𝓁𝑒𝓇𝒶

november, intp ୨ৎ

[iitslera]

                           © ₊˚ʚ iitslera

✶⋆.˚ 𝓛era. she/her. 9teen. november. 55 intp. mexican. ⟡. afrodite’s daughter. films and books enthusiast. gryffindor. . romcom lover. f1 and tea. ─── 【 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓… 】   

masterlist .ᐟ ✶     before requesting read this...   socials.    inbox.    ──   about me !

🗯️  © iitslera. do not republish, edit, translate, or plagiarize my works. 

[iitslera]

Since I’m finally active, why not drop your best F1 requests below? I’ll be picking as many as I can. request here !!

[iitslera]

Banana Ball ( MASTERLIST ) ⋆.˚

KJ Jackson ✶

off camera : digital content director!reader & K.J. Jackson. a quiet stadium, a late-night practice, and a star player who’s tired of being seen only through a lens.

[iitslera]

❝ 𝓟atreon .ᐟ ❞ — support me

Patreon ( iitslera )

୨ৎ thanks for considering joining my Patreon, I assure you that you won't regret it. Before you join, I would like to let you know that everything raised is to help me with the cost of my university materials.

I have a part-time job and with that I help at home and buy part of the materials required by the university. I am not asking you to pay for my studies, but if you really like my writing and want to support me with something extra, subscribing to my Patreon is a huge help. If not, you are always welcome on my blog.

୨ৎ Note for iPhone and iPad users: Please subscribe through a web browser (like Safari or Chrome) instead of the Patreon app. Apple charges a 30% fee for in-app purchases, which increases the price of the tiers. Subscribing via the web ensures that your support goes directly toward my materials and saves you from the extra cost.

[iitslera]

Hi .ᐟ — I literally know it’s been months since the TSITP and MLWTWB requests, but they’ve basically just been rotting in my drafts... but like, better late than never, right?

I’m gonna start posting them tomorrow so there’s actually content on the feed for a bit. But if you’re impatient and want to binge them all right now, I’ll be posting all of them on my Patreon throughout the day (hard zone & end zone) and eventually with early access in (soft zone)!

ʚɞ Just a reminder that the Patreon is literally just to help me pay for college, I wouldn't even have one if I didn't need to and it honestly helps so much right now. The main reason I’ve been MIA (besides school being a lot) is because of some personal and financial stuff I've been dealing with.

ily guys ݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆

[iitslera]

Lee Garcia • Grumpy x sunshine!reader?

Sour but Sweet ✶ Lee Garcia

warning: none, english isn’t my first language. childhood friends, opposites attract, sunshine x grumpy, pure fluff

Living near the Walter ranch meant that, by extension, you also had to deal with the Garcias. And dealing with Lee Garcia was, in your own words, "a charity project for the soul."

You were the definition of light. You always had a joke ready, your backpack was covered in colorful stickers, and you could talk to a rock if it waved back. Lee, on the other hand, seemed to have been born with a permanent scowl and a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue.

At fourteen, Lee had decided that being a "serious guy" was his official personality. But you had other plans.

You were both sitting on his porch. Lee was trying to read a book for school with his headphones on (though you knew there was no music playing), and you were sitting on the step below him, trying to make friendship bracelets with neon thread.

"Lee, do you prefer the sun-yellow thread or the electric blue one?" you asked, turning around to shove the colors right in front of his face.

Lee sighed, lowering his book with dramatic slowness. "yn, I’m trying to study. Can’t you go bother Isaac or one of the Walters?"

"Isaac is at the corral and Cole is being... well, Cole," you replied with a giant smile, completely unfazed by his tone. "Besides, the yellow matches your vibe today."

"My vibe?" Lee arched an eyebrow. "My vibe is grey, like a storm. Yellow gives me a headache."

"Liar," you laughed, moving closer to his feet. "Grey is boring. You’re more like a... like a lemon. Sour on the outside, but necessary to make things taste good."

Lee rolled his eyes, but you noticed the corner of his lips twitch, struggling not to smile. That was your specialty: breaking through his tough-guy armor.

"You’re unbearable," he muttered, turning back to his book. But he didn't put his headphones back on.

Ten minutes of relative silence passed, only interrupted by the sound of your threads moving. Suddenly, you felt Lee watching you. When you looked up, you caught him staring at you with an expression that wasn't grumpy at all. It was soft, almost... admiring.

