Touck me nick

[trackgun]

dryhumping dilf!steve 😵‍💫

your pussy ached in your thin panties, the rough fabric of steve’s jeans making you gasp. he groans as he looks down at you, and where you meet, a wet patch forms on his jeans from how wet you are. his cock nearly burst out of his pants as you grind desperately against him, chasing an orgasm you shouldn’t want but couldn’t help but crave. one of your hands rested on his thigh while the other held his big arm, stabilizing yourself on his crotch. you could feel the imprint of his thick cock poking at your pussy, teasing you. “fuck we shouldn’t be doing this,” he grunts, intensely looking at your fucked out face. a deep moan slipped from his mouth as he rocked you against him, large hands getting comfortable on your waist. “i want it stevie, so bad don’t make me stop,” you plead, giving him the puppiest of eyes, knowing he couldn’t resist you. all you wanted was for him to give in and bend you over his king sized bed that he made love to his almost ex wife in and made a beautiful daughter. you wanted to be the one filled to the brim with his cum and having his children despite the age gap. your hips snap with eager as you practically ride him, humping and rutting on him. your sweet moans couldn’t be contained in the moment, face contorting and jaw slack. he brings his hand up to your jaw and glides his thumb over the skin before holding your head upright and bringing the same thumb to your lips and making you suck. you swirl your tongue around the digit before sucking like it were his cock. all messy and filled with saliva. “you’re going to be the death of me,” he breathes, bucking his hips up into yours.

[keeryhours]

who’s gonna drive you home tonight? - steve harrington

frat! steve harrington x sorority girl! reader

part one of ???

masterlist tag list steve masterlist

summary:

you’ve hated steve harrington since the day you met him. unfortunately for you, your sorority and his frat go hand in hand, and you can’t escape him. he gets no greater joy in life than to piss you off. when a frat party like any other turns into something heated with the guy you hate more than anyone else, neither of you are sure how to deal with it.

warnings:

smut (18+), protected p in v, dubcon? (they’re both high), oral sex (f receiving), thigh riding, fingering, messy, rough sex, big dick steve, mention of masturbation (m and f), drinking, drug use (weed), pervy comments, steve is actually insufferable at first

word count: 17.5k words

a/n:

there is soooo much left of this fic, i have the whole thing outlined and i’m so excited! it will def be 4+ parts but i really wanted to share the beginning with you and hopefully it will motivate me to finish it soon 😁 i really hope you like it!!

The first time you met Steve, you almost slapped him.

His reputation preceded him. Even your freshman year at Ohio State University, fresh out of rush week, you’d heard plenty about Sigma Chi pledge Steve Harrington. They were singing his praises from day one—he was handsome, a baseball genius, the life of any party. He commanded the attention of any room he stepped into. You were a little sick of him to begin with from how your Delta Gamma sisters wouldn’t shut up about him for two seconds even before that first party.

And when you walked into the Sigma Chi house for the first time, you didn’t even need to be told which one was the Harrington. The world gravitated around him like he was the sun itself, and he seemed to glow like it, too. He was handsome, devastatingly so. His smile was blinding. He had a stupidly good head of hair, gorgeous sun-kissed skin dotted with moles like constellations, and big hazel eyes that made him look deceptively sweet.

You’d met eyes from across the room, and at the time, it had felt like something clicking into place. Two puzzle pieces who had finally found where they belonged. Your breath hitched as he left the group he was talking to and sauntered over, that brilliant smile now directed specifically at you and you alone. Your heart had felt like it might burst from your chest.

“Oh my god,” one of your sisters, Margot, had said, grabbing onto your arm. “He’s coming over here.”

He didn’t even glance at her. He only looked at you. He wore a polo with jeans that fit him just right, a red plastic cup clutched in his large hand. When he reached you, you could smell his cologne, something intoxicating that made your head spin. He really was everything everyone had promised.

And then he opened his mouth.

“Hi,” he’d said, extending a hand towards you. “I’m Steve. And you are fucking beautiful.”

Embarrassingly, you’d giggled like a total fool, given him your hand, and introduced yourself. “Nice to meet you, Steve.”

He’d actually taken your hand and kissed your knuckles, like the prince he absolutely saw himself as. And then, that suave grin turned into something more like a cocky smirk, a look you’d grow to know and loathe. “You know, you look like a girl who deserves the very best,” he’d said. “And, wouldn’t you know it—by sheer coincidence, you’re looking at the best this frat has to offer.”

Okay, a little eye roll worthy, but that wasn’t abnormal for these frat guys. You’d raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what could you possibly offer me?”

His smirk had widened, and he moved in, grabbing you by the hip and pulling you against him. “Oh, things beyond your wildest dreams, baby,” he’d murmured, even as you gasped at the sheer audacity of this guy. “Why don’t we go up to my room and I can show you?”

You’d shoved him back by his chest, making him stumble, the beer in his cup sloshing over the sides and onto his light blue shirt. “You’re a fucking perv.”

Steve’s expression had immediately transformed into something harder, all traces of the charming smile from moments ago completely erased. “What the fuck?”

“You don’t get to just walk up and touch me. I don’t even know you.” You’d scoffed, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Does that actually work for you?”

“Yeah, actually,” he’d said, looking at you with pure distaste now. “With girls who aren’t an uptight cocktease.”

You’d laughed, but only in an attempt to keep yourself from punching this guy square in the jaw. “Oh, wow. Fuck you.”

“Fuck me, huh?” he’d said, that stupid smirk back in place. “You know, that’s a good idea, maybe it would help if I got that stick out of your ass and gave you something else—“

“Oh-kay, let’s go get a drink!” Margot had said, dragging you away before you could land the slap you were winding up. You heard him laughing behind you, the sound loud and infuriating.

“See you around, baby!” he’d called after you. Margot just dug her fingers into your arm, pulling you to a completely different part of the house as fast as she could.

Things with Steve did not improve after that. And, unfortunately for you, you couldn’t escape him. He was everywhere you turned. Not only the golden boy on campus—his photo was used on any and all promotions for the championship winning baseball team—but, soon, also the president of Sigma Chi. And your houses went hand in hand.

Every party you went to, Steve was there, holding court among his adoring subjects. The guys on campus thought he was the coolest guy who ever lived, and the girls were practically stepping over each other for a chance with him. You attempted to keep your distance, but Steve loved annoying you more than he loved the girls begging to go up to his bedroom.

Delta Gamma also partnered with Sigma Chi for just about everything. As the top houses, it was just a given. Every event, every fundraiser, every charity event and mixer and rager. As much as you adored everything about your sorority and had always felt like you’d made the wrong choice, Steve was the one thing that made you question it.

It was no secret, either. Everyone knew you and Steve hated each other. Steve’s frat brothers found it hilarious, while your sisters tried their best to keep you away from each other. You just couldn’t get along—being in each other’s space for too long always ended in disaster. A loud argument, heated insults, or sometimes even a thrown drink, if Steve was feeling extra mouthy that night. You were best kept far away from one another.

You’d grown close with another girl who’d pledged Delta Gamma, Nancy. Nancy was sweet and smart and although you loved all your sisters, you’d clicked with her immediately. Nancy also happened to know Steve well. They’d grown up together, even dated briefly in high school.

“Steve is an asshole,” Nancy had told you, confirming everything you already thought. “Seriously, don’t let him try to charm you. He’s full of it.”

It kind of seemed like you and Nancy were the only ones who saw it, though. Of course there were the girls he’d already scorned, but the vast majority of the Ohio State female student population were head over heels for Steve Harrington. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes every time you saw it.

That would never be you.

Your junior year had just begun, and by the end of September, homecoming season was well underway. Sigma Chi had already partnered with Delta Gamma, a surprise to no one.

What was a surprise was that you had a chance at being crowned queen this year. Homecoming court was something you’d never given much thought to. Your attention was already divided in so many directions—between your classes and honor society, track, event planning and sorority obligations with being Social Chair, and being a TA for the first time this year, you were booked and busy. The crown was the least of your concern. Even now, you didn’t stress about it. Everyone knew your chapter president, Lindsey, would be taking the crown anyway.

The week of homecoming itself was always busy and filled with excitement—stuffed full of events and activities, a good chunk of which you had a hand in planning. But still, courting had begun, and Tommy Hagan had been going all out to catch your attention.

It started with a bouquet of flowers so huge you had to divide them up into three different vases just to display them in a way that didn’t look ridiculous. Then, it was the food. Fruit baskets, a mini cake, so much of your favorite candy and chocolate you had to beg your sisters to eat some of it. The day you walked out of the house to the entire OSU choir serenading you on the front lawn, you’d been utterly speechless.

Tommy was nice enough, you guessed. If you had to partner with someone, he wasn’t the worst choice. That would be Steve Harrington, who, by expectations alone—because Steve didn’t put much effort into anything that wasn’t baseball or getting his dick wet—was courting Lindsey. He didn’t even have to try and he knew it.

There was a new gift or grand gesture from Tommy daily, while Steve had sent a single box of milk chocolates, a half dozen and definitely the cheapest on the shelf even though everyone knew the Harringtons were absolutely loaded—and Lindsey was allergic to dairy. You could tell she was annoyed about it, but she was going to partner with Steve regardless. Every time you brought another elaborate gift into the house, the look she gave you was cold and cutting. It was…awkward.

At least for now, you could push thoughts of homecoming from your brain. It was Saturday night, and you were ready to have some fun. Or at least try to, because you were about to walk right into King Steve’s kingdom.

You’d think you would have gotten used to his presence by now, but he never got any less annoying. It’s not like you could just skip every party. Everyone knew Sigma Chi threw the best parties of any frat on campus. Were you just not supposed to go because the president was a total pain in the ass? You could kiss your social status goodbye real fast.

Sometimes you’d get lucky and wouldn’t see him at all the whole night. Maybe just a flash of his stupid hair, or the sound of his laugh from another room. A glimpse at his cocky smirk as he led some poor girl up to his room. And other nights, he seemed hell bent on annoying you as much as possible.

You really, really hoped for the former tonight. You walked into the house with Nancy and Margot, the bass already thumping, the place overrun with college students in various states of intoxication. You looked good, you knew you did. Tiny skirt that showed off your legs, a top that displayed just enough chest to have guys staring every time they walked past. Not that that was hard.

“Do you want me to get us drinks?” Nancy asked, leaning over to yell over the music right in your ear. You nodded, and she gave you a soft smile before pushing her way through to the kitchen.

There was no sign of Steve so far, which you hoped was a good omen. Your eyes scanned the room, mostly familiar faces, but a decent amount of freshmen you hadn’t gotten to know well yet were there, too.

Nancy was back quickly, walking through the crowd holding the two red cups up high in an attempt to not spill them or get anything on her white blouse. She let out a sigh of relief when she finally reached you, handing you a drink.

“It’s a total madhouse in there,” she said. “Like, more than usual.”

“How many new pledges are there this year?” you asked, taking a sip of your beer. You linked hands with Nancy and began pushing through to the living room. You eventually found a place to stand against the wall, surveying the rest of the party.

“I have no idea,” she said. Her curls were pulled back on top with a bow, and she held her drink between both delicate hands. “It’s gotta be more than last year, right?”

It certainly seemed like it. The Sigma Chi parties were always intense, but it felt like you could barely move. “With Harrington in charge this year, who knows.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “God, I know. When I heard he was president, I almost thought about dropping out.”

You laughed, shaking your head and taking another sip of your beer. “At least in two more years, I’ll never have to see him again.”

“Lucky you,” Nancy grumbled. “I’m sure I’ll always be seeing him at some point when I’m back in Hawkins for holidays. It’s like I can’t escape him.”

The sound of your name being called caught your attention. You looked around, looking for the source—and saw Tommy Hagan on his way over, hand held up in a wave and a bright smile on his freckled face.

“Here comes your loverboy,” Nancy mumbled into her cup, looking away like she was minding her own business.

“Hey,” Tommy said as he reached you. He wasn’t as bad as Steve, but they were best friends and looked like they could have shared a wardrobe. He wore a dark red polo and jeans, one hand now in his pocket and the other holding his own drink. “Wow, you look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you smiled politely. “Um, thanks for the flowers this morning. Blue this time, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, his smile somewhat sheepish as he ran a hand through his short hair. “I was thinking, like, a different bouquet for every color of the rainbow, or something.”

You nodded, eyebrows raised. “Ooh, yeah. I see the vision.”

A soft blush colored the pale skin on his cheeks. “Did you like them?”

He was being so sweet, you couldn’t help but soften. You weren’t interested in Tommy romantically, but you were happy to partner with him if that’s what he wanted. “They were beautiful. Seriously.” His eyes lit up, and at the fear of yet another bouquet to make your bedroom look even more like a greenhouse, you added, “But I am starting to run out of room to put vases.”

Tommy laughed softly, looking down at the floor. “Yeah. Maybe I should try to get creative.”

A shout came from the sliding glass back door, drawing all of your attention behind him. “Hagan! Come out here and show the new brothers how a keg stand is done!”

Tommy turned back to you. “Sorry. Duty calls, I guess,” he said, although he didn’t look all that sorry. Sigma Chi took their keg stands very seriously. “I’ll catch you around later though, yeah? You’re not planning to turn in early or anything?”

“I’ll be here,” you confirmed, drinking from your cup again. “Go show ‘em, Hagan.”

His grin only widened. “See you later, beautiful.”

You watched him go, laughing softly as he immediately switched gears from gentleman to frat bro the second he reached the back door.

“Please let him be done with the bouquets,” Nancy said as soon as he was gone, done acting like she hadn’t been paying attention the whole time. “I’ve already got half of the flowers in my room.”

The party went on, and eventually you lost Nancy to the crowd. She’d started seeing this guy a few weeks ago, Vance, a transfer student who had her totally smitten like you’d never seen before. While Nancy had always been your partner at these parties—more like your shield from Steve Harrington—she’d started wanting to spend more time with Vance, and who were you to stop her?

It wasn’t until later in the night, when you were leaning against the wall with yet another drink, that you finally saw him. Or heard him, rather, because his obnoxious loud voice and laugh usually entered a room before he did. At least he had a warning bell, you thought.

When Steve entered the living room with his friends, telling some story that was definitely not funny enough to warrant how hard they were laughing, you thought about making a run for it. But then his eyes locked with yours from across the room, and he shot you that stupid fucking smirk that made you irritated immediately. And he knew it.

He stared at you even while he kept talking to his friends, and you stared back. He liked to do these little power plays. Even the women around him weren’t drawing his attention away. And finally, much to your disappointment, he turned away long enough to excuse himself before walking straight for you.

You really regretted not making your escape while you had the chance.

Steve greeted you by your last name, something none of the other guys did, since they cared about actually impressing you. “How sweet of you to grace my house with your presence. I almost didn’t expect you to show.”

You scoffed. “Just because you’re president this year doesn’t mean you’re special—“

“Actually, it does,” he smirked. “This is my kingdom, baby.” He held his arms out, as if the opulent house crammed full of sweaty, drunk college students was supposed to impress you. “And you’re talking to the king.”

You couldn’t have rolled your eyes harder if you tried. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk? It’s like everything you say comes from the official douchebag handbook.”

His smirk only widened. “Maybe it does. Maybe I even wrote it.”

“Steve, I’m not even sure you can read.” You shook your head, looking off to the side, searching for any lifeline out of this conversation with your least favorite person on earth. “Why are you over here bothering me, anyway? Don’t you have some poor girl to flatter long enough to get in her pants?”

“I’d much rather get under that skirt,” he quipped. When your head snapped back in his direction, eyes practically glowing with the fire behind them and the promise of pouring your drink all over his dark blue shirt and stupid khakis, he held his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay,” he laughed. “I came over because you looked fucking miserable. Why do you always look so bored? You’re at a party.”

“I’m not bored,” you retorted simply.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, leaning a hand against the wall next to you. “You look pissed off to even be here.”

“That’s because you’re talking to me.”

Steve laughed, which was maybe your least favorite sound in the world. “Every time I see you here, you look bored. Like you think you’re too good to even be here.”

“Well, unfortunately, Sigma Chi has the most annoying guy possible as their president, so…” you trailed off, a hand on your hip. You took a sip from your beer again, but you would need a lot more alcohol to make Steve’s presence bearable.

He hummed, as if he were considering it. “I don’t know. I think you feel like you’re above all this.” He gestured around the room. “Why would you join a sorority if you hate parties so bad?”

“I don’t hate parties,” you argued. And it was true—you didn’t. You could have plenty of fun at a party. You were Social Chair.

“Well, whatever it is, you’re bringing down the mood,” he said. He downed the rest of his own drink, sitting the empty plastic cup on the mantel, where it would surely sit until some poor pledges were tasked with cleaning the whole place tomorrow.

“I don’t think anyone cares what I’m doing,” you muttered. “Other than you, for some fucking reason.”

Steve grinned again. “I know what you need.”

“Yeah?” You raised your eyebrows. “Is it for you to leave me alone and never speak to me again? Because I could agree with that.”

“You need to get high.”

That made you pause. “What?”

His smile grew. “I think you need to loosen up. Like, a lot.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, back towards the staircase. “I could roll us a joint. I wanted to go smoke anyway.”

You just blinked at him. “You’re—“ You were genuinely stunned. “You’re inviting me to go up to your room and smoke? This isn’t, like, some weird attempt to have sex, right? Because that is never gonna happen—“

“No, Jesus,” he laughed. “I just think you need to stop being so damn uptight for once. It would help, believe me.”

“I’ve smoked before, I’m not some prude,” you mumbled, because you knew that’s exactly what Steve saw you as. “If you’re offering, why can’t you just, like…roll me one and bring it back down here?”

“I keep the good shit hidden in my room,” he shrugged. “Otherwise, these assholes would steal it all. They don’t need to know about it.”

You hesitated, because no matter how badly you wanted to accept the invitation for some free weed, it came with a worse cost—spending time one on one with Steve Harrington. He looked at you expectantly while you looked around the room, biting the inside of your cheek as you fought with yourself over it.

“Fine,” you said finally. “But we smoke, and then I’m coming right back down here and finding Nancy.”

“Deal,” he smirked. “At least you’ll be more fun. We have a reputation here, you know.”

You rolled your eyes yet again as he turned, leading the way back to the staircase. The crowd always seemed to part for Steve like he was true royalty, a deep seated respect that you personally would never understand. Your eyes darted around to every face you passed, absolutely mortified at the idea of someone seeing you following him upstairs, but no one seemed to notice.

