It is easy, in such cases, to ask why a woman was alone, why she opened the door, why she loved unwisely. It is harder, but necessary, to ask why a man believed rejection…entitled him... to possession…”
Vincent’s cadence falters. He clears his throat then resumes, pace steadier, “Currently, Childress is alive at Wilmington General…unavailable for comment at the time of this writing, and Jones will stand before trial this coming February with an impending date…”
Your heart flutters as you hear his low, ‘wow.’
“Was it better to hear or read it?”
“Well, let me say it was very…very cinematic,” Vincent confesses, “Your articles - all your articles - they’re great. Phenomenal really!”
“S-shh,” you hush, aware of typewriters that suddenly stall.
“I mean it!”
Vincent leans forward, “you should be writing for The East Coast Herald!” his voice may have lowered, but it was still too animated for its own good.
“I’m not that good,”
“You are!”
“You know, when telling the weather…” he begins, “they trust the image. The suit. The voice. The smile. But this?” Slightly, he lifts the paper. “This is someone handing you their worst night and trusting you not to fumble it. There’s something powerful about that - about being the one they decide to tell the truth to.”
“Vin-” you catch yourself, “Mr. Whittman, you have a special role on Channel 6. Without you people wouldn’t know how to - pardon the phrase - weather, the storm. I’m not from an area with this sort of climate, do you know I’d be an ice sickle if not for your broadcasts?”
He chuckles, hand running through his hair. You noticed he always did that when anxious.
He chuckles, there’s a slight tilt of his head, a faint crease above his brow. The way his glasses dip down just enough for him to push them back up makes this man - two years older than you - look so much younger.
“I say things every day on air,” Vincent continues, “forecasts, warnings, reassurances. People listen, but they don’t…hand me anything.”
His big, earnest eyes, the slightly crooked smile, the way his shoulders hunch just a bit when he talks – it all makes your chest tighten.
Under everyone's nose, you dare to gingerly grasp Vincent’s chin, making his eyes meet yours.
“Chin up, kid.” You heard Ezekiel say that before. It felt appropriate, to lighten the mood. Hands falling back into your lap, you muse, “I bet by the time you’re say…fifty, you’ll discover a new phenomenon man has never known!”
He gives you his smile. His big, goofy smile: “Maybe! That…that would be nice...”
-
You didn’t realize how much weight hung on your shoulders until you stepped into the night. Amongst the ice and snow for no more than a second, Vincent had the audacity to release an exaggerated BURR! performatively shuddering as the air pricked at his face.
You laugh, shaking your head.
“Be careful getting home, Vincent.”
“You be careful,” he retorts, “After all, we have Lucius Childresses out here-”
“Ah.” You point with a smirking. “He’s in the hospital. And beyond that…I’m careful about the company I keep.”
“I-” He hesitates the minute you blink, curious. “Nothing…it’s nothing. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Step by step, the church receded behind Vincent.
He couldn’t let it go. The smell of paper, the feel of it in his hand. He couldn't let you go. The letters you weaved together, the quotes that illustrated mundane scenes.
Readers of the Tribune trusted you with their truths, lives, struggles. Every report, every account, good or bad, found a steadfast guardian in you.
Vincent knew, more clearly than ever, he had chosen the wrong side of the newsroom.
I hate how that woman in s1 told Nancy "only love makes you that crazy" after Jonathan got arrested after fighting Steve when he would've walked away if Steve didn't start insulting his family. It had nothing to do with Nancy like shut up. Can't a guy just defend his family's honor, a family who's going through horros rn? It doesn't always have to be about a girl.
The more I remember this show while rewatching the more I realize Jancy is just as forced as Stancy.
Nancy needs to be single for a while, even as a Ronance shipper I believe that with all my heart. She needs to figure out who she is without the weight of a relationship or saving the world on her back. Without the threat of her parent's fate a whisper away. She deserves so much better than that.
Reducing her to the men who love her is an insult to both Nancy and Natalia and I'm tired of it.
tengen loves that damn bratty attitude of yours. the way you roll your eyes at him whenever he's being 'flamboyant'; the way you tut at him when he boasts about himself; the way you bite back when he tries to get on your nerves — oh, he just loves to toy with you and get that 'branded brattitude' from you, as he so calls it.
what he loves more is how you get underneath him — whining and writhing — as he fucks that attitude out of you.