Finding himself caught, Lee tensed up and put his "mean face" back on.

"You have a thread tangled in your hair," he said quickly, pointing at your head.

"Where?" You started running your hands through your hair clumsily, making the knot worse. "Oh, no. My mom is going to kill me if I have to cut a chunk out."

Lee let out a sigh, a genuine one this time. "Come here, clumsy. Let me do it."

You sat between his legs on the top step, and Lee, with a delicacy he showed no one else, began to untangle the pink thread that had snagged in your curls. His hands were a bit big for his age, but his movements were precise.

"Thanks, Lee," you whispered. Being this close meant you could smell his laundry detergent and that scent of fresh-cut grass that always followed him. "I knew you were a ray of sunshine deep down."

"Don't get used to it," he replied, though he didn't move away when he finished. His fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary, brushing through your hair. "Someone has to keep you from going bald before you're fifteen."

"Hey," you gave his knee a playful nudge. "Just admit you like hanging out with me."

Lee stayed quiet for a moment. The afternoon sun was starting to dip, tinting the porch a warm orange. He closed his book completely and shrugged, looking toward the horizon so you couldn't see the blush creeping up his neck.

"I guess the yellow isn't so bad," he said softly. "It makes things less grey."

You smiled to yourself, picking up the yellow thread and weaving with more energy. You knew Lee Garcia would never tell you he liked you, at least not with words. But the way he sat there, letting you invade his personal space while the rest of the world disappeared, was his own version of a confession.

For Lee, love wasn't poems; it was letting the loudest girl in the world interrupt his studying just because she made him a bracelet he would probably never take off.

a/n: please ignore the messy layout of the last images. I'm currently without my laptop, and formatting on mobile is a nightmare, I'll fix everything eventually!

[iitslera]

❝ 𝓜asterlist .ᐟ ❞ —

𝓕ormula 𝓞ne .ᐟ.ᐟ ( 𝓜asterlist )

𝓑anana 𝓑all .ᐟ.ᐟ ( 𝓜asterlist )

[iitslera]

F1 ( MASTERLIST ) ⋆.˚

✶  LN4

not a secrete anymore : soft launch lando & singer!reader. just some fluff and a secret that’s finally out of the bag.

to the real space : domestic fluff with lando x single mom!reader (and her little obsession oliver) bc lando might not be the biological dad, but he’s definitely his safe place (and yours).

lights, camera... censored : working for mclaren was fine until lando norris decided to make your photoshoot his personal playground. Nsfw: minor’s do not interact.

what crashed us : basically: a sh*tty fight that ended in a total disaster and two broken people trying to see if there’s even anything left to save.

bittersweet Monza : lando feeling like sh*t because of the podium and hiding in his private room so you can help him not to collapse.

[iitslera]

off camera ✶ K.J. Jackson

English is not my first language. K.J Jackson x Social media manager!Reader reader. warnings: none, just fluff and slow burn. an: I literally have like five drafts from a year ago that I still haven't posted, but whatever, I actually can't believe no one is active about K.J. on this app so I had to do it myself, happy easter

Grayson Stadium isn’t your typical ballpark; it’s a circus, a theater, and a frat party all wrapped up in a bright yellow uniform. And you’re the one in charge of making sure the whole world sees it in 9:16.

As the Digital Content Director for the Savannah Bananas, your life is measured in frames per second and trending audios. Your relationship with the players is professional, fun, and above all, distant. It has to be. You can’t objectively edit a video if your hands shake every time the lead guy gets too close.

And the main problem has a first and last name: K.J. Jackson.

"[Reader]! Tell me you caught that!" Jackson Olson shouted, sprinting past in a neon yellow cape.

"I got it, Olson. Go practice your flaming bat swings, I’ll handle the feed," you shot back without looking up from your iPhone 15 Pro Max, which was basically an extension of your right arm.

You were on the sidelines during morning practice. The Georgia sun was already starting to bite, and your iced coffee was dangerously close to melting. As you scrolled through the clips, a tall, broad shadow fell over your screen, blocking the glare.

"You know, if you keep staring at that screen for too long, you’re gonna forget what the real world looks like," a smooth voice, laced with that Southern confidence, echoed right above you.

You didn't need to look up. You knew it was him. K.J. had a way of walking that announced his presence before he even said a word. You forced yourself to finish captioning the video before locking your phone and letting it hang from your chest harness.