The polished wood of the banister was smooth beneath your palm as you followed. You’d never even been up these stairs at all, the second floor a total mystery you had never been too eager to uncover. Steve’s shoes thudded against the shining hardwood floors, passing room after room occupied with couples, some of them not even bothering to close the door all the way. You scrunched your face up in disgust at one particularly shameless makeout session with the bedroom door wide open.

Steve reached a room at the end of the hall, turning to look at you over his shoulder before turning the doorknob, as if it were some grand reveal. You had to admit—only to yourself—but you were a little curious about what waited on the other side.

You trailed into the room behind him, closing the door behind you. You looked around as Steve kneeled by his bed, pulling out a shoebox. The bedroom was neat, bed made, clothes put away besides the ones piled in the laundry hamper. There was a desk with a lamp, soft light shining over a mess of papers and textbooks. His dresser was cluttered with hair products and a few bottles of expensive cologne. There were a few posters tacked to the walls, mostly sports related, a few of scantily clad women, and the year’s OSU baseball schedule. He had a bookshelf against one wall, holding his textbooks and a staggering amount of baseball trophies. A framed team photo sat on one shelf, along with one of all the Sigs taken at the beginning of the semester.

“Having fun?” Steve asked, making you jump slightly as you turned to look at him. He was sitting on his bed now, the shoebox open next to him. He was smiling at you as his fingers worked dexterously to roll the joint. “Didn’t know you could be so nosy.”

You scoffed, but your cheeks felt a little hot. “Shouldn’t have stuff sitting out if you don’t want people to look at it.”

He laughed. “You can look at whatever you want.” He licked along the seam of the joint, perfectly rolled. “Go ahead and search the whole room, if you want. The porn mags are in that drawer.” He nodded towards his nightstand.

You scrunched your face up. “Ew. You’re so gross.”

Steve laughed again as he put his baggie of weed and papers back in the box, pushing it beneath his bed again. You took a seat on the plush carpet, back leaning against his dresser. He placed a muscular arm on the end of the bed frame and lowered himself to the floor to sit across from you.

“You can do the honors if you want,” he offered, holding the joint out towards you.

There was a moment of hesitation before you reached forward, taking it from his fingers. “I don’t understand why you’re being nice to me,” you said, brows furrowed even as you placed the joint between your lips, flicking the lighter and holding the flame to the end.

“I’m not being nice to you,” he said. He still had that same look he always had when he looked at you, like it was one of his life’s greatest joys to piss you off, to get you worked up and upset. “Like I said, you’re ruining my party. Can’t have word spreading around campus that people are here looking bored. Sigs are the party kings of campus, and that’s not changing, especially not with me in charge.”

“Oh, right,” you said, exhaling that first cloud of smoke. “The new ruler can’t appear weak, and all that.”

“Exactly,” he smirked. He watched you take another hit, then leaned forward, accepting the joint back from you and taking a long pull himself.

“I don’t think anyone pays as much attention to me as you do, Steve,” you said. That warm feeling was starting to settle over you, and he was right—you were relaxing already. It was the first time you’d been in a room with him and didn’t want to scream or punch him.

His gaze was heavy on you as he hit the joint, looking at you with that intensity he always seemed to hold when you were in a room together. But now it was making you fidget, the room suddenly feeling hot.

“Who says I pay attention to you?” he finally asked. His voice was lower now, and when he leaned forward to pass the joint back to you, your fingers brushed together. It sent a jolt through your body, and you jerked your hand back quickly, bringing it to your lips to give yourself time to think before you spoke again.

“It’s kind of obvious.” Smoke billowed from your lips as you responded. The room was growing thick with it, a haze surrounding you both in and outside of your head. “Always staring at me, coming over just to annoy me…”

“It’s fun,” he admitted, laughing softly. He ran a hand through his hair, starting to lose its shape and flop into his wide hazel eyes. “Every time you get mad, you get that cute little furrow between your eyebrows, your lips get all pouty, and you roll your eyes about a million times.”

You paused—and then giggled, leaning forward to pass the joint back. “Seriously? I told you, you pay attention to me.”

Your laughter was starting to get Steve going too. He took another pull. “I mean, I notice things that are nice to look at. I’m only a man, after all.”

The laughter felt like something you could no longer control, bubbling up in your chest and filling Steve’s bedroom much like the smoke in the air. It was contagious, the two of you laughing together as you finished off the joint.

“You know you always say the cheesiest stuff possible,” you giggled, your body fully relaxed into the floor at this point. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, like every bit of tension in your muscles had faded. “It’s kind of amazing how everyone thinks you’re so cool, because you’re kind of a total dork.”

Steve laughed hard, his head tilting back. You couldn’t help but notice the strong column of his throat, the way the muscles flexed in his neck and chest. “I have to get creative,” he said, fixing his eyes back on yours once again. “I aim to keep you entertained, after all.”

“I guess you do,” you smiled. “Annoyed, yes. Bored? Never.”

He watched you for a minute, something thoughtful seeming to cross his face. Your eyes locked in that way they often did, just staring. Seeing each other. Steve always had a way of making you feel like he could see right through you, and it made you wonder if he felt the same about you, too.

The fact that you were enjoying Steve’s company seemed to strike you all at once. It was confusing—maybe concerning—but for now, you were too high to care. He’d been right. This was what you needed.

Steve nudged your foot with his own. “I’ve never seen you look so peaceful,” he grinned. “Who knew there was more to you than being stuck up and…snobby.”

You snorted a laugh. “Fuck you, Harrington.”

The grin on his face grew. “Oh, would that help you relax some more?” he said, looking a little too proud of himself. “Because I’d be happy to help you with that, too.”

Your eyes widened, and Steve was pretty sure you were about to tell him off again—but then you tossed your head back, laughing harder than he’d ever heard from you. “Oh my god. In your dreams.”

Steve smirked, that same look you’d grown to know as cocky and insufferable, but right now, you didn’t seem to mind it. It was endearing, almost. Handsome, maybe. “Baby, you let me fuck you, and you’ll be dreaming about it for months.”

It’s like everything he said, every stupid, corny line that would usually have you irritated, was suddenly the funniest thing you’d ever heard. “You really think you’re god’s gift to women, huh?”

“I know I am.” He tilted his head to the side, body relaxed as he leaned back against his bed frame. “Never heard a single complaint.”

“That’s because girls know how to fake it,” you mumbled. “Guys can never tell.”

“Oh, I can tell.” His hands flexed where they rested on his thighs, the veins beneath his skin suddenly extremely distracting. “Some guys can’t, sure. But I know the difference between some fake pornstar moans to boost some pathetic dude’s ego, and how it really feels to make a girl fall apart.”

Your cheeks felt hot now. Your whole body did, even though your outfit didn’t cover much skin. “You’re not that good in bed.”

“How would you know?” he asked, looking at you with genuine curiosity and something like delight.

“I can just tell,” you answered quickly, looking down at the soft beige carpet beneath your bare thighs. “Guys never care about making girls feel good. Just themselves.” That’s how it had been with every guy you’d ever slept with. Not a single one had been different.

“I’m not other guys,” Steve said, voice lower now. It made your breath hitch in your throat, slowly raising your head to look at him. He was still smiling at you, but there was something different behind his eyes now, something heavy and burning.

You returned his smile, laughing softly even as you felt your heart speed up in your chest. “Yeah, well. I don’t think any guy is different in that department.”

“You wanna bet?”

That almost earned him another eye roll (playful this time, but still)—until he shifted, moving over to sit next to you. You tensed as you felt his shoulder brush against yours, feeling both electricity and heat even through the fabric of your clothes.

“Steve…”

His large hand came up slowly. Now he was looking at you in a way you’d never seen from him before. The familiar cocky smirk was gone, his soft lips parted slightly as his eyes raked over every part of you like he wanted to memorize the way you looked right now. Your chest rose and fell with your heavy breaths, watching his intense gaze travel slowly, taking his time. From your eyes, to your lips, down your throat. Lower, to your chest, but not in the pervy way he’d done in the past. No, it wasn’t that—it was…reverent. Like he was seeing something holy.

His hand finally moved, brushing your hair back softly. It made you draw in a sharp breath, chills spreading across the skin of your neck where he’d made contact.

“I like you like this,” he said, voice low and quiet. His eyes were locked on the side of your neck, where he’d just touched.

It took you a second to find your voice, although it came out more like a whisper. “Like…what?”

“Happy,” he said. His gaze finally moved to your eyes. “Comfortable. Real.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You know, you’re really pretty when you smile like that.”

You were pretty sure you had to be dreaming, because in no world were you sitting in Steve’s bedroom while he looked at you like that. Like he wanted to kiss you. Like he was actually moving in, leaning in slowly to close the distance as if giving you all the chance in the world to run away—

You didn’t. Your eyes fell closed and then, with the force of a meteor crashing into the earth despite how soft and gentle it was, his lips met yours. His hand rested against the side of your neck while yours moved up to grip onto his bicep. He tilted his head slightly and your lips slotted together perfectly, moving together with a practiced kind of confidence and a sense of rightness you never should have felt with Steve Harrington ever.

There was no time to think with the way he was kissing you, slow and deep but utterly consuming. It was careful at first, exploratory. It felt so good, your lips moving with his like it was second nature. Steve was a good kisser. You knew he had plenty of experience, and it’s not like you didn’t, but he was taking the lead and you were happy to let him.

His tongue traced along your bottom lip, and you parted your lips on instinct. His tongue met yours with a soft groan that had you digging your nails into his arm through the sleeve of his shirt, pulling him closer.

Steve laid you back on the soft carpet with way more care than you’d ever seen him show anything. He braced himself on a strong arm planted next to your head, never breaking the kiss for a single second. His body hovered over yours, one knee moving between your thighs where your skirt had fallen up around your waist, pressing against you through your panties. His free hand rested on your hip now, holding onto you. You let out a soft moan against his lips, delirious from every point of contact, rocking your hips down against his leg to feel that friction you craved so desperately.

He groaned, moving from your mouth to kiss across your jaw, down to your neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin, giving you chills. Your breaths were coming in hard and heavy now, holding onto his broad shoulders like a lifeline, eyes closed as you felt every sensation he provided.

“So pretty,” he murmured against your neck, grinding his knee against you to meet every needy movement. He nipped lightly at the sensitive spot below your ear. You could feel his smirk against your skin when you gasped, hips bucking against him in response. It made no sense how he knew exactly what to do, like he somehow knew your body better than you did.

“Steve…” you whimpered, the only word your brain could conjure.

“That’s it, baby,” he said. His breath was hot against your skin, sucking at your neck, biting then soothing the sting with his tongue. “Let me hear you. Gonna make you feel so good.” 

The hand on your hip slowly slid up the smooth skin of your side, rucking your shirt up. You sat up long enough to help him pull it off completely, leaving you in the lacy bra you wore beneath. He wasted no time lowering his head to mouth at the top of your breasts, practically burying his face in them, kissing and sucking and biting at the exposed skin.

“Always had the best fucking tits,” he moaned, losing himself in a way you could only describe as worshipful. He reached behind you to unhook your bra easily, pulling it away and tossing it to the side. He pulled back to look down at your body, the look in his eyes one of pure hunger. “Actually insane fuckin’ pair, Jesus Christ.”

You laughed, because yeah, there was the Steve you knew. That laugh turned into a gasp, then a moan, when he leaned down and wrapped his lips around one of your nipples.

“Fuck,” you gasped, hands shooting up to tangle in his hair. “Oh my god—“

He swirled his tongue around the stiff peak, groaning as he sucked on it. He grabbed the other, massaging your breast in his large hand, slightly calloused from years of pitching. The friction on your sensitive, hardened nipple was maddening, back arching and pushing your tits further into his face.

He never let up with the movements against your soaked cunt, either, even as he switched back and forth between your tits. Your clit was swollen and throbbing and begging for more, and you were pretty sure your panties were utterly ruined. You could feel the pleasure building in your core with an intensity that felt like it would completely take your breath away.

You’d never had a guy make you cum in your life, and now Steve Harrington was about to do it in five minutes, fully clothed, with his fucking thigh?

Steve could sense the tension coiling in your body—and he pulled away, taking away every delicious ounce of pleasure he’d been building.

Your eyes opened, still heavy lidded and hazy. “What—?”

“My bed,” he said, and you noticed he was breathing hard, too. “Not gonna fuck you for the first time on the floor.”

You didn’t give yourself time to think about his words. He helped you up, then pulled you into another frantic kiss as you both shed clothes as fast as you could with your lips still attached, utterly desperate for each other.

Steve’s mattress creaked softly as you fell back onto it, now in nothing but your panties. You moved back towards his pillows, leaning up on your elbows as you watched him.

God, he looked good with his shirt off, you absolutely hated to admit. He had thick hair covering his chest, which was muscular and strong, but his stomach was still a little soft. His skin was sun-kissed, those moles dotting his body all over. The desire to kiss every single one of them surged suddenly within you, but you pushed the thought away. That was…intimate.

His gaze remained heavy on you as he worked his belt open without drawing away his attention once. The way he looked at you was like a starving man preparing for a feast. Your thighs were slightly parted, and he didn’t miss how damp your panties were. For him.

Finally down to his boxer briefs alone, you could see more of him than you ever had before. He was fully hard, the outline of his dick visible as it strained against the thin, snug material.

And the rumors were true.

“Jesus,” you breathed. That cocky smirk returned to his face as he watched your wide-eyed stare. Truthfully, he was used to that reaction. “You’re…”

“I know, baby,” he purred, crawling onto the bed over you. He leaned down, peppering kisses along your legs as he moved higher along your body. “It’ll fit. I’ll be careful. ‘m gonna take care of you like you deserve.”

It felt like you were melting into the soft sheets and comforter surrounding you. Steve was taking his time, placing hot, open mouthed kisses against your calf, his hand roaming up the other leg in time with his mouth. He rose higher, over your knee, up the inside of your thigh.

He laid on his stomach between your legs, kissing and nipping all along the sensitive skin of both inner thighs. Your legs trembled. The sight of him there, with his mouth all over you, was almost too overwhelming to even take in. Your head dropped against his pillows, just giving in to his every desire, your body coming alive with every touch. Trusting him.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathed in pure admiration. His nose nuzzled against your core through the thin material, and you drew in a sharp gasp. He looked up at you from between your legs, fingers moving to dip beneath the waistband of your panties. “Has anyone ever tasted you before?”

You froze as you realized what he was asking you, what he was planning to do. By the time you found your words, he’d already slipped the delicate material down and off your body. You shuddered as you felt his breath against your pussy, cool against the wetness there, for him.

“I—“ You jolted when you felt him rub his nose against your folds, breathing in the intoxicating scent of you. Your whole body was flushed and hot. “…No.”

Steve groaned. The idea of being the first to pleasure you like this had his cock throbbing between his body and the mattress. “Fuckin’ idiots,” he grumbled, drinking in the sight of you for a little longer before he finally moved in, dragging his tongue against your cunt, moaning like he’d never tasted anything better. “You have the perfect fuckin’ pussy. Tastes so sweet.”

Your hips jerked against his mouth, crying out at that first unfamiliar contact. You heard his low chuckle, but there was no humor behind it, just pure want. He dove in, devouring you properly.

The feeling of his tongue against you was more intense than you’d anticipated. Your fingers tangled in his perfect hair, making a mess of it, pulling just hard enough to earn a groan from his chest that vibrated against your clit. You were nearly seeing stars already, hips rocking up against his mouth as he flicked his tongue against the swollen nub, sucking gently before moving down to your hole. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was pulling you apart piece by piece until you could hardly stand it.

You’d heard of this before, of course you had. Your sorority sisters had mentioned it a few times, and you’d seen it in that trashy porno you, Nancy, and Carol had spent the night giggling at after sharing a joint and some vodka crans. But you always thought of it as a myth. No man you’d ever been with had even offered, even if you’d gone down on him first. You figured it was something guys just didn’t do, or at least something they didn’t want to do.

Not Steve, apparently, because he was worshipping you like he could have spent hours with his face buried between your legs. His skilled tongue worked against you in all the right ways, moaning against you and grinding his hips against the bed, even harder if you tugged on his hair, which you were quickly learning he liked.

“Steve—“ you gasped, body writhing and arching beneath him. “Oh my god, I—-“

“That’s it,” he praised, pulling away from you just long enough to speak, eyes glazed and lips and chin shining with your wetness, before diving in again. “Doing so good for me, sweetheart. You’re so fucking hot.”

You whimpered when you felt his thick finger pressing against your entrance, moaning as he pushed inside while his mouth focused on your clit again. With how wet you were, he slid inside easily, fucking you before quickly adding a second finger. He curled them deep inside, pressing against something that nearly had you screaming his name loud enough for the whole party to hear.

“Steve!” you gasped, one hand still tangled in his hair while the other gripped onto the pillow, feeling like you would actually float away if you didn’t hold on. The pleasure he was giving you was nearly overwhelming, your body beginning to tremble harder as that coil tightened again, faster and more intense this time. He slipped in a third, fucking you deep, stretching you around his thick fingers.

“Gotta get you ready for me,” he panted, dragging his tongue through your folds one more time just to taste you. “Fuck. You’re so good, gonna take me so well, every fuckin’ inch, I know you will. Gonna stretch so perfectly around my cock.”

A whine crawled its way from your throat, hips rocking against his fingers as he fucked you deep with them, pressing against that bundle of nerves that had you losing your mind. “Steve…Steve…oh fuck, I’m—“

He didn’t let up with his fingers for a single second. But it was when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking, while his fingers thrusted in hard and deep, that made it finally snap.

Your vision went white, your body tensing and mouth dropping open in a scream that was silent at first, before you let out what were probably the most pornstar-worthy sounds you’d ever made in your life. “Steve! Oh, fuck!”

Steve groaned at the sound, lapping up every bit of you, letting you grind your pussy against his tongue and working you through every shuddering aftershock until your body went limp beneath him. When he finally pulled back, you fully expected him to look up at you with that look he almost always wore, the one that made him look so proud of himself, so punchable. But instead he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before sucking his fingers clean greedily, looking down at your body with that same heated, wanting expression.

He sat up on his knees. You didn’t think it was possible before but he was even harder now, a wet spot on his boxers at the tip of his cock where he’d been absolutely dripping for you. His thumbs hooked into the waistband, pushing down just enough for you to get a glimpse of the hair that disappeared below.