"what were you saying earlier, hm?," he coos mockingly, pounding your mushy cunt harder and harder. "can't hear you over your — haah! — noisy pussy. she's talkin' too loud."
your face turns an awful red colour as the obscene and lewd sounds of your squelching pussy echo throughout the room. "s-shut up," you whimper, racking your nails down his bulging biceps. all he does is snicker at your meek voice, slamming his hips into yours, each thrust sloppier and needier than the last.
"aw what?," he says, slowing himself down, making you feel every inch and vein on his dick as he stretches you out deliciously slow. "cat got your tongue?"
"f-fuck you," you whimper pathetically, tugging on his silky white hair as he continues his brutal assault on your sweet, sweet cunt. he suddenly halts, pulling his throbbing dick out of you that's coated in your slick.
he slaps your wet pussy, making your entire body jolt at the action and a tiny squeak leaving your lips. he pushes your knees to your chest, exposing your quivering bare cunt in the air before ramming right back into you, knocking the air right out of your lungs and his name being the only thing you can scream.
"such a damn brat," he snarls with the most shit-eating grin.
can we all agree people who enjoy writing and reading incest are fucking weirdos.
example:
one of the many sick people who write incest for a living and enjoy it and thinks its hot. What they write is unfortunately some people’s reality. getting r4p3d by family members on a daily basis and having no choice but to live with it. They don’t understand how triggering it is to scroll on tumblr and see stupid shit like this and quite frankly it’s embarrassing for them as they think ts is genuinely ok. Please, seek help. It’s not normal and @tojincest and all the other weirdos that support you are fucking disgusting. Knowing damn well there’s kids on this app and promoting weird thoughts to them is crazy. How would you feel if your dad “fvcked you to bed”. Like genuinely how does it even come to mind. You and any other person promoting this are horrible people.
my final question for this conversation is why do we call out men for doing or “fantasizing” abt doing sick things to female characters but the girls/ppl on tumblr can get away with it? i really want this to be explained to me cause i just don’t understand?? ive asked this question multiple times never have gotten a straightforward answer.
May I request Saja Boys x Reader (seperate) who's scolding them and they just stare in awe...like they don't even know what reader is scolding them for, they're just...there..listening and nodding lmfaoo
A/N: Oh my gosh I love this😭 thank you for the request!
Scolding: Saja Boys x reader
—————————————————
ABBY -
- He is so content in just watching you. You seem to be upset with him about something but he is too busy just staring at you to even care. He isn’t paying attention to a single word you are saying, simply losing himself in your eyes.
- “Wow, you had such beautiful eyes, baby.”
- When you stop rambling after his compliment, you realize that he wasn’t listening to a word you said but it was hard to be mad at him after that.
————————————————
ROMANCE -
- He knows that you are scolding him for something but he hasn’t got a clue as to what because he is not listening. He is well aware that he isn’t listening but it’s way too difficult to focus on that when you look so beautiful. You can tell by looking at him that he isn’t listening but you know that his eyes are only on you.
- “Sorry, my love but I wasn’t listening…you just look so beautiful.”
- It’s safe to say that you forgave him quite quickly after that because there wasn’t really anything else you could do!
———————————————
MYSTERY -
- Mystery had been listening when you first started rambling but then he found himself getting lost at just staring at you. Admiring you was his favorite hobby. He could just sit there for hours and do nothing but stare at you. Of course it’s never in a creepy way, he looks at you with only a loving look.
- “I really am the luckiest guy…” He murmurs, interrupting your scolding and results in you just staring at him.
- You honestly forgot what you were scolding him about after that comment because it made you feel all giddy inside.
———————————————
BABY -
- Oh he is well aware that you are scolding him for something and he knows exactly what he’s done but he isn’t really listening. He was actually trying to listen at first but then he got distracted by you. Just the way you moved and presented yourself when you were a little angry got him just staring and admiring.
- “Has anyone ever told you that you look hot when you’re mad?” His comment brings an abrupt stop to your rambling.
- You basically just stood there afterwards and processed his words and Baby was happy because he was no longer getting scolded. He also liked watching your face turn a few shades redder.
—————————————
JINU -
- He has no idea what you’re talking about. He’s been long gone from the conversation since it started which he knows is his fault but you just look so beautiful and he can’t help himself. You’re definitely scolding him for something but all he can focus on is your face. To be fair, this happens a lot where he’ll just go silent and stare at you in admiration.