"The 'real world' doesn't pay the bills, K.J. The three million views Olson’s video is gonna get? That does," you said, turning to face him.

He was standing there in a sweat-soaked practice jersey, shoulders broad, wearing his cap backward in a way that gave him that "troublemaker" vibe. He had a baseball in his hand, tossing it up and catching it with hypnotic precision.

"Man, you're cold, [Reader]. I thought after six months of working together, I’d at least get a 'Morning, K.J., looking good today,'" he took a step toward you, invading that circle of personal space you tried so hard to guard.

"Good morning, K.J. You’ve got a mud smudge on your left cheek. It’s ruining the 'golden boy' aesthetic I’m trying to sell on TikTok," you said with a fake, professional smile, even though your nerves were doing backflips inside.

He didn't wipe it off. Instead, he leaned in a little closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to hold his gaze. His eyes were sparkling with a mix of amusement and something else... something that wasn't for the cameras.

"Then you clean it," he challenged in a whisper.

The air between you suddenly got heavy. You could hear the crack of bats hitting balls in the distance and the other guys laughing, but for you, the world had shrunk down to those two inches of space. Your hand ached to reach up and wipe the mud away, but the buzz of a notification on your smartwatch snapped you back to reality.

"Get a makeup artist, K.J. I’ve got a meeting with my bosses," you said, brushing past him.

But before you could get away, you felt his hand gently catch your forearm.

"Seven o’clock, after practice. There’s a new play I want to show you so you can film it. Just you and me at the plate. Without all the chaos."

He let go before you could even argue, leaving your skin burning where he’d touched you.

You spent the rest of the afternoon in the office, but your mind kept looping back to K.J.’s invite. Was it a tactic for more screen time? Or was it something else?

In the world of Banana Ball, the players are celebrities. You’re used to the harmless flirting; it’s part of the team culture. But with K.J., it was different. It wasn’t a show for the crowd. It was quiet. Subtle. Like the way he always found an excuse to be near you on bus rides, or how he remembered exactly how you liked your coffee (black, with a dash of cinnamon) and would leave it on your desk without saying a word.

At 7:00 sharp, you headed down to the field. The stadium lights were off, except for the security floods that bathed the diamond in an ethereal, silver glow.

He was there, at home plate, but he wasn't in his Bananas uniform. He was wearing training shorts and a black tank top that showed off years of hard work in the gym. He was hitting balls alone, the sound of contact echoing through the empty stadium like gunshots.

"You're late," he said without looking back, connecting with a clean hit that sent the ball deep into center field.

"A video editor is never late, Jackson. They arrive exactly when the light is perfect," you replied, pulling out your professional camera this time, not the phone.

He set the bat down and turned around, wiping sweat away with his shirt a move that made you swallow hard.

"Fine. Show me this magic play," you said, adjusting the focus.

K.J. got into position, but instead of doing one of his usual stunts, he walked toward you. He stopped right in front of your lens. You could see every detail of his face through the viewfinder: his long lashes, the trace of the now-dry mud, the determination in his eyes.

"The play is this," he said softly.

He didn't dance. He didn't do a bat trick. He simply reached out and covered your camera lens, slowly lowering it until your eyes met his without a piece of glass in the way.

"K.J., what are you doing? I’m losing the light..."

"Forget the light for a second, [Reader]. Forget the content, the engagement, and the followers," his voice was deeper now, stripped of the usual teasing. "I’ve been trying to ask you to dinner for three months, but you’re always hiding behind this thing."

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it in the silence of the stadium.

"It’s my job, K.J. I can’t mix…"

"Don't tell me you can't mix business with pleasure. This isn't an accounting firm; it's the craziest team in the world. Rules don't exist here," he took another step, pinning you against the dugout railing. "Are you gonna tell me that when you’re filming me in slow-mo, you don't feel a single thing? That it’s all just 'marketing'?"

He placed a hand on either side of your waist not touching you, but trapping you in his heat. His scent of summer nights and adrenaline was clouding your judgment.

"I feel like I'm gonna have a lot of work editing that," you whispered, one last attempt at a defense.

He let out a husky laugh that vibrated in your chest.

"You’re a hell of a liar. But your eyes don't lie. They dilate every time I get close. I’ve seen it in the videos you post. You out yourself in every edit."

K.J. leaned in, his nose brushing yours. You could feel his warm breath. He was waiting. For all his cockiness and confidence, he was giving you the choice to walk away.