“You ready for me?” he asked, voice a low rumble.

You let out a shaky breath, looking up at him with wide eyes. “…Yeah.”

Steve smirked down at you and pushed the material down in one go. His cock sprung free—and it was even more impressive than it looked before. He was thick and long, a slight right curve, vein prominent along the underside. His tip was flushed red like he was real desperate, and glistening from the precum he’d been leaking the whole time he was taking care of you. Another drop was beading at his slit. You’d never had a man look like he wanted you this bad.

You knew you were staring, and Steve certainly saw it, too. “See something you like, baby?”

You let out a breathless laugh, but truthfully, you were in no position to crack a joke or even deny it. You simply watched as he shed the last bit of clothing completely, leaving you both completely bare in his bed.

He leaned over you and reached to open the bedside drawer. There really were porn mags in there, which might have made you laugh if you couldn’t feel that thick length twitching against your thigh. He grabbed a condom and shoved the drawer closed, sitting back up on his knees. He ripped the foil packet open with his teeth and rolled it onto his cock.

When he leaned over your body again, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other stroking his cock slowly, your heart began to pound fast. There was that brief moment of I’m really doing this, right now, with him, but you’d never wanted anything more in your life.

Steve lined the head of his cock up with your entrance. You were still soaked, so he wasn’t worried, but you were. You’d heard rumors of how some girls couldn’t even take him, only getting him halfway in before giving up and jerking him off instead. You hadn’t believed them, because starting a rumor about the size of his dick was absolutely something you could see Steve doing. But now you were here in his bed, seeing firsthand that it was very true.

He traced his cock up and down through your folds, coating himself in that slick wetness, showing a surprising amount of care. He placed hot, gentle kisses along your jaw as he did, voice a soft, low rumble in your ear.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, lips brushing against your skin. “You don’t like it, we don’t have to. But I’ve got you, baby. You’re so good, I think you can take it.”

You could hear the need in his voice, how badly he needed you to let him fuck you. But you also knew he was true to his word.

But, god, you wanted to take all of him. To show him you could, to feel him buried deep. To make him fall apart.

Steve kissed his way back to your lips, kissing you slow and deep, tongue massaging against yours. You felt the sting of the thick head of his cock pushing inside you, and you let out a soft whimper into the kiss. He moaned against you and pushed in just a little deeper.

“That’s it,” he whispered between kisses. He grabbed your thigh with his left hand now, spreading you wide for him. “Doin’ so good, baby, letting me in.” He rolled his hips in shallow thrusts, just that little bit inside of you, sinking in another inch with every slow, deliberate thrust, working you open.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, but he kept your attention on him, entirely on the way he was kissing you. You weren’t sure why or how but it was working, his slow, languid kiss distracting you from the sharp sting where he was stretching you around the girth of him, coaxing your body to relax.

The feeling of being filled was like nothing else. Sure, you’d had plenty of sex, but Steve made you feel absolutely stuffed full before he was even completely inside. He held your thigh up, keeping you open for him, your flexibility not lost on him. He rolled his hips in a few more slow thrusts—and then you felt his hips pressed flush against you.

“Christ,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to lean his forehead against yours. “So perfect, baby, you fuckin’—took it all, Jesus—“

You’d never heard Steve sound so utterly wrecked. He rolled his hips against you a few times, just enjoying the feeling of being completely sheathed inside your tight heat. And fuck, you were stretched around him perfectly, tight and hot. You felt like absolute heaven around his cock.

His cock throbbed inside you, so hard you could feel it. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, palms rubbing over his hot skin, a thin sheen of sweat coating it from the sheer effort of holding back from pounding into you.

“Steve,” you whimpered. Your cunt fluttered around him, and he dropped his head to your shoulder with a broken moan.

“Yeah?” he rasped. His hips rocked lightly against you, betraying his desperation.

“You can…” You gasped as the coarse hair at his base rubbed against your clit, still so sensitive but aching for him again. “…You can move.”

Steve moaned again, placing a few hot kisses against your neck as if thanking you. Finally he pulled his hips back, slowly withdrawing almost fully. Only his tip remained, and you could have cried at the loss of that perfect full feeling. But then he sank back in—slow at first, filling you to the brim again. Your desperate sounds of pleasure mixed together in the hot, charged air of his bedroom, a symphony intertwined much like your bodies.

“Shit,” he cursed. He set a careful rhythm, every thrust measured and slow and deep. “You’re taking me so fucking good. Fuuuuck. That pussy is fucking unreal.”

You could barely think straight. Your entire world narrowed down to the feeling of Steve inside of you, stretching you open perfectly. The sting was still there, but it was quickly fading into pure ecstasy with every movement of his hips. Your body was adapting to him like it was made for it.

Hands tangled in his hair again, you pulled him down into another messy kiss, all tongue and desperation, sloppy and hungry and hot. He groaned loudly into it, hips rutting into you faster.

Whines and whimpers and keening moans were spilling from your lips with little control. Your hips moved in time with his thrusts, meeting him every time. His cock was deeper than you thought possible, brushing against that spot that quickly had you gasping and babbling complete nonsense.

“Feels so good Steve, oh fuck, oh god, please don’t stop, don’t fucking stop I’m gonna cum again, Steve please, oh god—!”

Every word that tumbled from your lips was like fuel to the fire of his intense need. He couldn’t hold back anymore, couldn’t worry about if he might hurt you, too lost in the feeling of your body wrapped around him. His hips rocked against yours in a frantic pace now, his breaths coming in ragged pants, eyes locked on the way your tits bounced with the force of his thrusts. You arched your back and he leaned down to wrap his lips around a nipple again, moaning as he laved his tongue over it, eyes closed and completely pussydrunk, all because of you.

He sucked hard on your nipple one more time before letting go with a wet pop and sitting up on his knees. He held onto your waist and used your body, pulling you down onto his cock with every rough snap of his hips. His eyes were locked on the sight, watching himself disappear into your perfect cunt, seeing you stretch around him, take him whole.

“Holy fuck,” he panted. The sight of the muscles in his arms and chest flexing as he took what he needed from you, watching you with such heat, made you feel utterly delirious. He looked powerful and strong, like an absolute god. “Jesus. Look how you take me, baby, fuck. Knew you’d be good, but—“ His hips stuttered, eyes rolling back for a second. “—shit, holy fuck—“

“Baby,” you gasped, grabbing onto the pillow above your head. Your cunt was tightening, throbbing around him, soaking his cock. The sound of him driving into you was loud and obscene—the slick, wet sounds, the sound of his skin slapping against yours. You might have felt a little self conscious if you could think about anything other than his cock coaxing that second orgasm from your trembling body. “I can’t—oh god, Steve, please…”

“You can do it,” he was nearly begging now, his cock beginning to twitch within your tight walls, so close to his own end but determined to get you there first. “Come on, baby, give it to me. Let me feel it. Cum all over my cock, show me how good it feels, how much you like getting fucked by me.”

You turned your head, biting down on a pillow you held to your face in an effort to muffle the scream that ripped from your lungs. Your body arched, cunt clenching around him as wave after wave of overwhelming, perfect pleasure washed over you. Your ears were ringing, moaning and gasping and babbling his name again and again.

“Shit!” Steve cursed, hips pounding into you reckless and fast. “That’s it, god yeah, let me feel it—oh fuck—you’re so good, so fucking good baby, letting me fuck you like this, squeezing around me—shit—oh baby, gonna make me—gonna make me fuckin’ cum—“

His body pitched forward over yours, bracing himself on an arm and burying his face in your neck. His cock buried deep in you, hips snapping in a few more frantic, shallow thrusts before he tensed, his groan muffled against your skin as he spilled into the condom, repeating your name over and over, body shaking with the intensity.

Your head was spinning. You could hear your heart beating in your ears. Steve’s body was heavy on top of you, your sweat-slicked skin pressed together, as he tried to catch his breath. It was a minute of heavy silence before he finally slid his softening cock out of you, collapsing onto his back.

The loss of that glorious full feeling was disappointing, to say the least. But as Steve removed the condom from his spent cock, tying it off and tossing it into his trash can, the moment finally, properly, broke.

And you realized you were naked in Steve Harrington’s bed. That you had fucked him.

The effects of the weed seemed to have worn off, leaving you feeling suddenly cold and exposed and panicked. Even as you began to freak out more and more, Steve looked totally fine, laying back against the headboard with an arm behind his head. His chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths, skin still shining with sweat, but he looked satisfied. Proud of himself in that way that always pissed you off, but especially now.

“So,” he said, and like so many times before, he’d ruined it all the moment he opened his mouth. “You let me fuck you after all, huh?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, sitting up and reaching for your clothes. You felt like you couldn’t stand to be exposed like this to him for another second, holding every article of clothing you grabbed to your chest until you found it all.

Steve laughed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He didn’t seem to have any qualms about being totally naked in front of you, comfortable in his own skin the way he always was. “Those panties might be ruined. They were pretty soaked. You can leave them here with me, if you want.” He grinned wider. “I’ll keep them safe. Won’t even wash ‘em.”

“You’re a pig,” you spat back at him. He wasn’t exactly wrong, though. You didn’t want to put them back on, but you weren’t about to walk out of this room wearing that tiny skirt with nothing underneath.

“But was I right?”

“About what?” you asked as you hooked your bra, roughly pulling your shirt back on. The scowl on your face was a permanent fixture at this point, which was amusing to him.

“That I’m good?” he raised his eyebrows, and the grin on his face told you he knew the real answer no matter what you said in response.

“You weren’t that good,” you mumbled. You pulled your skirt back onto your hips, grabbing your shoes.

Steve laughed. “Oh, come on. That’s not what you were saying when you were practically riding my face, or when you were cumming on my dick, begging me not to stop.” His words made your face burn, unable to even say something smart in return. “You don’t have to lie to me, baby. I was there.”

Fully dressed now, you moved to his dresser mirror, trying to fix your appearance. “Don’t call me baby.”

He crossed his ankles, just watching you with that infuriating grin. He made no move to cover any part of his body, his cock laying against his thigh. It was huge even when he was soft, which you hated that you even noticed. 

“Aw, why’re you so mad now?” The condescending tone in his voice made you shiver with the effort of not losing your absolute shit. “Personally, I had fun. And I just gave you your first orgasm ever—“

“Not my first orgasm.”

“Sorry, your first orgasm that you didn’t give yourself.” He tilted his head, smirking. You could feel his eyes all over your body, shameless. “Two of them, actually. So really, you should probably be thanking me.”

You barked out a laugh as you wiped a lipstick smudge from the corner of your mouth. You turned around, noticing for the first time that some of it had transferred to his face. “I’m not thanking you for shit. This never should’ve happened.”

Steve watched you head for the door. He had no intention of stopping you. He’d never let a girl stay in his bed after sex, and he wasn’t about to start now. He moved lazily even as he sat up and began to grab his own clothes.

“You can pretend you didn’t like it all you want, baby,” he said, not even looking at you anymore as he pulled his boxer briefs back onto his legs. “But you and I both know what happened in here tonight, and I don’t think you’ll be forgetting it any time soon.”

You held back a frustrated scream as you walked out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind you. Thankfully the music was loud enough that it didn’t draw any attention. You stomped down the hallway and down the stairs, back into the chaos that now felt suffocating and overwhelming in a way it never had before.

You found Nancy in the kitchen, laughing with some of the other sisters. When she spotted you her expression turned serious, saying something to the girls before walking straight to you. 

“Where did you go?” she asked, reaching for your arm. Her hand was a little cold and every touch to your skin right now felt like a scalding burn, but you didn’t pull away. “I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

“Just got wrapped up talking to some people,” you mumbled, unable to make eye contact with her. “I’m gonna head home, though.”

Nancy’s brows furrowed. “Now? Already? It’s still pretty early.”

“I just don’t feel good,” you said. All you really wanted was to get back to the safety of your own bedroom and freak out about this in private. “You don’t have to leave.”

“No, don’t be silly. I’m going with you.” She drained the last of the contents of her cup and tossed it into the nearby trash can, intertwining her fingers with yours. “This party kinda sucked tonight, anyway.”

You smiled at her, genuinely grateful. Nancy was your best friend for a reason, and you loved her. But you could never tell her what happened tonight.

As you walked hand in hand to the front door, you felt a creeping feeling up your spine. Just as Nancy turned the doorknob, opening the door and letting the cool September air inside, you looked back over your shoulder.

Steve leaned against the railing upstairs, watching you. When you locked eyes, he lifted a hand in a wave, smiling down at you.

You left the house, letting the door close hard behind you.

Steve was haunting you.

Not even in the way he always had, constantly in the same places, an unavoidable physical presence. No, this was worse. He was in your head now. And for the first time ever, you felt you had actually been lucky before.

The night after that first fateful mistake, you’d gotten back to the house, told Nancy you didn’t feel good, and went straight to bed. You removed your clothes from the party, shoved that pair of panties straight in the trash. You didn’t think you could ever look at them again.

Sleep didn’t come easily. You laid in bed, thinking about Steve and what you’d done without a moment’s reprieve. It was miserable, but you figured it was normal. Something terrible had just happened after all; a horrible mistake had been made, so of course you were going to think about it. It would fade. You would feel better tomorrow.

The problem was that it never stopped.

You woke up thinking about Steve. Went to class thinking about him. Every time you saw him on campus—and he always saw you first, smirking at you and giving you that douchebag nod, or a casual wave that he knew was anything but—you averted your eyes and headed quickly in the other direction.

If the fact that you’d done it at all didn’t disgust you enough, it was nothing compared to the horrible truth. That you’d liked it. Loved it. Wanted more. He really was the best you’d ever had, and you didn’t think he’d ever done a single thing that had pissed you off more than that.

Of all the guys you’d been with, guys who were plenty hot and popular and well liked, not a single one of them had ever cared about your pleasure in any way. They were only interested in getting themselves off. You were pretty sure they wouldn’t have been able to find the clit if they’d even bothered to try.

But Steve? He had absolutely rocked your world exactly like he promised. The only orgasms you’d ever experienced had been by your own hands, and you figured no one ever would or could know your body better than you did. How did he know the exact right places to touch, the right things to do? Every girl was different, right? Did he have some kind of stupid fucking superpower?

He had you completely spiraling. You felt like you were losing your mind. Even Nancy and Carol and the other girls noticed there was something up with you. Nancy was the only one who asked, but you quickly made up some excuse about being stressed over classes and homecoming. Tommy was still doing everything in his power to win you over, but there was only one Sigma Chi member on your mind at all hours, day and night.

You laid in bed at night with the memory haunting you. His mouth, his tongue, his fingers, his stupidly huge dick that he knew exactly how to use, that he’d taken so much care with so he wouldn’t hurt you. How hard you’d cum when he went down on you, the way he made you cum again with nothing but his cock. The memories replayed through your mind nonstop until the ache between your thighs became unbearable and you couldn’t help it anymore, your hand slipping beneath your shorts and panties and burying your moans in your fist until you came moaning his name, picturing his face the way he looked staring up at you from between your legs.

That was the worst of it, the guilt and confusion and disappointment you felt when it was over. When you were laying there in the quiet dark of your bedroom, realizing that you were really, truly fucked.

You wanted Steve. You wanted him bad. And you didn’t think you could keep lying to yourself.

By the time the next party came around, you were done even trying to pretend.

You spent a little extra time getting ready in your bedroom, picking out a cute little dress after trying on nearly everything in your closet. It was form fitting, short, and a bit revealing. You knew it would catch his attention. You honestly weren’t sure why you were even trying, since you’d never had to try to get him to notice you before, even when you desperately didn’t want him to.

When you met Nancy and Carol in the front room, their eyes widened at the sight of you. “Woah. That’s the slut dress,” Carol remarked right away.

It made you laugh even as your skin flushed with embarrassment. It was true. This dress rarely ever came out, and when it did it was because you were going on a date you really wanted to end happily—hence the nickname your friends had dubbed it with.

“Is there something you wanna tell us?” Nancy asked, her brows raised. “I mean, you look great, but…who’s it for?”

The question made you freeze for a moment, even though you should’ve known they’d ask. Of course they would. But you recovered quickly, making up a lie on the spot that you prayed sounded believable. “No one in particular. Just…hoping to catch the attention of someone interesting, at least.”

That seemed good enough for Carol, who turned away and started digging through her purse to make sure she’d packed her lipstick, but Nancy watched you a little longer. She was always so analytical with everything, and as your best friend, she knew you too well for you to get away with lying to her about much. And you hated lying to Nancy, you really did, but how would you explain this?

The three of you left Delta Gamma as a unit, arms linked together. The walk to the Sigma Chi house wasn’t far, and it was a chilly evening, but nothing too bad. The bare skin of your thighs felt the sting of the cold the most, but before you knew it you were walking in the front door, the packed frat house instantly hot enough to make you grateful for the amount of skin you had showing.

For the first time, you were grateful to be separated from your girls so quickly. And, equally as unusual in this alternate dimension you’d somehow stepped into—you wanted to find Steve. Your eyes scanned each room for him, ears focused on listening for his voice. Something you couldn’t explain led you to the backyard, a place you didn’t often venture here.

The hot tub was on, and overcrowded. Some of the guys were in with a handful of girls, most sitting in someone’s lap. A larger crowd just hung out on the back deck, some even into the yard beneath the lights. You heard the sound of his laughter quickly, turning your head to the left at the exact time he looked in your direction.

And god, you hated to admit it, but he looked good. His hair was once again perfectly styled, and he wore a long sleeve dark green shirt with a pair of jeans that he wore…really, really well. They were tight, perfectly fitted, and you didn’t know how you’d never known about his size when he wore pants like that. His ass looked great, too.

Fuck.

You locked eyes with him. He held your gaze for a minute, smirk on his face even as he kept talking to his friends. Then, for the first time ever—he turned away. Going right back to his conversation as if you’d never even been there at all.

You were stunned.

Never in the history of your time at OSU had Steve seen you and not immediately approached to piss you off. He had never dismissed you like that. If the rage hadn’t already been boiling in your blood, it certainly was now.

You scoffed, turning around and walking back into the house. If he was expecting you to come to him, it wasn’t gonna happen. It had never happened that way before and wasn’t going to start now. Instead you pushed your way to the kitchen, heading straight to pour yourself a drink.