- “Wow…you are stunning.” He mumbles out even thought you are still very much so scolding him.
- His comment brings your scolding to a stop though and honestly makes you begin to laugh because it came out of nowhere during a serious conversation. You stopped scolding him after that.
TEARS RUN DOWN MY THIGHS! — ft. steve harrington x fem!reader
cw: 18+, fem!reader, oral (f!receiving), steve is the ultimate bf in the history of bf, no beta we die like munson
summary: based on sabrina carpenter’s tears. or, steve being a gentleman turns you all the way on.
a/n: surprise surprise it’s cosmii writing their favs as munches what else is new!! anyway, it was pretty short for my liking :(( but at least i finally wrote something!
wc: 0.7k
———
Steve was a giver, through and through.
Since even before you two started dating, he’d been insistent on helping you with everything.
Oh, you need to get somewhere? Don’t even worry about it, he’s already on his way to your house. Have too many things to carry? No, no, let him take care of it. So what if it’s just your purse?
The point is, the boy loves doing favors for you. And you love it just as much. Like, really love it. Even if you spew on about how he “doesn’t need to” or if you “could handle it”. You just say that shit to be modest. Steve kisses the skin underneath your jaw and tells you to let him “take care of my favorite girl, yeah?” It never fails to get you to cave with weak knees and a soft “uh-huh” that makes him smile and kiss you.
Which is why you’re currently watching him rearrange your room, thighs pressed together. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, feigning nonchalance as you pick at your nails.
Okay, maybe half-watching him, half-chipping off nail polish so he doesn’t get too cocky.
Earlier that day you had complained to him about how cluttered and crowded your room felt. Of course, Steve couldn’t allow his girl to stay unhappy if he could do something about it.
“More to the right, please.”
At the request he nods, muttering a soft “yes ma’am” that fills with you a girlish sense of giddiness. Something in your stomach flips, your thighs pressing together tighter now to relieve some of the ache that had built up.
You watched his hands with a little too much enthusiasm, noting how they carried your dresser so easily, like it was a can of grapes. He groaned quietly as he lifted it, and god if the sound didn’t make you throb.
Yeah, your nails were long forgotten.
“ ‘M gonna feeling a little nervous here, babe, if you keep staring at me like that.” Steve’s admission made you blink, shaking your head as reality hit you.
“Shit. Sorry…” Suddenly your pillow looks really interesting right about now. “I just like looking at you.” You bit your tongue as soon as you said that, but you just couldn’t help yourself.
He lets out all huff, turning around to reveal a cheeky smile. “Yeah?”
“…Yeah.” Your voice came out more breathless than intended.
Steve froze for a few seconds, promptly setting the drawer down before he wiped his hands against each other.
Then, he looked at you. Really looked.
So now, naturally, you’re on your back, pressed against your bed with your legs resting on either side of his shoulders. Surely the grip you had on his hair was painful, but his groans and “fuck’s” sounded more pleased than pained.
You barely bite back a moan when he spreads your pussy open, aching for him even more when you hear and feel his laugh between your legs. “Uh-uh, honey, wanna hear you.” He chided playfully.
It’s hard to tell if Steve’s being cruel or not when he blows air on your sensitive clit, feeling your hips buck up eagerly. He doesn’t stop you. Instead he curses under his breath, teasingly circling your pulsing nub with the apex of his tongue. It’s slow and you almost cry because fuck, you’re so horny.
The sound you make is almost pornographic when he attaches his lips and sucks softly, lightly, teasingly. Steve’s cock is throbbing underneath his jeans, but he’s too pussydrunk to do anything but rub himself against the mattress. To hell with everything if he was gonna let himself get his dick wet before making you come at least three times minimum.
Sometimes you wonder if he’s an angel sent from the heavens. Genuinely.
There is something going taut in your belly when Steve sucks hard, arms wrapped around your thighs to immobilize them. Your body tries to hump his face and get away from it at the same time, one hand abusing your bed sheets, and the other grappling at his stupidly perfect hair.
“Fuck, Steve–Shit!” Fireworks go off in your stomach, crying and trembling uncontrollably because he would not let up.
The rest of the afternoon consisted of you, Steve, your bed, and at least seven different sex positions.