"If I say yes to that dinner..." you started, your voice barely a thread. "Do you promise to stop ruining my shots with your winking?"

"No," he answered with a smile that was predatory and sweet at the same time. "I promise to give you real reasons to look at me like that when the camera’s off."

Just when you thought he was finally going to kiss you, he pulled back a few inches, putting his star-player mask back on.

"Friday. Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up at the south gate. And don't even think about bringing the camera, 'cause I'm not planning on sharing you with your followers that night."

He turned around, grabbed his bat, and headed toward the locker room with that confident stride, leaving you alone in the dark stadium with your camera hanging from your neck and the absolute certainty that your professional life just got way, way more complicated.

You checked the last clip you’d accidentally recorded. It was a blurry shot of the ground and his feet moving toward yours. It was useless for TikTok. It was useless for Instagram.

But it was the first video you decided you were never going to delete.

Grayson Stadium isn’t your typical ballpark; it’s a circus, a theater, and a frat party all wrapped up in a bright yellow uniform. And you’re the one in charge of making sure the whole world sees it in 9:16.

As the Digital Content Director for the Savannah Bananas, your life is measured in frames per second and trending audios. Your relationship with the players is professional, fun, and above all, distant. It has to be. You can’t objectively edit a video if your hands shake every time the lead guy gets too close.

And the main problem has a first and last name: K.J. Jackson.

"[Reader]! Tell me you caught that!" Jackson Olson shouted, sprinting past in a neon yellow cape.

"I got it, Olson. Go practice your flaming bat swings, I’ll handle the feed," you shot back without looking up from your iPhone 15 Pro Max—which was basically an extension of your right arm.

You were on the sidelines during morning practice. The Georgia sun was already starting to bite, and your iced coffee was dangerously close to melting. As you scrolled through the clips, a tall, broad shadow fell over your screen, blocking the glare.

"You know, if you keep staring at that screen for too long, you’re gonna forget what the real world looks like," a smooth voice, laced with that Southern confidence, echoed right above you.

You didn't need to look up. You knew it was him. K.J. had a way of walking that announced his presence before he even said a word. You forced yourself to finish captioning the video before locking your phone and letting it hang from your chest harness.

"The 'real world' doesn't pay the bills, K.J. The three million views Olson’s video is gonna get? That does," you said, turning to face him.

He was standing there in a sweat-soaked practice jersey, shoulders broad, wearing his cap backward in a way that gave him that "troublemaker" vibe. He had a baseball in his hand, tossing it up and catching it with hypnotic precision.

"Man, you're cold, [Reader]. I thought after six months of working together, I’d at least get a 'Morning, K.J., looking good today,'" he took a step toward you, invading that circle of personal space you tried so hard to guard.

"Good morning, K.J. You’ve got a mud smudge on your left cheek. It’s ruining the 'golden boy' aesthetic I’m trying to sell on TikTok," you said with a fake, professional smile, even though your nerves were doing backflips inside.

He didn't wipe it off. Instead, he leaned in a little closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to hold his gaze. His eyes were sparkling with a mix of amusement and something else... something that wasn't for the cameras.

"Then you clean it," he challenged in a whisper.

The air between you suddenly got heavy. You could hear the crack of bats hitting balls in the distance and the other guys laughing, but for you, the world had shrunk down to those two inches of space. Your hand ached to reach up and wipe the mud away, but the buzz of a notification on your smartwatch snapped you back to reality.

"Get a makeup artist, K.J. I’ve got a meeting with my bosses," you said, brushing past him.

But before you could get away, you felt his hand gently catch your forearm.

"Seven o’clock, after practice. There’s a new play I want to show you so you can film it. Just you and me at the plate. Without all the chaos."

He let go before you could even argue, leaving your skin burning where he’d touched you.

You spent the rest of the afternoon in the office, but your mind kept looping back to K.J.’s invite. Was it a tactic for more screen time? Or was it something else?

In the world of Banana Ball, the players are celebrities. You’re used to the harmless flirting; it’s part of the team culture. But with K.J., it was different. It wasn’t a show for the crowd. It was quiet. Subtle. Like the way he always found an excuse to be near you on bus rides, or how he remembered exactly how you liked your coffee (black, with a dash of cinnamon) and would leave it on your desk without saying a word.

At 7:00 sharp, you headed down to the field. The stadium lights were off, except for the security floods that bathed the diamond in an ethereal, silver glow.