Just as you were reaching for one of the red plastic cups, another hand came around your shoulder and grabbed it before you could. You turned around, more confused than angry, to see Tommy Hagan standing right behind you, a warm smile on his freckled face.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, looking like he just realized how awkward of a move it was. “I just—can I get you a drink?”

You paused for a second. “Um…yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said, his expression becoming a little more comfortable at your acceptance. He moved around to the counter that held a keg and multiple bottles of liquor. It was surrounded by people, as it always was, but they moved for Tommy out of respect in the same way they did for Steve. “What’re you drinking?”

You scanned the selection—there was a bit of everything. Sigma Chi took pride in keeping the alcohol flowing at every party. “Tequila?”

“You got it.” Tommy grinned. He filled the red cup from the keg and passed it back to you, then reached for the bottle of tequila, pouring two shots. He handed one to you and held the other out in a toast.

You smiled softly as you gently tapped your cup against his, then brought it to your lips, downing the burning liquid with ease. Tommy laughed when you scrunched your face up in disgust for a second.

“You’d think Harrington would splurge for the good shit,” Tommy said, leaning back against the counter as he looked at you. “I guess I can’t complain about free alcohol, though.”

“True,” you smiled, even though you really didn’t want to talk or think about Steve anymore, especially right now. “Thanks. Again. For the drinks.” You held your beer up towards him before taking a sip.

“No problem,” he said, a soft blush touching his pale skin. “Pretty girls shouldn’t have to pour their own drinks.”

Even though you didn’t like Tommy as more than a friend, he really was sweet, and his attention made you feel good. Special. “What would I ever do without you, Tommy?”

He laughed, looking down at his shoes for a moment. “Hey,” he said, meeting your eyes again. “I was just thinking…if you’d maybe want to go out? Maybe…Monday?”

Your eyes widened. You hadn’t actually expected him to ask you on a date. Your lips parted, closed, then opened again, but you couldn’t figure out the right words to say.

“Nothing serious,” Tommy said quickly, noticing your hesitation. “It doesn’t have to be…y’know. I just thought we could maybe get some food, talk about homecoming…” His soft smile returned. “…and, you know, I’d really like to take you out.”

It was hard not to soften around him, especially with the way he spoke to you. Every Sig was great at turning on the charm, but there was something about Tommy that felt so genuine. And would it really be so bad to go out with him? “Sure. That sounds good. My last class ends at 4?”

“Great,” he said, the words leaving him in a breath of relief. “Yeah, awesome. I can pick you up from DG? Like…6?”

“That’s perfect,” you nodded. You drank from your beer again just as another Sig walked up to Tommy—Billy Hargrove. You hadn’t spoken to him much yourself, but he was nice to look at for sure. You knew a few of your sorority sisters had been out with him, and he had a bit of a reputation for being a ladies man. He had a gorgeous smile, tan skin, blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair that hung to his shoulders in soft, beautiful curls.

“Hagan,” Billy said, clapping a hand on the other boy’s shoulder. He looked like he was about to say something else, but then his eyes landed on you. “Well. You didn’t tell me you were busy entertaining DG’s most beautiful.”

Even though all these frat guys pulled the same cheesy lines, you still felt the heat rise to your skin. “Hi, Billy.”

“Hi, gorgeous.” He smiled down at you, showing off the dimple in his cheek. Something about it brought out the ‘smiling shyly, twirling your hair around your finger’, teenage girl-type feeling buried deep within you. Tommy’s confident smile had dropped, now shifting awkwardly on his feet.

“Uh, what’s up, Hargrove?” Tommy asked, trying his best to look unbothered.

Billy glanced at him for just a second before those clear blue eyes found you again. “No rush, Hagan. What, don’t wanna share her attention?” His smile was bright and friendly, the kind that would have any girl’s heart beating fast.

“It’s not—“ Tommy sighed, leaning back against the counter.

“We were just talking,” you said, glancing between the two boys. There was an unspoken tension there, but you didn’t dwell on it. “How’s basketball?”

Billy’s smile grew. “It’s great. We’ve started conditioning. Right, Tommy?” he asked, turning around to look at his friend for only a moment, a weak attempt at acting like he had any intent to bring him into the conversation. “You should come to some of our games this season. I think I play better when there’s a pretty girl cheering for me.”

You laughed, the sound light and airy and genuine. “Is that right?”

Billy shrugged. “Could be just a theory, but why take the risk? Wouldn’t be very good for school spirit if we didn’t do everything possible to make sure we take home that championship, right?”

You rolled your eyes lightly as you laughed again, but it was more amusement than irritation—not like with certain people. “I guess that’s true. We should all do our part.”

“Exactly.” He smirked. “And maybe I can come watch you run some time. See that record-breaking sprinter I’ve heard so much about in action.”

You weren’t sure why exactly, but it surprised you that he knew anything about your athletic achievements. It was talked about on campus—the school loved to celebrate their top athletes—but it’s not like most of the school cared about track and field the way they did about other sports. You were no Steve Harrington, star pitcher. “Yeah, that would be cool. I’d like that.”

“I’ve heard you’re good. Like, insanely fast.” He leaned against the counter next to Tommy with an instinctual swagger, exuding the confidence that came so naturally to him. “And, uh…long jump?”

“High jump,” you corrected, hiding your shy smile behind your cup as you sipped your beer again. “But, yeah. I’d love for you to come watch.”

“Maybe I’ll call you sometime.” Billy winked at you before finally acknowledging Tommy again. “Hagan. We’re waiting for you out back.” He looked back at you. “Sorry, came over here to grab him and didn’t expect to get…distracted.”

“Go do your thing,” you said, waving your hand in some kind of vague gesture. You were starting to feel a slight buzz, at least. “Have fun. Don’t let me hold you up.”

“I’ll see you around,” Billy said with one last flash of that charming smile. When he looked back at Tommy, his expression was more serious, nodding his head towards the back in a silent command that didn’t seem to have any other option.

Tommy smiled at you, but it was more forced, the comfort from before long gone. “I’ll see you Monday,” he said. “It was…good to talk to you. I hope you have fun the rest of the night.”

“Bye,” you said softly, but he was already gone. You watched him trailing after Billy towards the back door, where Steve and some of the other guys waited, a cheer erupting as soon as they walked out the door. Frat boys.

Left on your own again, you tried to enjoy yourself. Bouncing around the house, talking with people you knew from around campus, from sports, from Greek life. Still, you couldn’t shake the thought of Steve from your head. You knew what you’d come here to do, and even though you hated yourself for it, you hadn’t changed your mind. You didn’t think you could.

You saw him again a few times. Through the back door, in the living room, passing him in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, where he bumped into your shoulder and turned around long enough to smirk at you before walking on like it was nothing. Every time you saw him he saw you too, but he didn’t approach you once. It had you fuming.

A few hours into the party, unfortunately, you were getting desperate.

When you walked into the kitchen for another refill, you saw him again. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest with one hand holding his cup, talking to some girl you couldn’t name. You weren’t jealous—you were not jealous—but it just made you even angrier. Especially when he glanced at you for just a moment before turning back to her.

This was humiliating. It was demeaning. You hated it. You hated him. But you swallowed your pride, took a deep breath, and walked over to them anyway.

Steve looked at you again, and grinned wide, his eyes lighting up with an infuriating delight as he realized you were coming over. The girl by his side gave you a dirty look as soon as she noticed, but Steve’s attention was now entirely on you.

He said your name, a simple acknowledgement. “How are you enjoying the party?” He tilted his head to the side, his expression smug. He knew exactly what game he’d been playing all night, and he also knew he’d just won.

“It’s great,” you said, your deadpan voice doing nothing to hide your irritation.

“Good. I pride myself on my hospitality.” You didn’t think you’d ever seen Steve not looking proud of himself, but he certainly did right now. “Did you need something?”

You glared at him, biting the inside of your cheek as you refused to back down from the eye contact he was holding. The girl next to him looked between you. “I was…wondering if you had any more of that…weed.”

The grin that spread across his face was nothing short of euphoric. His hazel eyes seemed to shine with it. The girl next to him might as well have no longer existed. “Actually, you know, I might have a little more. I’d have to check.”

Your jaw clenched, looking off to the side before meeting his eyes again. Your whole body buzzed like a live wire. When he didn’t make a move, just kept looking at you, you raised your eyebrows at him expectantly. “Well?”

Steve laughed. “Now, huh?” He downed the rest of his beer and turned to the side, dropping the cup in the trash. You were momentarily stunned when he grabbed yours from your hand, too, doing the same. “Well, if it’s that urgent. Come on, we’ll go look.”

He pushed off the wall, walking in the direction of the staircase. He didn’t give the girl he’d been talking to another word or look, but she was certainly glowering at you when you glanced one last time before following after him. You felt ashamed, trailing behind exactly like he wanted you to. But worse than that was the relief.

Still, as you walked up the stairs behind Steve, you looked around to make sure no one was watching. You’d survived the first hookup without rumors starting, but you knew you had to be careful. If there was one student on this campus everyone paid attention to, it was Steve Harrington.

Even worse than some random students seeing and whispering would be Nancy or Carol. You didn’t want to have to even begin to figure out how to explain this to them. It was humiliating enough doing it, confusing even trying to justify it to yourself.

Steve led the way into his bedroom, although you’d dreamed about the same path so many times over the past week, you could have walked yourself there with your eyes closed. His room was still tidy, and the scent of the cologne he was wearing now permeated the air. All his usual hair products sat out on his dresser, and you could practically see the ghost of him there getting ready before leaving for the party downstairs, not putting it away.

He closed the door behind you, the sound of the lock clicking into place like a bomb in the silence. You turned around to face him. You hadn’t really thought this far ahead.

“So…” Steve began, walking over to you slowly. You felt like a rabbit that had run right into his trap—willingly. “Did you really want that weed? Or did you come back for something else?”

You gritted your teeth, fists clenching and unclenching at your side. Drawing in a deep breath, you tried to relax your muscles, your entire body tense. “I…”

Steve was still smiling at you as he approached. He knew you weren’t going to say it, but he had already won. You’d come. His hand came up to rest on your cheek, and you found yourself relishing in the warmth of his palm rather than flinching away.

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to,” he murmured, his voice low. No bravado, soft, meant only for you. His eyes were locked on yours. “I know what you need, baby.” His thumb stroked your cheek, then moved to rub slowly over your bottom lip. Your breath hitched, but you couldn’t break the intense eye contact if you tried. “Have you been dreaming about it?”

You didn’t know what to say. Your brain was short circuiting. Your hands hung loosely by your side, eyes wide, as he looked at you with pure heat. Goosebumps covered your skin, breath coming in strained.

“I already know,” he continued when you said nothing. His words were a low purr, a sound that had you hypnotized. You didn’t even react when he pulled down slightly on your bottom lip and slipped his thumb inside, pressing down against your tongue. “You’d never been fucked like that in your life. You’ve been thinking about it. Trying to recreate it with your own hand, getting off to the memory.”

Body on autopilot, you closed your lips around his thumb. Your eyes never left each others’ as you ran your tongue over the calloused pad of his finger, sucking on it. For all he tried to act unaffected and in control, you saw the shudder that wracked through him. You didn’t have to look to know he was hard already.

When he pulled his hand away, the trance was broken. But still, you both stood there, just looking at each other. The whole room felt charged with electricity, the air around you heavy enough to feel like a physical, oppressive weight.

Your lips crashed together in a kiss both hungry and frantic. It wasn’t slow and romantic, not this time. Steve’s hands dug into your waist, pulling you close, the kiss all tongue and teeth and messy desperation. He groaned into your mouth, and when he pulled your hips into his, you could feel the hard proof of what you’d already known.

He pulled back to pull his shirt over his head, your eyes drinking in the exposed skin shamelessly. He was breathing hard, eyes glazed over with unfiltered want. Shoes were kicked off, Steve’s jeans hit the floor, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you with ease and laying you on his bed.

“You wore this little thing for me?” Steve whispered in your ear as he settled over you. His lips attacked your neck, sucking at that spot he remembered was so sensitive. You wouldn’t be surprised if he left marks, but you couldn’t think straight long enough to care.

“No.” The denial was weak, even you knew that. You had watched him all night, approached him yourself after sucking up your pride, and now you were beneath him on his bed. But, fuck, hadn’t you given him enough satisfaction tonight?

“No?” He chuckled darkly against the hot skin of your neck. He didn’t believe you for a second. He was rolling his hips against you, the straining in his boxer briefs rock hard where it pressed against your dripping core. “That’s a shame, baby. It looks so good on you.”

The little whimper that escaped when he bit down on the skin beneath your ear would have been embarrassing if you were able to even process it. You arched your back beneath him, pressing your tits against his chest. Your nipples were hard through the thin material of your dress—a bra didn’t work with it, so you’d gone without—and the feeling of friction against them had a breathy noise falling from your lips.

Steve moved down your body, pushing your dress up roughly until it was up around your waist. He lowered himself between your thighs, pressing his nose against your already soaked panties, letting out a low, primal groan. “God, you’re so fucking sweet,” he growled. Unable to wait any longer, he hooked his fingers into the waist of your panties and pulled them off.

“Steve—“ you said in a voice that sounded more like a squeak than anything, spreading your legs for him, breathing hard. His big hands slid up your smooth thighs, opening them wider for him. His nose brushed lightly against your folds, making you draw in a sharp breath.

“Yeah, baby?” he murmured. He was looking at your cunt like he wanted this as badly as you did—maybe more. “What do you want?”

“Just do it,” you whined, your body writhing against his sheets with the overwhelming need. “Please, just…”

“What do you want me to do?” He was looking up at you now, smirking, even as his mouth was hovering an inch from where you needed him more than anything. “You’ve gotta tell me, sweetheart. I can’t read your mind.”

You groaned, eyes opening as you looked down at him. “You are such a fucking asshole.”

His big eyes widened with feigned innocence. “What?” You could feel his breath ghosting over your pussy, so wet for him, and it had you trembling. You couldn’t take much more of this and he knew it.

“Stop trying to make me say it,” you grumbled. You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes.

“Not trying to make you do anything,” he hummed. He moved his head, nose brushing against your clit and making your breath catch. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to know what you want me to do if you don’t tell me, and, y’know, I’d never want to do anything you didn’t want—“

“Oh my god, Steve,” you huffed, hands running through your hair where you laid against his mattress. “Are you gonna keep running your mouth all night or put it to good use again?”

Steve laughed genuinely, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re so feisty. I always liked that about you.”

Before you could complain anymore, he buried his face against your pussy, diving in like it had been killing him to hold himself back, too. You cried out, loud, a hand moving to slap over your mouth a second too late. You could feel his lips curling in a smile against you.

He was good, so good, you didn’t have to have any prior experience to know that. It was no wonder he had girls lining up to get in his bed. You couldn’t keep yourself quiet, his tongue fucking inside of you, drinking in all the sweetness you dripped for him, rolling his tongue over your clit. It felt like he was everywhere at once.

“Steve, fuck!” you cried, gasping and clutching onto the pillows behind your head. “Oh my god, fuck, how are you—oh fuck—“

He groaned against your cunt, the vibrations going straight through your clit and to every nerve ending in your body. He flicked his tongue over the swollen bud, wrapping his lips around it and sucking as he sunk two fingers into your fluttering hole.

“God!” you choked. Your thighs were trembling around his head already. Your hand moved down to card through his hair before gripping onto the soft strands for dear life, pulling another moan from him when your fingers tightened in them.

Steve’s fingers fucked into you, nice and slow at first, slipping in a third finger before curling deep to hit that perfect spot. He was getting you ready for his cock again, your heart beating out of your chest at the thought alone. You could see it when you closed your eyes, just as you had for the past week, and it had you growing even wetter for him.

“Steve…” you whined, your hips starting to grind against his face. He let you, moaning and working you even harder, begging for it without any words. “I’m gonna…”

“Give it to me,” he rasped, pulling away just long enough to say the words before his mouth was right back against you, delving his tongue between your folds and focusing on your clit while his fingers worked you open.

Stars exploded behind your vision. Unable to hold it back, you cried out, mindlessly babbling combinations of his name and curses and desperate pleas of don’t stop don’t stop oh please fuck god don’t stop—

Steve worked you through every last aftershock, playing your body like an instrument he knew wholly, intimately. Your body was still shaking when he pulled away. The sight of him looking down at you like that, with his lips and chin glistening with your release, made you whimper. God, why did he have to look like that?

“So fucking good,” he said, eyes dark and awed. His cock strained hard against his boxers. You could see it twitching through the material, throbbing visibly.

His hands slid up your body, looking at you with a deep reverence as he slid the dress up until it was over your head, tossing it to his floor. His eyes raked over your naked body, every inch of it, the smooth skin and the way your chest rose and fell, how wide your eyes were looking up at him, your pretty lips parted.

“I thought about you, too,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your cheek, back to your ear. “Thought about how you tasted. How tight you felt around me. The way you said my name. The noises you made…god, I came so fucking hard playing those noises over and over in my head.”

You gasped, the throbbing between your legs starting up again at his words. You’d had no idea. Why would he be thinking of you when he could have any girl at this whole school? He wasn’t just saying it. The unfiltered heat in his voice made that clear.

Steve lifted off of you slowly, eyes staying on you until he turned away to open his bedside drawer and grab one of those foil packets he seemed to have an endless supply of. He pushed his boxers down, flushed cock springing free, and kicked the last bit of clothing off the bed with the rest.

You watched him rip the foil open and roll it onto his (impressive, huge, perfect, achingly hard) cock, your pussy clenching around nothing, your body itself begging for him. He settled between your legs, wrapping his big hands around your thighs, opening you wide.

“Dreamed about this pussy,” he mumbled, wrapping a hand around his shaft and dragging his tip through your soaked folds. He pressed the thick head against your hole, pressing forward just slightly, just feeling you. You whined, rocking your hips down, begging for him inside. He smirked as he noticed, but didn’t push in yet. His expression was almost dreamy, pupils blown. “Best pussy I ever had. Fuck. Never came so fucking hard as I did inside you.”

“Steve…” you breathed, the word itself a plea.

“Tell me,” he breathed. It wasn’t a tease anymore. The need in his voice was staggering. He was begging. “Please, baby. Need to hear you say it.”

The sight of Steve, utterly wrecked like this, was almost too much to bear. You didn’t have it in you to refuse, not anymore. “Please,” you keened. “God, Steve, please fuck me.”