He was there, at home plate, but he wasn't in his Bananas uniform. He was wearing training shorts and a black tank top that showed off years of hard work in the gym. He was hitting balls alone, the sound of contact echoing through the empty stadium like gunshots.

"You're late," he said without looking back, connecting with a clean hit that sent the ball deep into center field.

"A video editor is never late, Jackson. They arrive exactly when the light is perfect," you replied, pulling out your professional camera this time, not the phone.

He set the bat down and turned around, wiping sweat away with his shirt—a move that made you swallow hard.

"Fine. Show me this magic play," you said, adjusting the focus.

K.J. got into position, but instead of doing one of his usual stunts, he walked toward you. He stopped right in front of your lens. You could see every detail of his face through the viewfinder: his long lashes, the trace of the now-dry mud, the determination in his eyes.

"The play is this," he said softly.

He didn't dance. He didn't do a bat trick. He simply reached out and covered your camera lens, slowly lowering it until your eyes met his without a piece of glass in the way.

"K.J., what are you doing? I’m losing the light..."

"Forget the light for a second, [Reader]. Forget the content, the engagement, and the followers," his voice was deeper now, stripped of the usual teasing. "I’ve been trying to ask you to dinner for three months, but you’re always hiding behind this thing."

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it in the silence of the stadium.

"It’s my job, K.J. I can’t mix—"

"Don't tell me you can't mix business with pleasure. This isn't an accounting firm; it's the craziest team in the world. Rules don't exist here," he took another step, pinning you against the dugout railing. "Are you gonna tell me that when you’re filming me in slow-mo, you don't feel a single thing? That it’s all just 'marketing'?"

He placed a hand on either side of your waist—not touching you, but trapping you in his heat. His scent of summer nights and adrenaline was clouding your judgment.

"I feel like I'm gonna have a lot of work editing that," you whispered, one last attempt at a defense.

He let out a husky laugh that vibrated in your chest.

"You’re a hell of a liar. But your eyes don't lie. They dilate every time I get close. I’ve seen it in the videos you post. You out yourself in every edit."

K.J. leaned in, his nose brushing yours. You could feel his warm breath. He was waiting. For all his cockiness and confidence, he was giving you the choice to walk away.

"If I say yes to that dinner..." you started, your voice barely a thread. "Do you promise to stop ruining my shots with your winking?"

"No," he answered with a smile that was predatory and sweet at the same time. "I promise to give you real reasons to look at me like that when the camera’s off."

Just when you thought he was finally going to kiss you, he pulled back a few inches, putting his star-player mask back on.

"Friday. Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up at the south gate. And don't even think about bringing the camera, 'cause I'm not planning on sharing you with your followers that night."

He turned around, grabbed his bat, and headed toward the locker room with that confident stride, leaving you alone in the dark stadium with your camera hanging from your neck and the absolute certainty that your professional life just got way, way more complicated.

You checked the last clip you’d accidentally recorded. It was a blurry shot of the ground and his feet moving toward yours. It was useless for TikTok. It was useless for Instagram.

But it was the first video you decided you were never going to delete.

[iitslera]

🗯️ sometimes i’m surprised by how detailed your requests are, i love it but sometimes it lowkey scares me

[iitslera]

🗯️ Happy New Year everyone! I know I kind of disappeared and I still have some stuff sitting in my drafts that I haven’t posted yet. I’m really sorry if you’re one of the people who requested something. I honestly didn’t expect university to be this hard this year.

I went back to my home country for the holidays, and between spending time with my family and dealing with schoolwork, I didn’t even open Tumblr.

I just posted something for Steve Harrington from Stranger Things, and also… happy finale. I’m honestly still processing it

[iitslera]

private little movie star ✶  Steve Harrington

English isn’t my first language, Steve x Fem!Reader, NSFW, minors do not interact!!, dom!Steve, recording kink

           

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ──  ✦  ──

The window AC unit hummed with an agonizing effort, making the floral curtains flutter barely an inch. On your desk, nestled between textbooks and The Smiths cassettes, sat the hard case of a Panasonic OmniMovie.

To Steve Harrington, that camera wasn’t just a high-tech toy belonging to his father; it was an extension of his own obsession with you. Steve sat on the floor, back pressed against your bed, wiping a microfiber cloth over the lens with a delicacy that bordered on religious. The late afternoon light that burnt orange hue that only exists in August filtered through the blinds, casting a zebra pattern across his skin.

“Ready to be immortalized, babe?” he asked without looking up, his voice trailing off with a confident drawl that always set your nerves on edge. You stood before the mirror, watching your own reflection seem to tremble under the sheer intensity of his gaze. You felt vulnerable, yet there was something about the way he handled the camera that made you feel like the absolute center of his universe.

Steve stood up, hoisting the heavy camcorder onto his right shoulder. The viewfinder met his eye, and with a mechanical click, the red "Record" light began to blink. The hiss of the tape motor filled the space between you.

“Walk toward the bed,” he commanded. His voice, now filtered through the built-in microphone, sounded more intimate, more dominant. “Don’t look at the camera yet. Just be yourself.”

You moved with a feigned shyness, letting your silk robe slide off your shoulders and pool on the floor in a silent heap. The camera’s zoom made a sharp Zzzzzzt sound as Steve focused on the line of your spine, the small of your back, and the flush rising up your neck. He didn’t say a word he just breathed and that sound was being etched onto magnetic tape right alongside the hum of the AC. He stepped closer, keeping the camera steady. You could see the glint of his left eye the one not glued to the viewfinder watching you with a feverish devotion.

“You’re so damn beautiful in this light,” he whispered. He got so close the lens almost brushed your skin. “I want to capture how you shake when I touch you.”

He set the camera down on a tripod improvised from a stack of books on your dresser, aiming it directly at the mattress. But he didn’t step away from it. He positioned himself behind you, wrapping his arms around you while his eyes remained fixed on the small side-screen.

When Steve shed his own clothes, he did it without breaking his gaze from the frame. There was something deeply erotic about watching your bodies intertwine through a screen while it happened in reality. It was as if you were creating your own movie a version of reality where only the two of you existed. He gently nudged you back, forcing you to lie down in the center of the bed. He moved between your legs, but before joining you, he gripped the camera with one hand, holding it steady by hand. His other hand vanished between your thighs, finding your heat with a precision that made you arch your back and let out a choked sob.

“Look at the lens,” he gasped, lowering the camera so it caught the movement of his fingers inside you. “Look at what I’m doing to you.” Your eyes locked onto the black glass of the objective. You knew that somewhere inside that plastic box, your pleasure was being converted into data an electrical signal Steve would keep under lock and key. The contrast was intoxicating: the cold metal of the camera occasionally brushing your abdomen as he moved, and the searing heat of his body pressing against yours.

When he finally unzipped his pants and entered you in one deep thrust, the cry you let out was so pure that Steve had to pause for a second, simply savoring the expression on your face captured in high fidelity.

“That’s it...” he murmured, his breath hitting the camera’s mic, creating a static sound they would hear later. “Stay like that. Don’t close your eyes. When we watch this, I want you to see exactly how much you want me.”

The rhythm turned frantic. Steve set the camera aside, propped against your pillow at a side angle. The shot was raw: it captured your profiles, the sweat glistening on his back, the rhythmic drive of his hips, and the way your legs locked tight around his waist to pull him deeper and deeper. “Steve… please,” you pleaded, your hands reaching for his hair, undoing the perfect style he worked so hard on.

“Don’t stop, babe. The camera’s getting all of it,” he replied, his voice breaking with the effort. He leaned down to kiss you a hungry kiss that tasted of longing and possession. “You’re my star. My own private little movie star.”

The outside world (Hawkins, the Upside Down, responsibilities, your father who would be home in a few hours) vanished. There was only the click-click-click of the spinning tape and the impact of your bodies. When the climax hit, it was an explosion that left you breathless, and Steve wasn't far behind. He sank into you with one last violent push, letting the camera record the final collapse the moment you both ended up tangled, sweaty, and exhausted against the rumpled sheets.

Steve didn’t turn the camera off immediately. After a few minutes of silence, broken only by your recovering breaths, he reached out for it. His face appeared in the viewfinder, disheveled and wearing a smile of absolute satisfaction.

“August 25th, 1985,” he told the camera, his voice returning to that of a nineteen-year-old boy, simultaneously lovestruck and arrogant. “The best footage in history.”

He pressed the Stop button, and the silence that followed was almost deafening. He popped out the VHS cassette, which felt warm to the touch, and wrote on the white label with a permanent marker: PRIVATE PROPERTY – DO NOT PLAY.

He looked at you, still naked and relaxed on the bed, and tossed you the tape. “Keep it safe,” he said with a wink. “Next time, I want to watch it with you before we start. I want you to see what I see when I make love to you.”