His eyes fluttered closed and he let out a ragged groan, even before he finally rolled his hips forward, piercing you with that perfect, thick cock. You nearly sobbed in pleasure as you felt it, that overwhelming fullness as he sank into you inch by inch. It was easier this time but still a stretch, still that distant sting until his hips pressed flush against you.

“Christ—“ Steve choked, falling forward on his hands, planting them on either side of your shoulders. “Oh, fuck.”

You rocked your hips up against him, telling him it was okay to move. Begging him to move. “Oh my god,” you moaned. Your walls throbbed around him, which was undoing him way faster than he’d care to admit.

He pulled his hips back before sinking back in. Starting slow, as if he were still trying to be careful with his last shred of restraint. It didn’t last long. The perfect clench of your heat around him was driving him mad, his thrusts quickly working up into a punishing rhythm.

Your name left his lips in a shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. The sound of his skin meeting yours filled the room, your cunt so slick and wet around him you could hear it every time he drove in. He fucked you harder than he had last time, something you didn’t even know you’d craved until you had it.

“So fucking—god—you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his body slick with sweat where it was pressed against yours. You hooked a leg around his waist as he reached down with one hand to grab your thigh and press it up against your chest.

The angle was devastating, his cock hitting deeper inside of you than you thought possible. Your eyes rolled back as he punched soft, mindless little “ah ah ah”s from your lungs with every thrust.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. His eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of how hard he fucked you. The headboard knocked against the wall, chipping the paint from the force of it, the sound unmistakable for anyone who happened to walk by. “Gonna make me cum so fucking hard again. Fuck. Oh, fuck, baby, you’re so perfect, so goddamn—oh shit—“

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling on it the way you now knew he liked. The desperate groan he let out was muffled as you pulled him down to your lips, his tongue immediately licking into your mouth. The kiss was utterly filthy, saliva dripping down the side of your mouth—yours, his, both.

The whines he was letting out were growing higher, needier. All signs of that cocky, insufferable personality were gone, nothing but pleasure and desire coursing through him. His fingers dug bruises into your thigh as he snapped his hips forward harder, and oh fuck, he was hitting that spot again—

“Steve!” you gasped, head tossing back against the pillows. Steve’s lips moved down the exposed column of your throat, placing hot, wet kisses everywhere he could reach. “Oh, fuck, Steve, I’m gonna fucking cum—“

“Please,” he begged, his voice a ragged growl against your throat. “Let me feel you. Squeeze my cock, milk me fuckin’ dry, please.”

That coil snapped again, hard, the moan it forced from you more like a scream. It was loud, you knew it was loud, but you couldn’t help it, completely delirious with the intensity of the pleasure. Your back arched beneath him, moaning and crying out and calling his name again and again.

Steve let out a choked noise at the feeling of you tightening around him, clenching and throbbing hard. His hips rutted into you with a desperate, frantic intensity, rhythm completely gone as he chased his own orgasm. He was right behind you, only a couple more shallow thrusts until he was stilling as deep inside you as possible. He groaned roughly, his head dropping to bury his face right between your tits as his body shuddered with release. You could feel him pulsing inside you even through the condom.

The room calmed, your heavy breathing the only sounds remaining. His weight was heavy over you, but you didn’t mind. You didn’t exactly want him to move, at least not yet. In the quiet aftermath, you relished in the feeling of him, his cock still throbbing inside as he slowly softened.

When he finally mustered up the energy to move he lifted off of you, pulling out and removing the condom, tossing it in the trash. You couldn’t bring yourself to look and see if there was proof of him having any other girls in here since you’d been with him. You didn’t know why you cared.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, his arms resting on his knees. He was still catching his breath as you sat up, reality beginning to creep back in like unforgiving daylight after the safety of the night.

He turned his head to look at you, lips curling into a smile again. His skin still glistened with sweat. “Was it as good as the first time?” He asked, once again breaking the spell with his big mouth. “What you were hoping for when you showed up here tonight, dressed like that?”

You scoffed, sliding off the bed to collect your clothes again. Now that you’d gotten what you’d been craving, the desperation that had been clouding your brain was gone. That familiar shame was crawling over you again.

“What?” he laughed. “You can say it, y’know. Doesn’t mean you have to like me just because you like fucking me.”

You hesitated for a moment, then moved again, pulling your panties back over your legs. “Don’t.”

“Come on, baby,” he goaded, leaning back on the bed. He watched you, propped up on one arm, once again unbothered by being completely exposed to you. “Would it really be so bad to admit it?”

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his eyes staring at your ass as you pulled your panties back on. “Fine,” you finally huffed, turning around. You clutched your dress in your hands, nearly throwing it at him when he didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze dropped down to your tits. “You’re good. It was amazing. Is that what you want to hear?”

He grinned. “I just wanted to hear the truth.” He shrugged playfully. “I mean, I already knew, just wanted to hear you admit it. Not for me, but for yourself.”

“Aren’t you altruistic,” you muttered, pulling the dress back over your head. The way his brow furrowed for a moment showed he didn’t know what the word meant, but he didn’t press.

Finally he sat up, beginning to replace his own clothes. “It’s okay that you can’t stay away. I get it. It’s good sex.”

“I can stay away—“

“Sure,” he interrupted, lifting his hips to get his boxers back on. “But you don’t want to, right?”

You paused. You hadn’t let yourself think about that. If it was okay to let yourself want this. Just because you hated Steve so bad, because you didn’t want anyone to know this was happening. But did that make it bad? Did it make you wrong? Weak, like you’d felt all week, and especially tonight?

Maybe he was right. It was good sex.

After buttoning his jeans, Steve stood to face you. He ran a hand through his hair, looking in the mirror behind you for just a second before focusing back on you. “Look,” he started, but it was hard to pay attention when he was standing there shirtless like that. “I think we could help each other.”

You forced your eyes back up to his face, the smirk sitting there evidence that he’d seen you staring. “Help each other?”

He walked over to you, hands resting on your hips again. You didn’t push him away, holding his gaze. “Yeah. Help each other. I told you I liked it too, didn’t I?”

You weren’t sure what to say. You’d heard him say it, when he was buried inside you, moaning your name, but you figured it was just…talk. Heat of the moment. Nothing real. Nothing you said or felt when you were fucking was real.

Your lack of a response didn’t deter him. His fingers flexed on your hips, but he didn’t pull you closer. “We could make this a casual thing,” he offered, finally putting the words out there. “You like it, I like it. Why not keep having fun together?”

You turned his words over and over in your head. It felt like far more than the seconds it actually took as you thought over his proposition. What it meant, what it changed, how it felt.

But the memory of the past week played through your mind on repeat. How miserable you’d been, the way you couldn’t get him out of your head. That he was right, the sex had been so good you’d craved it day and night, and the second time had been just as good, if not better.

Steve waited patiently, but he knew your answer before you finally forced it out. “…Okay. Yeah. I guess.”

He grinned, squeezing your hips one more time before moving back. “Okay then. Good.”

“But we keep this between us,” you added quickly. “I’m serious. Just us. You don’t tell your friends and I won’t tell mine.”

He looked amused, but he didn’t argue. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

You stared at him. “Steve.”

“Okay,” he laughed, pulling his shirt back on. “I won’t tell a soul. You have my word.”

You let out a sigh, both relief and anxiety at once. Turning to his mirror, you fixed your hair, cleaning up your smudged makeup. “It means nothing, and no one knows.”

The heat of his body suddenly behind you made you jump. But he just stood next to you, fixing his own appearance.

“It means nothing,” he repeated. “And no one knows.”

part two soooooon

as always, comments and reblogs are so appreciated!

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[keeryhours]

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[minecherrybaddie]

Yo mientras leia JAJAJAJAJA

[danitecx]

The Problem With Being Superman

Clark Kent x female reader

Sinopsis: Clark Kent has spent months trying to get your attention in the only way he knows how: quietly, sweetly, and awkwardly. But when Superman saves your life and begins visiting your apartment at night, Clark realizes he may have accidentally made things far more complicated for himself.

Warnings: secret identity, near-death experience, bus accident, mild danger, jealousy, emotional confusion

WC: 5,000 words approx.

If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.

That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.

He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.

Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.

Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?

And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.

He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.

Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.

But anyway, that was not the point right now.

The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.

The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.

While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.

“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.

“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.

“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.

“Connections to who?”

“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.

That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.

But that was exactly what happened.

Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.

Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.

But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.

But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.

He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.

When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.

Superman stood in front of you.

Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.

“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.

You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.

“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.

Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.

You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.

No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.

Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.

You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.

You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.

“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.

“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.

You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.

There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.

Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.

It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.

You were just his coworker. Nothing more.

But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.

Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.

After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.

A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.

The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.

He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.

He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.

You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.

You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.

“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.

Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.

Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.

“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.

You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:

“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Of course you were not easy to fool.

She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.

But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.

You only seemed curious.

You only seemed… interested.

“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.

“Really?” you asked skeptically.

“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.

He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.

Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.

He came back.

He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.

“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.

“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”

Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.

You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.

“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”

He took the plate carefully.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”

Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.

And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.

The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.

One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.

“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”

Clark smiled inwardly.

Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.

So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.

After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.

And now you shared that with Clark.

Well… with Superman.

But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.

One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”

“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”

Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”

“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”

“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”

Your eyes widened.

“What?”

“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.

“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”

“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.

“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.

The two of you ended up laughing.

You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.

That became his favorite part of every day.

Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.

But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.

And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.

Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.

Because he had someone waiting for him.

And that someone was you.

That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.

You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.

In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.

And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.

Oh, God, he thought.

He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.

But he still wanted to test it.

He needed to know.

So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.

Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.

“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.

His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.

You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.

“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.

Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.

He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.

Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.

“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.

You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.

“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.

Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.

“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.

He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”

Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.

“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”

Superman lowered his gaze.

He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.

You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.

“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”

That made everything worse.

Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.

Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.

“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.

Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.

You looked at him with a frown, still worried.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.

Superman nodded slowly.

“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.

You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.

Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.

“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.

You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.

“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.

“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”

Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.

“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”

He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.

“I never imagined,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.

“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”

Clark felt his stomach flip.

“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.

You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.

“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.

You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.

Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.

“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”

You let out a short laugh.

“I already know that.”

“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.

He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.

“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.

“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.

Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.

So he simply nodded again, harder this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”

Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.

“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.

Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.

He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.

He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.

He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.

Nothing else mattered.

Only you.

Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.

Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.

He was going to ask you out.

That was a fact.

He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.

Or fly around the world.

Or both.

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz@lunaryoongie@hikari-michiko

[mischievousmoony]

kiss it better oct 15 ⋆ eiffel tower / degradation poly!prongsfoot x reader

summary: james and sirius are angry about something, and you're happy to be the one they take it out on ♱ 3.1k warnings: 18+ mdni, eiffel tower, degradation, mean dom sirius and james, choking, fingering, begging, spanking, oral m receiving, messy, deep throating, p in v, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, aftercare, hogwarts university au kinktober masterlist

“Fucking snakes,” James shouts, kicking a metal rubbish bin halfway across the dorm room, leaving a trail of crumpled up pieces of parchment in its path.

You jump, a small gasp slipping past your lips as the door you just came through gently swings shut behind you. The bin unceremoniously rolls to a stop at your feet just as James notices your arrival.

He visibly softens at the sight of your startled frame, crossing the room to press a kiss to your temple in apology. “Sorry, love,” he murmurs against your skin.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, stepping around the bin as he guides you by the hand deeper into the room. James leaves the mess to be dealt with later (most likely by a disgruntled Remus whenever he should return to the shared dorm).

You catch sight of Sirius on his bed, legs spread and leaning against the headboard. He broods silently with his arms crossed as his narrowed eyes follow your every step. Like a predator to prey.

“Slytherins,” James mutters, voice turning sharp again. “They’ve been spying on our practices. Every single one of my plays, weeks of practice, it’s all down the fucking drain.”

Your lips twitch into a sympathetic frown as James sits you down on the edge of the bed, next to Sirius. You’re boxed in by them, with Sirius’s thigh a light pressure against your tailbone, and James standing in front of you, his knees knocking with yours. A piece of you is content, even if you are angry with the Slytherin team in solidarity with your boyfriends. But you can never be too down when surrounded by your boys.

“Are you going to report it to McGonagall?” you ask, running your hand up and down James’s arm in a comforting gesture.

Sirius laughs dryly behind you. “You want us to tattle on them? Like we’re bloody school children that had our fucking ball stolen on the playground,” he spits, treating the words like venom on his tongue.

Your teeth sink into the inside of your lip. You think you should feel more ashamed about the heat that pools low in your belly at Sirius’s mean tone. But you don’t.

“Sorry, just trying to help,” you murmur, looking over your shoulder at him, jutting out your lower lip even though you aren’t really upset. He grunts in acknowledgement—he’s still simmering, he’ll apologize for snapping at you later. But for now, he’s too consumed by his anger for anything else.

You wouldn’t mind helping him cool down by giving him a way to channel all that anger.

Slowly, you crawl into Sirius’s lap. You settle over one of his thighs, shivering as your clothed core presses against the black denim of his jeans. You place your palms flat on his chest, and his hands instinctively find your hips as the anger swirling in his eyes starts to turn into something else.

“Do you want my help?” you ask, your voice honeyed as you drag your hands down his chest, running your thumbs over the curves of his muscles through his shirt.

Sirius’s large hands squeeze your hips a little tighter as James makes a low, approving sound somewhere to your left. You don’t even have to look—you can perfectly picture the smirk slowly making its way onto James’s lips.

“What are you gonna do? Kiss it better?” Sirius sneers, but theirs a certain huskiness in his tone, and his hands drop to knead the fat of your thighs.

You nod. “Something like that,” you say, smiling sweetly at him and batting your eyelashes. Your eyes are so full of wanting. So full of adoration. Sirius knows he could ask for just about anything, and that you’d be eager to follow his every whim.

“Hands and knees, then,” he commands, and just like he knew you would, you don’t hesitate to obey. But as you slide off of Sirius’s lap, James’s hands come up to stop you, his calloused fingertips gliding up your arm, and hooking under the thin strap of your dress.

“This off first,” he says, eyes tracing over your frame hungrily as he imagines what might be underneath.

In front of James, with your knees pressed into the plush mattress, you raise your arms. Inviting him to strip you. He doesn’t waste any time. Sliding your dress up and off your body and dropping it carelessly onto the floor.

He groans at the sight of you in your matching bra and panties. He just adores you in the lacy set, but not as much as he adores you in nothing at all.

His fingers find the front clasp of your bra, a style that you wear just for him, knowing how hot he gets at the sight of your tits bouncing out as he unclasps it. He lets out another low groan, resisting the urge to paw at your perfect tits. But he doesn’t think he could bring himself to stop anytime soon if he starts.

James delivers a smack to your ass, ushering you into position, finally. You can feel the dampness between your thighs as you crawl to the center of the bed, which dips and creaks as your boys position themselves around you.

Anticipation and arousal curl in your stomach as you feel James settle in behind you. Pressing his body flush against yours as he smoothes a hand over the curve of your ass. You give your hips a little shake, and he delivers a light smack to your bum in response. He’s still wearing his boxer briefs, much to your dismay, but before you have time to complain about it, Sirius kneels in front of you. Bare. His clothes now discarded on the floor next to your dress.

His thick cock is only inches away from your watering mouth. You’re about to say something, beg for it, but a gasp is pulled from your lips as James hooks your panties to the side and plunges a finger into you without warning.

“I knew you’d be fucking soaked,” James grunts, lazily pumping his long finger in and out of you.

Sirius laughs at the look on your face. Your eyes are already rolling to the back of your head as James shoves a second finger inside of you. Your head lolls to the side, leaning against Sirius’s hip as James sets a ruthless pace, his palm slapping against your needy cunt with every press of his hand.

“Is James making you feel good?” Sirius coos, smoothing his hand over the back of your head.

“Uh-huh,” you moan airily, like you’re already starting to get lost in it, letting your eyes flutter shut.

Sirius catches you off guard when his hand suddenly closes around your neck, roughly jerking your head up to meet his gaze. “Thought that was your job,” he growls. “Or was that just your excuse? So fucking desperate for our cocks you’ll say anything, is that it?”

“No,” you whimper, your voice slightly strained from the pressure on your throat and the pleasure James is giving you. “I’m sorry. I do wanna make you feel good, I do.”

Sirius only raises his brow at you, unimpressed.

“Please? I- I’ll be good for you, I promise. Please, can I make you feel good?”

Sirius hums, pretending to think about it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Yeah? Gonna do that with your pretty mouth?”

You nod eagerly, lifting a hand from where it’s twisted into the sheets beneath you to desperately grip his thigh.

“Let me see it,” he commands, so you open wide for him, pushing your tongue out. You wait patiently for his approval as he presses his thumb to the wet muscle, rubbing circles into it as he opens your mouth wider. The salty taste of his skin has your mouth watering, and you can hardly wait for him to replace his thumb with something more fulfilling.

“Merlin, she’s fucking drooling for it, James,” Sirius grunts, spreading your saliva down your chin.

“Yeah, I bet she fucking is. She’s so wet, Pads. Want us to fill you up, don’t you, baby?” James says, angling his hand to press the rough pads of his fingers into that sensitive, spongy spot with every pump of his hand.

You moan, and you can’t help but close your lips around Sirius’s thumb, sucking needily. Sirius instantly removes the digit. The string of saliva that stretches from your lips is broken when he roughly grabs your face, mushing your cheeks together.

“Did I say you could do that?” he says through gritted teeth.

“No, I’m sorry-”

“Want my fucking dick that bad? This what you want?” he asks, taking his cock in his other hand and slapping it against your face while James laughs about it behind you.

You gasp, feeling his sticky precum smear on the apple of your cheek. It takes all your willpower not to turn your head and take him in your mouth, but if you don’t show some patience now, there will surely start to be real consequences. Especially with Sirius, whose limit and temper are much shorter than James’s.

“Come on, Pads,” James says, removing his fingers from your hole. You whimper at the loss, the cold air on your exposed core making you shiver as James shifts behind you. But you forget all about it when you feel the head of his cock rubbing between your folds. “She wants to let us use her? Let’s give her what she needs.”

Sirius smirks. “Yeah? Is James right, you need it, baby?” he jeers, mocking your desperation, but you don’t care. If anything, it only makes you want them more.

You nod, trying to press your hips back against James’s cock, but he has a bruising grip on your waist, keeping you in place. He tuts, delivering a sharp smack to your ass, and you yelp at the stinging feeling.

“Said I wanted to give it to you, but you still have to be fucking patient,” James grunts, kneading your plush bottom where his palm landed.

You blink up at Sirius with an exaggerated pout on your lips as if he might suddenly show you some mercy. No such luck.

“Such a fucking slut, always looking for an excuse to let us use you. Bet your panties were damp the second you came in here. Am I right?”

You whimper pathetically in place of an answer, because of course he’s right. You know well that when they’re angry, they get mean. And every glare and cruel word from their lips only feeds the fire crackling deep in your belly.

“Show us you deserve it,” Sirius whispers, rubbing his cock on your lips, but you know it’s not permission. It’s temptation.

“Please,” you whine, letting your warm breath fan across his aching cock because two can play the game of temptation. “Please, let me have it. I’ll be so good,” you whine, your brows pinching together in desperation.

“Mm, you beg so pretty,” Sirius says, pushing just the tip of his cock between your lips. “Doesn’t she?” Sirius asks, eyes flicking up to James.

Their eyes meet above you, you think, because you can’t see James. But you can hear him hum in response, and see half of the silent conversation they share in Sirius’s gray irises. You only catch on to what they’re (not) saying when they thrust their hips in unison, sinking into you at the same time. Spearing you between them.

A guttural moan rises from your throat, the sound vibrating around Sirius’s cock in a way that makes his head spin.

Behind you, James sets a ruthless pace, giving you no time to adjust to the stretch as his thick cock splits you open, delivering a pleasurable sort of pain that has tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

If your mouth weren’t otherwise occupied, you’d consider begging James to go easy on you. Consider, not do, because James likes to take your “whining” as a challenge to see how much harder he can go before you break. This in mind, you try to keep your whimpers to a minimum as you hollow your cheeks around Sirius.

James hears it anyway.

“You can take it. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he mocks, delivering another sharp smack to your ass, and your body jolts, pushing you farther down on Sirius’s cock.

Sirius coos in mock pity as he swipes at a stray tear with his thumb before returning his hand to your neck, squeezing just enough to give you a head rush as he fucks your mouth. Sirius has a sharper tongue than James, but he’ll surprise you with something sweet every once in a while. Like massaging your neck mercifully when you cough around him, pulling back enough for you to take a deep breath.

But every nice gesture is balanced with something mean. His grip is tighter than before when he squeezes his fingers around your neck again, and he sinks into you just a little deeper, stuffing your throat with him.

“Look at you, all messy,” Sirius muses as he fucks you through every gag and flutter of your throat, until drool is spilling down your chin and neck. “Our little slut loves when we use her like this, huh?”

James grunts. “You love it, don’t you, baby? Tell us you love it,” he commands, knowing all you can do is uselessly whine and moan with your mouth so full and your mind so drunk on them.

Sirius laughs at the pitiful noises you make, your wet lashes batting up at him.

James wraps one of his arms around you, slipping his hand between your thighs to rub tight circles against your clit. He moans as your walls milk him, helplessly fluttering around him as his fingers help bring you closer to the edge.

You cry out, gasping around Sirius’s cock—who’s grabbed a fistful of your hair to keep your head in place as James fucks you harder, plunging deep inside you. Deeper than you’ve ever had him, his cock bullies your cervix with every thrust.

Your arms and legs start to wobble, nearly giving out underneath you as you feel your climax build. James folds his body over yours, slinking his arm around your waist, pressing your back flush to his front while holding you up.

Added pressure from James’s finger on your clit is what finally tips you over the edge. James’s arm around you and Sirius’s hand in your hair are the only things keeping you from collapsing as a white hot pleasure crashes over you. Your scream is muffled by Sirius’s pelvis as he pushes you deeper, burying your nose in the trail of hair there.

“Fuck! Gonna cum,” James groans, eyes screwed shut as he drops his head against your sweat-coated skin, your pussy clamping tight around him.

“Gonna be a good little slut and let us fill you up?” Sirius pants, fucking your mouth so deep he can feel himself with the hand around your neck.

A small, pitiful whine leaves you in response, and that’s what Sirius needs to hear before spilling inside of you, shooting his hot load straight down your throat. James follows closely behind, filling your greedy pussy with one final stutter of his hips, moaning out your name, and biting your shoulder to muffle any of his other noises.

You’re kept full of them for a few seconds—minutes? More..? You’re not sure—as they catch their breath. A strangled whine slips past your lips when they do finally pull out.

James keeps an arm locked around your waist as he watches his cum spill out of you. A shiver runs up your spine when he runs his fingers through your folds, collecting his cum and pushing it back inside you with two fingers. He curses at the sight, mesmerized, pumping his hand a few times.

When he retracts his hands from you completely, you collapse into a heap at Sirius’s knees.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Sirius whispers, petting your hair as he slides into a seated position. “C’mere,” he says, pulling your head into his lap.

There’s a dull sting between your legs as you curl up next to him, and a soreness in your throat as you swallow around nothing. But you can hardly focus on anything except for Sirius’s fingers massaging your stiff jaw.

“How is she?” you hear James’s voice, growing closer as he comes back from somewhere, but you didn’t realize he ever left.

“Worn out,” Sirius tells him quietly.

The bed dips as James takes a seat. His large hands wrap around your legs, unfurling you to run a warm washcloth between your legs. The gesture is met with a whine, which he softly shushes.

“I know, sweetheart, I know. But we gotta clean you up,” he says at the same time Sirius wipes cum and saliva from your chin with a second cloth.

Sirius sits you up, and James feeds you water before they finally let you curl up again, their warm bodies bracketing yours under the covers.

“You did so good,” James coos, peppering kisses on the back of your neck as he gently caresses your skin from your hips to your tummy.

As much as you love when they’re mean, your favorite part might just be how sweet they are after they have their way with you. Nothing else could make you feel as warm and loved as you do right now, their gentle praise hitting your ears like a lullaby as they cradle you between them.

“Made us feel so good,” Sirius adds, pressing kisses of his own to your forehead as you blink at him slowly, a small smile playing at your lips. “Our perfect girl.”

“We love you so much, baby,” James murmurs into your skin as your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open anymore.

Sirius echoes, “So much.”

You drift off, but they don’t. They stay awake to admire your peaceful state and play with your hair, forgetting they were ever mad about anything at all. All they care about now is you.

every reblog and comment means the world <3 i’d love to hear your thoughts

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[invisibleicewands]

The Picture of Dorian Gray with Luke Thompson - The Read 2026 Series 4 #2

[charlotteking27]

You Let Me Win

Percy Jackson x Daughter of Ares Reader

Summary: You keep trying to beat him. He keeps trying to love you. Somewhere in the middle, you let him.

Requested: yes, anonymous

"You're dead, Jackson!"

Percy laughed as he dodged your swing, backing up with his hands raised. "Babe, come on—"

"Don't 'babe' me!" You advanced on him, sword still raised even though you both knew you weren't actually going to hurt him. Much. "You let me win!"

"I did not let you win!"

"Percy." You lowered your blade, crossing your arms. "I know when someone's holding back. My dad's the god of war, remember? I can read combat like you read the ocean."

Your boyfriend had the decency to look guilty, running a hand through his blonde hair. A few campers training nearby were trying very hard to pretend they weren't watching the show. You and Percy arguing was always entertainment.

"Okay, maybe I was a little distracted," he admitted.

"By what?"

"You." He stepped closer, that troublemaker smile spreading across his face. "You had this really cute concentrated look, and the sun was hitting your hair, and I just—"

"Oh my gods, stop." You felt heat rising to your cheeks, betraying you completely. This was the worst part about dating Percy Jackson—he could make you go from war-ready to flustered in seconds. "You're not allowed to use the boyfriend card to get out of a proper fight."

"Pretty sure I am. It's in the boyfriend handbook."

"There's no handbook."

"Sure there is. Rule one: always tell your girlfriend she looks amazing, even when she's threatening you with a sword."

You tried to maintain your glare, you really did. But his grin was infectious, and despite your Ares-given temper, you felt your lips twitching. "You're impossible."

"And yet you're dating me." Percy closed the distance between you, gently lowering your sword arm. "Rematch? For real this time. Full effort."

"Promise?"

"On the Styx."

You narrowed your eyes. "That's serious."

"I'm seriously not trying to get murdered by my girlfriend for throwing a fight." He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. "Even if she is really cute when she's threatening me."

"Jackson—"

"Sparring! Right! Going!" He jogged backward toward his starting position, Riptide already uncapped.

As you raised your sword again, you caught sight of Clarisse making exaggerated gagging noises from across the arena. You shot her your middle finger without breaking eye contact with Percy.

"Your sister's watching," Percy noted.

"She's always watching. She thinks we're 'disgustingly soft.'"

"Are we?"

"Probably," you admitted. Then you lunged forward with a real strike—no holding back this time. Percy's eyes widened as he barely parried. "But I'm still going to kick your ass."

"There's my girl," he laughed, meeting your next strike with genuine effort.

The fight was fast and fierce, exactly how you liked it. This was better—Percy matching your intensity, reading your moves, pushing back with his own offense. This was the kind of battle that made your blood sing, made you feel alive.

When you finally managed to disarm him, sending Riptide flying, you had him backed against the arena wall with your blade at his throat. Both of you were breathing hard, sweat-soaked and grinning.

"Yield?" you asked.

"Never," Percy said, but his eyes were sparkling. "You're amazing, you know that?"

"Flattery after you've lost?"

"Just facts." His hand came up to gently wrap around your wrist—not forcing your blade away, just touching you. "I'm crazy about you."

Your heart did that stupid flutter thing again. "Even though I just destroyed you?"

"Especially because you just destroyed me."

You lowered your sword, shaking your head with a smile you couldn't suppress. "You're lucky you're cute, Jackson."

"Yeah, I really am."

"Shut up." You leaned in and kissed him, tasting salt and sweat and victory. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer despite the armor and weapons between you.

Someone—definitely Clarisse—yelled, "GET A CABIN!"

You pulled back just enough to shout, "MIND YOUR BUSINESS!" before kissing Percy again.

"Your siblings hate me," he murmured against your lips.

"They hate everyone. You're actually growing on them."

"Really?"

"Well, you make me happy. And you can hold your own in a fight. That's all that matters to children of Ares." You stepped back, extending your hand. "Come on, seaweed brain. I'll let you buy me fries at the pavilion."

"You mean I'll let you steal my fries."

"Same thing."

Percy laced his fingers through yours as you walked out of the arena together, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your skin. The gesture was soft, sweet—everything your siblings would mock you for.

You didn't care. Let them talk. You were a daughter of war who'd somehow found peace in the arms of a son of the sea.

And you wouldn't change it for anything.

[sharklover00]

[trackgun]

vocal!steve who can hardly keep quiet in bed. in missonary he’s whining into your neck and moaning into your ears. constantly praising you and showing how overwhelmed he’s getting. “fuck baby you feel so fucking good.” he’s even worse during doggy, babbling about how plump your ass looks and how you’re sucking him in. fingers slip and slide as he likes to call it around and in your ass just to test, talks about filling you up there one day, and how much tighter you must be. hands gripping your waist for dear life as his balls slap your ass loudly and his dick plunges you deep. he whines like a bitch when you ride him, holding your waist and mouthing on your boobs, needing something to fill that mouth of his. he’s moaning and pleading as you take everything from him, fucking him so stupid he can’t even think straight.

[minecherrybaddie]

Esto es buenisimo

[fayes-fics]

Canvas [Benophie]

Pauring: Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Baek

Summary: Benedict gives Sophie an art lesson with a different kind of canvas...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, body painting, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, edging, vaginal sex.

Word Count: 4,7k

Author's Note: Benophie remix of an old fic as a request fill for @purplewingz1631. I hope you enjoy! <3

Sophie finds him in his art studio, barefoot and dressed only in black trousers and a white shirt, his braces hanging loosely around his hips, looking handsomely casual as he paints by candlelight, twilight settling in. 

It's then that Sophie spies his subject, the lovely arrangement of flowers she received from his family for her birthday last week. Just a few minutes ago, she had wondered where the bouquet had disappeared to as she wandered through their home. They had previously held pride of place in the hallway.

“Stealing my birthday presents, husband?” Sophie jests airily, leaning on the doorframe with crossed arms.

Benedict twists around and shoots Sophie an apologetic smile. “Only the artistically meritorious ones, my love,” he responds, amusement laced into his tone. “Join me?” he suggests, waving his brush towards the empty easel beside him.

“I'm not certain I have anything close to the requisite skills,” Sophie hedges. 

She has only ever attended his painting sessions as his subject or simply as a companion, mostly reading quietly nearby as he works. On some occasions, becoming something entirely other—when he has her pose naked. Her blood runs a little warm just at the mere memory.

“Art does not always need to be about skill. Enjoyment of the process is just as important, perhaps more so. Besides, I can teach you,” Benedict smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling beguilingly. 

He never fails to convince Sophie with that look.

“Alright,” Sophie sighs fondly, straightening up and uncrossing her arms, “but you are not allowed to ridicule my attempt,” Sophie argues, waggling a finger as she walks over.

He laughs and leans in to drop a kiss on her cheek as she draws up next to him. 

“I would never!” He promises in an amused tone. “Everything you need is right there,” he nods to the supplies, “You have watched me paint enough to know how to set up.” 

His confidence in her ability seemed a little unwarranted, but she decides to give it a try.

___

“I cannot do this,” Sophie bemoans about ten minutes later, looking forlornly between the canvas and the spray of flowers, disappointed in her less-than-accurate rendering. All she has managed in her assessment is some oversized stems and a vague version of the vase, which looks uneven.

“Nonsense,” Benedict dismisses, “You are doing wonderfully for your first time, my love.”

Sophie twists around with a knitted brow to look at him. 

“Benedict, please… your flattery is obsequious. This is… not good,” Sophie sighs, scratching her chin with the wooden end of her brush.

“Perhaps I can assist your efforts?” he offers, putting down his brush into a jar of water and placing his palette aside.

“Please…” Sophie requests gratefully.

A smile ghosts her lips as her husband rounds behind her, pushing her closer to the canvas. One of his hands lands upon the hip under her palette, the other curling around hers where it holds her brush. His fingers are warm and soft.

“Now then,” his voice is rich and rumbles right next to her ear, “the first thing is to start with the colour there is the most of, and then you can start to add in light and shade.”

Sophie attempts to listen as he sonorously explains the method involved and guides her selection from the palette, puppeting her hand to make brushstrokes over the canvas. But she is half-listening and half-participating at best. The moment Benedict stood close behind, her traitorous body decided this was not an art lesson at all. No, it’s something quite different. Readying itself for him with quite remarkable speed and absolutely no effort on his part. Quite astonishing, really

“Are you quite alright?” He checks as Sophie fidgets slightly.

“All is well,” she reassures far too quickly.

His breath tickles the wisps of hair around her ears as he leans in closer, until he surrounds her with his long arms and body heat. He smells of his woodsy soap, and she has to tamp down the urge to twist her nose into his strong neck and inhale deeply. 

For a few minutes, he guides her hand, and Sophie relaxes into the motion, enjoying the sensation of being so utterly engulfed by him much more than the act.

“Now, you continue,” he encourages, removing his hand from hers.

Sophie stutters, realising she was not taking on board what he was saying, distracted by the striking mental image of him painting a glistening line across her collarbone, a bright golden streak over her bare flesh. She makes a hesitant dab on the canvas, but there is a disapproving noise against her temple. 

“That is not what I told you to do, now, is it?” he teases lowly.

“Please guide me for a little longer, Benedict,” she beseeches in a breathy whisper. 

“Were you listening to a word I said, my love?” 

His query is not in a disapproving tone. Not remotely. It’s a liting rumble, his head turning so the tip of his nose nuzzles her earlobe. Sophie suspects she may be foiled. 

“People pay good money for me to teach them how to paint,” Benedict's breath is hot on her jaw, both his hands now on her hips, fingers circling over the diaphanous layers of her thin, silk gown. “And yet here is my wife, not even listening to her expert teacher….”

“I am… I…” Sophie begins haltingly, knowing it's a pointless lie. So she tries a different tack. “I should hope you do not treat your other students in this manner?” 

Emphasising her point by rocking back onto her heels so the press of their bodies is greater.

“Indeed, I do not,” he murmurs, and she inhales sharply as his teeth graze the shell of her ear. 

“So perhaps this is somewhat unfair to me,” Sophie posits, pouting, knowing his eyes are watching her expression side on.

Benedict chuckles richly. 

“Perhaps…” he acknowledges as he gently slides the paintbrush out from between her fingers. “There may be another method by which I can teach you all about the pleasures of painting, my love.” 

Words of query die on her tongue as warm lips land on her neck, that weak spot which makes her utterly pliant incavaoel of speech. 

“It requires a different canvas,” he whispers, his lips catching on her skin.

For a fleeting moment, Sophie considers if he could read where her thoughts had skated only minutes earlier; the vivid tableau of golden paint on her flesh flashing before her. 

There is a faint ting as he drops her brush into a glass jar of water, then he eases the palette from where it is hooked around her thumb. Sophie stands still, eagerly awaiting what he will do next.

Her heart rate spikes as deft fingers begin to undo the buttons between her shoulder blades.

“You have such beautiful skin, my love…” 

Benedict's lips are warm on the top of her shoulder as her dress relents and falls in a pool around her feet.

“I want to paint you.”

Sophie’s breath hitches as he runs a knuckle down the notches of her spine; glad she did not bother with a chemise or undergarments after her earlier bath. Her eyes flutter closed as he kisses her skin again and plucks open the laces of her stays. When the material slackens, he pulls the structured fabric away from her body and tosses it aside, his hands instantly cupping her breasts and pulling her back into him. Her moan is wanton as his fingers snag her nipples, pebbling in his touch; now utterly naked. 

“Lay down, darling wife,” he murmurs, the tone laden.

He gestures to the oversized emerald-green chaise, conveniently covered in a heavy canvas drop cloth, almost as if he planned for this. 

She holds his hand delicately as he assists her into a reclined position.

“Will you not be getting naked too, husband?” Sophie coos, watching him return to gather his palette and brush.

“It would certainly make clean-up easier,” Benedict concedes and rips off his shirt, tossing it aside.

He walks back to Sophie, a slight swagger in his gait, knowing he has her undivided attention as her eyes covetously drink in his toned torso, glowing in the candlelight.

“Gold…” escapes her lips unbidden and stops him in his tracks as he towers above her.