Evening turned to night, and as the hiss of the tape finished rewinding in your mind, you knew that summer would never truly end. It would always be right there, trapped in a black plastic box, waiting to be played over and over again.

[enam3l]

i don’t even give it 12 hours before one of you sluts has a fic on here about fucking your son’s baseball coach big dick steve harrington

[iitslera]

🗯️ Ok, I’m kinda tempted… should I go for it?

[iitslera]

🗯️ Hey! Just a little reminder that supporting me on Patreon really makes a difference. All the money I get goes straight into paying for my clinical practice materials (which are super expensive). It would honestly motivate me so much to keep writing in between med school and my part-time job. If you enjoy my work, even the smallest support means the world to me. 

[backwardscapcarlos]

Carlos Sainz (Azerbaijan GP - September 21, 2025) 📷 Clive Rose

[iitslera]

Little Moments, Big Smiles ✶ Steven Conklin

english isn’t my first lenguaje, just fluff — Thank u sm for the req!

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You were sitting on the grass behind the school, headphones in, book open in your hands, trying to focus while the afternoon sun warmed your face. The week had been exhausting, full of exams and assignments, and the world seemed way too fast for your slow, steady rhythm.

That’s when you saw him: Steven, with that smile that could light up everything around him, walking toward you with his hands in his pockets and eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Sitting here reading alone again?” he asked, in that teasing tone that always made you smile.

“Hey there too,” you replied, moving your book slightly aside. “At least you don’t have exams this week, right?”

“Eh… yeah, of course. Super busy saving the world from everyone else’s bad grades,” he said, dropping his backpack with a soft thud as he sat down next to you. “And you? How’s surviving the chaos going?”

You shrugged, laughing. “Trying. But sometimes it feels like I need a break from all of this.”

Steven looked at you and, without saying a word, lay back on the grass beside you, letting the silence wrap around you both. It wasn’t uncomfortable; there was something about him that made everything feel lighter. Sometimes words weren’t necessary. Sometimes just sitting together, sharing a moment without speaking, was enough.

“You know,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence, “I’m really glad you’re here. That you’re… always here.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Steven…”

He smiled softly and nudged you lightly with his shoulder. “It’s weird saying it out loud, I know. But you… you make everything easier to handle.”

You smiled, your cheeks warming a little. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today,” you murmured.

“Then I’ll say it as many times as it takes,” he replied, winking.

Minutes passed slowly as you shared laughs, glances, and small talk about nothing important: the movie you watched over the weekend, a meme that made you laugh, a funny comment a teacher had made. Everything seemed brighter when he was around.

After a while, Steven pulled a small notebook from his backpack and handed it to you.

“For you,” he said. “It’s kind of a diary… just with silly things I think about, stuff I don’t want to forget. I want you to have it.”

You took the notebook, surprised. “Steven… you didn’t have to…”

“Yes, I did,” he interrupted gently. “Because every time I write something like this, I think of you. And I want you to have it.”

Your heart felt warm as you flipped through pages filled with doodles, sketches, quick phrases, and tiny confessions only he could share. It was incredible how something so simple could make you feel so special.

“It’s… perfect,” you said, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He hugged you carefully, as if he didn’t want to break the magic of the moment. “You don’t have to thank me,” he whispered. “Just… promise me you’ll always use it to remember that someone’s thinking of you.”

“I will,” you murmured, eyes shining. “Always.”

The afternoon faded into soft shades of orange and pink as you stayed there, enjoying the silence and closeness. Every little gesture, every smile, every look, felt like a reminder that sometimes the simplest moments were the most important.

When you finally got up to leave, Steven took your hand and laced his fingers with yours.

“Come on,” he said with a playful smile. “We still have time to make this afternoon perfect.”

And as you walked together back down the path, you felt that, beside him, even the most ordinary days could become unforgettable memories.

୨ৎ If you want to support me and enjoy extra Steven chapters, you can do so on my Patreon: [here]

[iitslera]

🗯️ Hey everyone! I know you’re all waiting for me to post your requests and I really appreciate your patience. Like I mentioned in my intro, during school periods I’ll be a bit inactive. I’m trying not to go too quiet, but anyone in health studies like me knows how intense and stressful it can get.

I promise I’m working on all your requests. In fact, I’m already posting the TSITP ones. Anyway, requests are still open and you can send as many as you want, just please be a little patient with me.