“Gold, what?” His query is warm but puzzled as he places the art supplies on the floor next to the chaise.

“When I dream of you painting me, my body,” Sophie confesses raspily, “it’s always gold.”

He leans over, his face etched with desire. “You dream of me doing this?” 

“Yes,” Sophie murmurs, “a cool, wet brush swirling over my heated skin….” closing her eyes and biting her lip, lost in the reverie of it.

“Tell me more,” he implores, his breath hot on her cheek, the chaise squeaking a touch as he sits beside her. “Keep your eyes closed if it helps,” he adds, fiddling with his art supplies.

“You start at my neck….” Sophie sighs, inhaling sharply when a wet ticklish brush lands right on the left side of her neck, then holds still.

“And then?” he prompts gently.

“Then… You do a swooping line over my chin to my other ear,” Sophie exhales, gasping as he does exactly as she describes, the smell of fresh paint filling her nostrils, the feel of it wet and heavy.

“What is next?” Benedict’s voice is dark and sweet now, goading her into more detail.

“You paint a line down the side of my neck, over here…” Sophie gestures at her collarbone, “...then lower,” she ends in a whisper, almost reluctant to admit how erotic her fantasies can be.

Nothing, however, can prepare her for those errant thoughts becoming a reality—the drag of cold buttery substance, each bristle a damp tickle as he smears a line to the swell of her breast, her eyes flying open to see his gaze heavy and intense on the task at hand. 

Her nipple pebbles almost painfully, even though he does not stray close to it, encircling her breast with a golden loop, his pupils dilating, leaning close so she can feel his exhales dusting over her skin.

“Does that feel good?” Benedict practically purrs.

Sophie nods, feeling the wetness blotting across her neck at her movement. Without asking what happens next in her dream, he takes the initiative and traces a line around her other breast, the brush dipping into the valley of her breastbone before continuing. When Sophie tilts her head to see his handiwork, the metallic hue glistens brightly in the candlelight.

“May I use other colours on you too, my love?” his question is almost reverential in tone.

“I am yours, Benedict,” Sophie sighs honestly, “do with me as you wish.”

Those words light an artistic and sensual fire in his being. 

He pushes up to kiss her, plundering her mouth with a possessive kiss. When he pulls away, Sophie feels dazed, desperate for more, watching him reach for another clean brush on the floor by his feet and select a new shade from the palette.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.

Sophie does as he asks, gasping as a broader brush runs across her skin, starting at her neck and sweeping down, shadowing the path of the other line already drying on her skin, before curiosity gets the better of her.

“What colour?” 

“What is your favourite on me?” Benedict prompts softly, his strokes lingering on the sensitive skin under her breast, making her thoughts fuzzy, distracted—Sophie knows it's intentional.

“You look good in so many colours, husband,” she offers truthfully. “I do love your light gold cravat…” knowing he has already employed such.

“You are stalling, my love,” he points out congenially, teasingly flicking the ends of his brush in the spot closest to her underarm.

“Blue? You always look so handsome in every shade of blue, from navy to sky…” Sophie guesses.

“Oh, then that shall have to be next,” he lilts, giving away that she was incorrect.

Sophie mentally flicks through some of her favourite of his outfits, squirming slightly at the delightful images conjured, his brush still a distracting tease over her flesh. 

Then there is a lightbulb moment.

“Burgundy red!” she exclaims, recalling the waistcoat he wore just last week, the one that made her lose the power of speech, temporarily tongue-tied.

“Well done, darling,” Benedict compliments. 

Sophie opens her eyes to see that he has interwoven the harmonious shades into an exquisite arching design, truly using her skin as a canvas. 

“Now lay still; there is much work still to do,” he instructs softly.

Sophie settles into the chaise, her belly fluttering as Benedict's brush slips lower, daubing her diaphragm in intricate loops, trying to keep her breath shallow for a still surface. He swaps brushes again, back to gold, holding the other in his knuckle, the rich red-loaded tip contrasting with his pale skin. 

When he sinks below her ribs onto her belly, Sophie bites her lip, the light touch tickling her to the point of giggling. She tries her best not to move, but when he glides over a sensitive patch, it bubbles out of her on reflex. 

His gaze pings up to her face, a lopsided grin claiming his features. “Does that tickle?” he taunts gently. She can only giggle more in reply as he teases even lighter over that weak spot. 

“Stop it,” Sophie whispers, knowing how much he enjoys the tease.

“Never,” he responds lightly, lowering his face.

She jolts and cries out as he lightly bites her bare nipple, 

“I veritably exist to tease you; you are so beautiful like this,” he whispers, pausing in his artistry, pressing Sophie into the chaise with his body weight.

“Look at you,” Sophie giggles as he pulls away again, seeing smears of pain across his chest. 

“That is nothing. I expect both of our bodies will be a riot of colours by the time I am done with you, dear wife.” His tone is simultaneously light with mirth and dark with promise.

“Perhaps you should speed up,” Sophie answers playfully; it may dry before you have the opportunity.” 

He laughs, teething her other nipple before refreshing the paint line. “Not a chance.” 

Just as her stomach clenches at the idea he will move lower, he grabs her right arm and concentrates his efforts there, as if to elongate the burn of anticipation. 

It's less ticklish… until he swipes the crook of her elbow over her veins, making her giggle again and meeting his hazy eyes with an intense stare. Wordlessly, he kisses her hand before switching to her left arm, creating a mirror image of the pattern on her right freehand. It's striking. Adrently wishing there were a portrait of her looking like this, covered in his design.

As she is lost in her reverie of that thought, Benedict slips lower on the chaise, and she gasps as he restarts the line at her middle and swirls down all over her belly. He employs a heavier stroke to avoid tickling as much as possible, alternating between the two, holding both brushes with ease in his long, artistic fingers. Sophie has to bite back a moan when one swoop goes lower, skating along the top of her pubic hair. 

“Open your legs,” Benedict's voice is low and decadent as he implores her to do what she has fantasised about so many times.

Feeling a burning low in her gut, Sophie draws her knees up a few inches and parts her legs a fraction, keeping her feet together. Benedict tuts a little, a mischievous smile as he captures her ankle and plants it at the edge of the chaise, out wide, making her flush hot. She then meekly moves her other foot to match the stance, now lewdly spread before him. His gaze is heavy on her core,

“Please do not move,” his voice ragged.

Sophie pants lightly as he resumes, leaning in so close she can feel his breath on her inner thighs. 

He paints a golden line from her belly down over her hip and up her thigh. It's the longest continuous stroke he has made, ending with a flourish at her kneecap. Then he swaps the brushes and traces along the same path in the dark red. 

“What of the navy blue husband?” Sophie murmurs, trying to keep her voice even, even though she feels a slight tremble in her body; the exquisite contrast of cool liquid paint and the warm flush of arousal.

“All in good time. You should not rush an artist at work, darling,” he replies playfully.

“What if your canvas is in need?” Sophie inquires quietly.

“Where does my darling canvas have a need, hmm?” Benedict asks duskily, acting obtuse even as his breath puffs close to the place Sophie wants him the most.

He runs a line achingly slow down her inner thigh, looping under into the crease where her buttock meets her leg, the odd feeling making goose bumps break out across her surrounding skin, the tilt of his face right above where Sophie burns so hot. 

“Here, perhaps?” he whispers, 

Sphie cries out as his warm, wet mouth opens wide on her folds.

One of her hands shoots down to grasp his hair as he unfurls his tongue, swiping deep, lapping the overflowing well of moisture there. She stares down the plane of her body, watching the colours on her inner thigh streak across his clavicle and shoulder as he drinks from her body, pulling her pearl between his lips and sucking so hard she sees stars. Benedict's eyes hold a fiery intensity as he holds and swipes under her clitoral hood. His tongue dabs the most sensitive spot, the one that makes her leg want to kick out and go rigid from the intense sensation. Just as she starts to squirm and moan, he pulls back. 

Sophie pouts in disbelief as he calmly returns to painting.

“How can you tease me so?!” she laments, chest heaving, hand falling from its grip on his chestnut locks.

Benedict laughs gently but continues with his art, her concentration barely registering it, her heartbeat throbbing in her abandoned, swollen clit.

“Please, Benedict,” Sophie appeals, absentmindedly watching him switch to the other shade.

But his brow merely knits in concentration, glancing at her other leg to ensure, as with her arms, the pattern is an exact mirror. It's undoubtedly stunning, but somehow her interest in it has waned, all of her thoughts of needing his mouth back where it was.

He seems to take pity, moving so his face is a fraction closer to where Sophie wants him. After one long, indulgent swipe through her soaked folds that has Sophie gasping loudly, Benedict stops, rears up and quickly climbs over her body, his lips landing on her, damp and tangy with her desire. Sophie whimpers against his musky tongue as he kisses her deeply. 

“Soon,” is his whispered promise, her voice and body trembling with unsated need, denial making her prickle hot all over. “Your skin is too arresting a sight, flushed like this. I need to paint more upon this gorgeous canvas.” 

Sophie pouts and, careful not to disturb his artwork, slides her fingers between her legs,  eager for stimulation.

Benedict tuts and removes her fingers.

“Do not be so hasty, dear wife,” he chastises softly with a crooked smile, encircling her wrist, then daubing large beads on her fingertips. “There we go, as requested, navy blue,” he smirks, grabbing her other hand and repeating the action. 

Sophie stares at him, dumbfounded, realising she cannot touch herself now without a mess. 

That lopsided, handsome smile is still there as she watches him crawl slowly between her legs. And dives in face-first. Sophie's loud stuttering moan echoes up the walls. She desperately wants to grip his hair, but with her fingers now dripping with navy, she refrains. When he loops his arms around her hips, she instead grabs his wrists as they frame her thighs. Slathering streaks of dark blue on his pale forearms as he lashes her with his tongue, calling his name.

He is ravenous, using his whole face to arouse her senses, the stubble of his chin chafing her labia as he once again teases her, suckling her clit into his mouth, circling his tongue in firm strokes, undulating and spearing it just where she needs, as if intuiting what she needs at any moment, The tip of his nose is burrowed into her patch of hair, inhaling her scent as if he cannot get enough of her taste and smell, his primal behaviour just making her more wanton for him.

Benedict moans, muffled encouragements into her, the cadence vibrating up into her pubic bone. Sophie stares transfixed at him, decadent, delicious, filthy, a debauched and erotic tableau, the skin pulling taunt over his high cheekbones as he consumes her. 

Just as her pussy starts to flutter, he pulls up and teases her, pursing his lips and blowing a slow puff of air over her overheated pearl. It's not enough and too much all at once, such a different sensation from his lathing tongue. He chuckles as Sophie groans in frustration and grasps his wrists tightly, fingernails digging blue crescents into his flesh, hoping to incite him back into action.

Instead, he shakes off her grip and swiftly stands up. Roughly, he tugs at the buttons on his trousers, smirking down at Sophie as she turns breathless again with desire, painted fingers on either side of her head as he drops the fabric. As ever, he is without underwear, and even though his straining cock is a familiar sight, every time, it steals her breath and makes her pulse deep inside.  

He prowls over her supine body, almost cat-like, admiring his handiwork.

 “You are my masterpiece…” 

The awed but somehow still achingly seductive tone he employs makes her hips rise towards him, a reflex, her body seeking his. Uncaring of the mess it will leave, Sophie runs her navy fingertips from his chest to his pelvis, curling a little to scrape her nails into the paint trails. It looks like animal claws—as if she is marking him, possessive. 

His response is a light growl, hoisting her legs into the crook of his elbow and with a flash of something primal in his eyes, he surges into her weeping body with one swift thrust.

It makes Sophie call his name. So loudly that she knows the Crabtress may hear all the way in the staff quarters. But she cannot care—not even if they were to come running to check on her welfare. Part of her would almost be proud to be found like this, naked and decorated, pinned under her husband as he begins to fuck into her so thoroughly, the whole chaise squeaking and shuddering across the tiled floor. His body curled over her, his large hand above her head, gripping the raised chaise end for leverage. 

Sophie is lost in the carnality of how Benedict is taking her, her walls clinging to his plunging cock, She bands her arms around him, smearing long finger trails down the contours of his back until she reaches his buttocks and squeezes them covetously, encouraging him to drive deeper, go harder, almost make it hurt. 

The glorious, intricate pattern of his art still tacky on her skin, causing her flesh to cling to his and smudge together—blue, gold and burgundy blotches and smears that look so vibrant on his pale skin.

“Are you close again, my love?” His question is a touch breathless as he thrusts so vigorously.

Sophie hisses her confirmation, eyes rolling as she grasps his cheeks again and spreads her legs wider, always greedy for him, for more. For him to push so far into her body, it will feel like he’s always there, even when he’s not, like some internal tattoo of him carved into her being. 

“More Benedict… please,” her words tingling and urgent craving release so badly her mind feels akin to madness, an itch in her brain that needs to be scratched. 

But Benedict slows, and Sophie wants to scream in frustration, his movements shallow, delicate, not the onslaught she needs to take her over the precipice he has dangled her over, what feels like countless times. 

“I love to see you like this,” his voice husky, breath puffing hot on her face, “when you are so unbridled with need, darling. I cannot resist taking you so close and denying you: the wild look, your untamed desire.”

Sophie releases her grip on his behind and grabs his jaw, uncaring that it plasters his face with blue fingermarks. 

“It's always for you, just you, Benedict, my love, my life,” she affirms, hoping that is what he needs to hear to finally take her over the edge from this heightened state of near delirium.

His responding grin is breathtaking, and he begins to plough into Sophie in earnest, his gaze never leaving hers, burning to witness the moment she breaks for him. The chaise protests loudly, the wooden feet scraping hard on the floor under his unforgiving pace. Sophie bites her lip and pleads with her eyes, wanting his expert touch to push her over.

“Your fingers, please,” Sophie implores breathily, and suddenly three are pressed between her lips, traces of the tang of sweat and the flavour that is all him. 

Sophie greedily wraps her tongue around his invading digits and slathers them in her saliva, drooling around him as his thrusts jolt her entire body. Benedict snarls as she runs an edge of teeth over his cuticles, goading him, loving to see him just as lost in the potency of the moment. Then, with a look that always makes Sophie breathless, he slides the fingers out of her mouth and snakes them between their bodies, finding her engorged clit with ease. 

Sophie screams his name, and a few harsh flicks are all she needs to tip over, clenching so hard around his cock that his hips stutter and he roars into her ear as she fractures around him. Waves of pleasure ripple and fan out to every cell inher body, an almost violent delight, all her muscles spasming, her limbs shaking uncontrollably after so long denied.

Distantly, as if through cotton wool, Sophie hear Benedict cursing and growling her name, teeth pressing into the cord of her neck as he curls around her with one final jerk and a loud, guttural groan, he stills, his body stiff, a vein pulsing heavily in his neck and forehead as he empties into her, warmth blooming deep inside her as he spills. 

Shortly after, he collapses onto his forearms, bracketing her body, mindful not to squash her under his weight as he pants, heaving breaths, his chest bumping hers with each ragged inhale.

Sophie doesn't say words; she just trails the remaining blue paint on her fingers across the skin of his shoulders, connecting the collage of freckles there into a slanted star-like shape. Below a certain point, her bodies resemble a rainbow; the detail he built so carefully now merely a smudge of lively streaks.

“Did you enjoy your painting lesson, my love?” Benedict's tone is whimsical as his breathing returns to normal.

Sophie giggles and plants a kiss on his smiling lips. “You know I did, Mr Bridgerton; you are a wonderful teacher,” Sophie winks; his responding laugh makes her whole body jiggle under him.

“Now to get clean,” he hums drolly, his grin lopsided and winsome. “I believe we may need to share a bath.”

“Or swim in the lake,” Sophie posits jokingly, rolling her head to look out of the window, down across the unlit grass to the water beyond, shimmering in the moonlight. 

When Sophie tilts her head back, Benedict's look is priceless. His eyebrows shoot up, and that grin grows wider. 

“I love how you think, my darling wife…” 

Sophie squeals as he scoops her into his arms bridal style, and before she knows it, he has elbowed open the French doors and is carrying her to the water’s edge in a purposeful stride, both utterly naked and blissfully happy.

Benophie Masterlist  • Taglist must be following this blog to be tagged

Benophie taglist: @colettebronte @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @kmc1989 @carol20034 @a-road-less-travelled-by @minecherrybaddie @eulalielatibule @noirrose21-blog @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @hagarsays @misswhiddless @hoshhhiiiii @we-ride-for-benophie @misswhiddless @geekofmanygforms

[minecherrybaddie]

[stevie-petey]

GASOLINE (S.H.)

it starts out simple enough.

photograph the februarys in exchange for a cheap place to live. all you have to do is go to their gigs, take a few pictures, and hope that they like them.

it starts out simple enough.

until the bands frontman, steve harrington, begs for more.

CONTAINS: fem!reader, slow burn, roommates to friends to are they lovers ? (worse), messy feelings and situationship, sexual tension, alcohol dependency, unhealthy coping mechanisms, probably unrealistic depictions of band life in the 80s but idc the vibes are there.

playlist ‧₊˚.

track one: i wanna get off

a friend from college offers you a job and a place to live. its pretty hard to turn down. free concerts, you get to do what you love, and steve harrington will be your roommate. its a shame hes too pretty for his own good.

track two: but youre such a tease

now officially the februarys concert photographer, you hit the road with them on tour. how bad can three months be stuck inside a small tour bus with steves needy hands and songs reserved only for you ?

track three: you did me bad

with tour winding down and an album set to be released, tensions inside the tour bus grows. when the already blurred lines between you and steve get crossed, the fallout of your relationship nearly sends the band spiraling as well.

track four: but i wanna go faster

recording an album is hard enough when the person steve has written every song for cant look him in the eye. its even harder when said person is also his roommate. and it definitely doesnt help that the rest of the band thinks its steves fault. now hes stuck on yet another tour bus with you. and everyone else. for six months.

track five: gasoline, pretty please

screaming crowds and flashing lights with steves name on everyones lips. everyones lips but yours; the lips he cant forget. when you get offered a job that would force you to leave the februarys behind, steve only has one last chance to beg you for more.

LAST UPDATE: 6/23/25

MAIN MASTERLIST

if you’d like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

[minecherrybaddie]

me encanto, Diosss estoy llorando 😭😭😭💘

[alcottsangel]

Blast from the Past {Steve Harrington x Henderson!Reader}

Full House Masterlist

Every part can be read as standalone.

Summary: When Steve takes your four daughters grocery shopping at Melvalds, he has an unexpected encounter with some people he hasn't seen since graduation. People who don't know Steve married you and had four daughters. Carol Perkins, Tommy Hagan, Tina and two other guys from the basketball team.

Information: You are Dustins older sister, you and Steve have four daughters because ofc I'm pushing Joe Keerys "Steve Harrington, 4 daughters, girl dad" propaganda. Also, you are a radio DJ at W.S.Q.K. because I think it's fun lol.

Warnings: None that I can think of.

The heat sat on Hawkins like a hand you couldn’t shake. Thick, loud, and sticky, the kind that made the air above the road ripple and turned the parking lot at Melvald’s into a shimmering mirage. Steve hated it on principle. It made his hair flatten at the sides no matter how much he fought it, and it made kids cranky and slow and dramatic in the exact way that made coaching Little League feel like herding cats with bats.

But he still looked… annoyingly good.

He had that worn-in white T-shirt that made mothers in aisle three linger too long near the paper towels, jeans that fit the way they always had, and a little scruff he’d decided was a “summer thing”.

He stood with a hand on the cart handle and the other holding baby Anita Maxine Harrington against his hip like she belonged there. Like she’d always belonged there. Anita’s head rested against his chest, warm and heavy with sleep, her tiny fingers curled into the collar of his shirt.

Pamela Ellen Harrington- five years old and already walking like she owned the place- pushed the cart with one hand even though Steve had told her five minutes ago to use both, because she was just like him: hearing rules, acknowledging them, and then doing whatever she wanted anyway with an innocent expression that made adults forgive her.

Joanna Joyce Harrington- three year old menace and one part of your set of twins- darted ahead and skidded to a stop by a display of batteries like it was the most thrilling thing she’d ever seen. She had scraped knees visible under her shorts and the kind of grin that usually preceded property damage.

Rosanna Robin Harrington- also three years old and the other part of your set of twins- stayed near the cart’s side, peering at everything like she was taking inventory of the universe. She had a small notebook tucked into her little denim purse, something she’d started carrying after she watched Dustin write equations on napkins at Enzo’s that one time, like it was normal. She’d written “hypotheses” in it yesterday about why the creek behind the school smelled weird in July.

Steve was there for practical things: coffee filters, a pack of sponges, diapers, and more duct tape because you never had “enough duct tape” when you traveled in an RV as often as you did. Also ice pops, because he was weak and his children knew it.

“Okay,” Steve said, leaning down so his mouth was closer to Pamela’s ear. “We are getting... what are we getting?”

Pamela lifted her chin, tapping a finger against it like she was thinking seriously. “Diapers. For the baby. Coffee filters because you drink too much coffee. Duct tape for when we visit Aunt Max and Uncle Lucas. And sponges.”

Steve pointed at Pamela in agreement. “Thank you. Finally. Someone in this family with a plan that-”

Pamela cut him off, “Also ice pops. Because you said maybe.”

Steve sighed like a martyr. “I said we’d see.”

Pamela’s eyes went wide and shiny in a way that would’ve fooled a priest.

Steve felt himself cave in real time. “Okay, yes, ice pops. But-” he raised a finger, “-you’re not getting the cherry ones because you all look like vampires after.”

“We look cool,” Joanna said, popping up beside him like she’d teleported. “We look like rock stars.”

“You look like you murdered somebody in the kitchen,” Steve corrected, but his mouth twitched.

Joanna leaned in close to Anita’s head and whisper-sang, “Anita, tell him we deserve ice pops.”

Anita didn’t wake, just made a tiny sound and burrowed in closer. Steve’s face softened instantly, the way it always did, like the world had just handed him something fragile and perfect and he couldn’t believe he got to keep it.

“See?” Joanna said, as if the baby had made a ruling.

Steve, helpless, took the cart from Pamela and nudged it forward. “Fine. But you’re all washing your hands first when we get home.”

The town looked at them when they came in, always did. Hawkins didn’t have movie stars. It didn’t have famous people. It had the girl from the radio and the handsome teacher who coached the little kids like they were headed to the majors and a set of Harrington daughters who said “please” and “thank you” like it was wired into their bones.

And Steve - Steve knew the town looked.

He didn’t mind it the way he used to. When he was seventeen, being watched felt like oxygen. It felt like proof. Now it just felt like… a place to live. A place that had swallowed him and kept him and sometimes still gave him chills if he drove too close to the wrong patch of woods.

He’d just turned the cart toward the aisle with the coffee filters when he heard a laugh.

A very specific laugh.

It cut through the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of the register like a needle.

Steve stopped without meaning to, shoulders going tight, a reflex from a version of himself that hadn’t existed in ten years. He looked up.

And there they were.

Carol Perkins stood by the endcap display of sunscreen like she’d never left high school. Tall, tan, hair curled bigger than it needed to be, white nails. She wore shorts that made Steve feel ancient just looking at them and a bright tank top that screamed “I went to the mall and I’m proud of it.” Her laugh was loud, sharp. She held a pack of cigarettes.

Tommy Hagan leaned against a shelf like the entire store was his. He looked older. of course he did. Everybody did. But the posture was the same. The smirk was the same. Hair shorter than it had been, a little thinning at the edges, which made Steve’s stomach do something weird because, in his head, Tommy was always seventeen.

Tina walked with them. Tina who’d been at that Halloween party with that terrible music and the stale beer and Nancy Wheeler’s words that still sometimes echoed in Steve’s head when he was trying to fall asleep. Tina’s eyes flicked across the aisle, and Steve saw recognition bloom there like a bruise.

And then two guys Steve remembered from the basketball team. Mark and Clay, faces half-familiar the way dreams are half-familiar. Mark had a wedding ring, Clay had a mustache that looked like he’d gotten it out of a catalog.

They were holding baskets, talking too loud, laughing about something that probably didn’t matter. Home for the summer, visiting their parents. The kind of people who left Hawkins and thought Hawkins stayed frozen behind them.

Steve’s first instinct was to turn the cart around and go down another aisle.

Not because he was scared. He wasn’t scared of them. It was more like… stepping into an old photograph. Like putting on a jacket you’d outgrown and realizing you didn’t even want it anymore.

Pamela noticed first. She always noticed first. She followed Steve’s gaze and then looked back up at him, eyebrows lifting with the kind of quick, clever assessment that had made her teacher write “future lawyer?” on her report card.

“Daddy,” she said, soft but pointed. “Those are people you know.”

Steve’s mouth tightened. “Yep.”

Joanna leaned over the cart handle, eyes wide. “Are they famous?”

“No,” Rosanna said, like it was obvious. “They’re just… older teenagers.”

Pamela tilted her head. “They’re not teenagers. They’re like… old.”

Steve laughed a little. “Okay, rude.”

Pamela shrugged, unrepentant. “It’s true.”

Steve adjusted Anita higher on his hip, partly because she was slipping, partly because he needed something to do with his hands. He could feel sweat at the back of his neck. Could feel the way his body remembered the hierarchy of a hallway, the way it remembered being the person everyone watched.

He wasn’t that person anymore.

He was Steve Harrington. Coach. Husband. Father. Guy who knew which brand of diapers didn’t give his baby a rash. Guy who built his whole life around you and not some obsolete "King Steve" title.

Carol turned her head fully and saw him.

Her expression froze for a second, like she’d been slapped with memory.

Then it brightened into a grin that was all teeth. “No way.”

Tommy’s head snapped toward Steve. Mark and Clay followed. Tina leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing like she was trying to be sure.

Tommy’s smirk spread. “Holy—Harrington?”

Steve exhaled slowly through his nose and kept his face neutral, like he did when a kid told him they didn’t need to run laps because they “didn’t feel like it.”

He pushed the cart forward.

Pamela straightened beside him, suddenly very attentive. Rosanna hovered close, notebook forgotten. Joanna bounced on her toes like this was entertainment.

Steve didn’t give them the satisfaction of pretending he hadn’t seen them. If he’d learned anything after everything Hawkins had thrown at him, it was that running from things only made them chase you harder.

So he met them in the aisle with the coffee filters and the sunscreen and the cheap plastic lawn chairs.

Carol laughed again, this time directly at him. “Steve Harrington. I swear to God, I thought you moved to, like, California or something.”

He forced a polite smile. “You thought wrong, I guess.”

Tommy stared like Steve was a ghost. “Dude. It’s been—what, nine years?”

“Ten,” Steve corrected automatically, because he was weirdly good with dates like that now. “Graduation was ’85.”

Clay whistled low. “Man. Hawkins never lets anyone go.”

“It tries,” Steve said. His voice was easy, calm, the same voice he used to tell kids to stop picking their noses on the field. “You just gotta be stubborn.”

Tina glanced down into the cart and then up at Steve’s arms. “Are those… your kids?”

Pamela- bless her dramatic little heart- stepped forward with the confidence of someone who had never been embarrassed in her life. “Hi. I’m Pamela Ellen Harrington. These are Rosanna and Joanna. And the baby is Anita.” She said each name like it was a title, like they’d been printed on a trophy.

Steve’s eyes squeezed shut for half a second. “Pam—”

Pamela beamed at the group, oblivious to the minefield she’d just stepped onto.

Carol’s grin faltered.

Tommy’s eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. “Harrington?” he repeated.

Mark leaned in, squinting. “Wait. You- You have kids?”

Clay did a slow scan from Steve’s face to Pamela’s hair to Joanna’s grin and back again, like he was putting together a puzzle.

Steve felt the moment tighten.

This was the part where old Steve would’ve puffed up. Would’ve made it a show. Would’ve loved the shock.

New Steve just wanted to get the coffee filters and go home before Anita woke up and decided to scream her opinion about this entire encounter.

“Yep,” he said simply. “These are mine.”

Tina’s gaze slid to his ring hand, to the band there. Gold, worn. The one you’d slid onto his finger with shaking hands in 1988, when the whole world still felt like it might crack open again but you’d decided you were done waiting for peace to be permanent before you let yourself be happy.

“You’re married,” Tina said, like it was an accusation.

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah.”

Carol blinked rapidly. “To who? Like, who did you marry?” Her eyes darted around, as if your presence might be hiding behind a shelf of detergent.

Pamela, again, without any hesitation, said, “My mom.”

Steve shot her a look. Pamela smiled sweetly back.

Rosanna’s eyes flicked between the adults, taking notes. Joanna’s grin widened atbthe mention of you.

Tommy shook his head, laughing like he didn’t quite believe it. “No, no, no. No way. Steve Harrington married some random girl from Hawkins and had a bunch of kids? Dude, I thought you were-"

“Dead?” Steve offered flatly.

Tommy’s laugh stuttered. “No. Like… still you.”

Steve shrugged with one shoulder, careful not to jostle Anita. “I am still me.”

Carol looked at Pamela again, and her expression softened a fraction despite herself. Pamela had Steve’s whole face in miniature—the brows, the smile, the way her eyes sparkled was the same as his when he was about to talk his way out of trouble.

“That one’s yours,” Carol said, half-awed, half-amused.

Pamela nodded proudly. “I’m the oldest. I'm five.”

“And you’re… what,” Carol waved vaguely at the other two. “Four? Five?”

“I’m three,” Rosanna said politely. “I’m going to be a scientist.”

Joanna puffed up. “I’m three too!” She said proudly and held up four fingers anyways.

Steve couldn’t help it—his expression softened when he looked down at the girls. “Yeah, they're twins,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone.

There was a pause where the fluorescent buzz filled the space between them.

Then Tommy, because Tommy couldn’t help himself, said, “So where’s… your wife?”

Steve didn’t answer immediately.

Not because he didn’t want to. God, he wanted to. He wanted to say your name like a punchline, like a reveal, like something that would land. He wanted to watch their faces when they realized the Henderson girl—the one who’d walked the halls with a stack of books and a quiet smile, Dustin Hendersons sister who’d gotten under Steve Harrington’s skin so deep he’d never managed to pull her out.

But he didn’t want to make you a spectacle.

And also… it was July, 1995, and Steve Harrington had kids standing beside him. He had a baby sleeping against his heart. He was twenty nine and tired and deeply, almost painfully happy.

So he just said, “She’s at work.”

Carol leaned forward, hungry for details. “Work where? You guys still in Hawkins?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got a place. Right by the Wheelers.”

Tina’s eyes widened. “You live next to Karen Wheeler?”

Steve’s mouth quirked. “Yep.”

Tommy scoffed. “Of course you do.”

Pamela frowned. “Why are you saying that like it’s weird?”

Tommy looked down at her like he’d just realized she was a person and not a prop. “I didn't, kid.”

“You did,” Pamela decided, and then looked back at Steve. “Daddy, do you like these people?”

Steve blinked.

Carol let out a startled laugh. “Oh my God.”

Steve stared at his daughter, half horrified, half impressed. “Pamela-”

“What?” she demanded, genuinely confused. “You always ask me if I like people after we talk to them.”

Rosanna murmured, “She’s collecting data.”

Joanna whispered loudly, “I don’t like them. They’re boring.”

Steve made a face. “Jo-”

Carol held up her hands, laughing now like it was the funniest thing she’d heard in years. “Okay, okay. Wow. Harrington, your kids are-”

“Too honest?” Steve supplied.

“Terrifying,” Carol said, still smiling.

Tommy leaned toward Steve, voice dropping slightly like they were about to have a real conversation. “So what do you do now, man? You work for your dad? Still got the Beemer? I mean-” he looked Steve up and down, like searching for a sign of wealth. “You don’t look like you’re struggling.”

Steve’s laugh was short. “My dad’s not… around.”

Mark’s eyebrows lifted. “Wait, Danny Harrington?”

Steve nodded, because there was no point pretending. “Yeah. He’s… still out of town. Always out of town. My mom too. I think they're in Chicago, I'm not sure.”

Clay made a sympathetic noise that sounded like he didn’t know what to do with it.

Steve kept it light because he didn’t want to hand them anything tender. “I teach. PE and health. Middle and high school. Coach Little League.”

Carol stared. “You’re a teacher?”

Steve smiled, slow and dangerous in the old way, but softer now. “Yep.”

Tommy snorted. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Steve said. “Kids like me. Which is wild, because I’m basically their enemy.”

Pamela nodded solemnly. “He makes them run.”

“And they complain,” Steve added. “A lot.”

Carol’s gaze flicked to Pamela again. “And… your wife works…?”

Steve hesitated, and then he decided he didn’t want to play coy. Not because he wanted to brag, but because you were real. Because you mattered. Because you’d built something in Hawkins that was yours and nobody could take it away.

“She’s on the radio,” he said, and watched comprehension fail to land.

Tommy frowned. “What?”

“The Squawk,” Steve clarified. “W.S.Q.K. She hosts mornings.”

Mark made a face. “The local station? That...” he snapped his fingers, trying to place it. “That’s the one with the-”

“The bird,” Pamela said, frowning like he was stupid. “The squawk.”

Carol’s eyes widened suddenly. “Wait. The girl from the radio?”

Steve’s lips curved. “Yeah.”

Tina’s mouth dropped open slightly. “You married… her?”

Steve held her gaze, unimpressed by the tone. “Yeah.”

Tommy blinked hard. “No, hold on.” He laughed, but it sounded like disbelief. “The Henderson girl? Dustin Henderson’s sister?”

Steve’s heart did a small, stupid jump at hearing you referred to like that, like you were still seventeen and walking the halls with a stack of library books. Like you weren’t the woman who fell asleep with a pen behind her ear because she’d been writing her show notes at the kitchen table. Like you weren’t the person who knew every old lady in town by name because they called the station just to talk to you. Like you didn't carry his last name for years now.

“Yep,” Steve said again, because he liked the way it felt.

Carol shook her head slowly. “Shut up.”

Steve smiled wider. “No.”

There was another beat of silence. It wasn’t hostile, exactly. It was… recalibration. The past trying to fit itself around the present and failing.

Joanna leaned toward Rosanna and whispered, “They’re acting weird.”

Rosanna whispered back, “They’re surprised. It’s a social phenomenon.”

Pamela leaned closer to Steve, voice low like she was offering him insider gossip. “They probably thought you married a supermodel.”

Steve’s lips twitched. “I did.”

Pamela, satisfied, nodded.

Carol recovered first, because Carol always recovered first. “Wow. Okay. I mean, good for you.” She said it like she wasn’t sure she meant it, but then she looked at Pamela again and softened. “So you and… Henderson… have been together since when?”

Steve’s throat tightened, just for a second, because memory flashed: Nancy’s words like broken glass, the taste of cheap beer, the cold October air outside that party, the way the world had tilted. The aftermath of the party, your childhood bedroom, you hands in his hair, your soft moans. And then the Snowball, the night he finally had the courage to let it mean something and asked you out.

He didn’t owe them that story.

So he gave them the version that didn't belong to him and you, the version that didn’t bleed.

“A while,” he said. “Long enough.”

Tommy leaned back, arms crossing. “Man. That’s…” He searched for a word that wouldn’t make him look stupid. “…unexpected.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Carol’s eyes flicked to Steve’s cart again, to the diapers, the sponges, the coffee filters. “So you’re like… domestic now.”

Steve stared at her like she’d just insulted his mother. “I have four kids.”

Carol laughed. “I know! It’s just... Steve Harrington. King Steve. You used to-”

“Used to what?” Steve asked mildly.

Carol faltered. Tina looked away. Mark scratched his jaw. Clay stared at the floor.

Steve didn’t press. He didn’t need to. The truth was obvious: he used to be the guy they orbited because he was shiny. He used to be the guy who mattered because he had money and hair and a car and a girlfriend with the right last name.

Now he mattered because a tiny baby was asleep on his chest and his older daughters were arguing about ice pops and everyone in Hawkins trusted him with their kids.

That was better. That was real.

Joanna, impatient, said, “Daddy, can we go get ice pops now?”

Steve looked down at her, and the tension in his shoulders eased like a rope loosening. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, we can.”

Carol lifted her hand, half-wave, half-something else. “Tell—tell your wife hi. The Henderson girl.”

Steve nodded. “Harrington now. But sure.”

Tommy, trying to salvage something, said, “You ever come out? Like, the bar?” He gestured vaguely, like adulthood was one long invitation to drink.

Steve’s mouth tugged into a grin that was all honest. “Sometimes. My buddy works at the Hideout.”

Clay perked up. “Eddie Munson? That dude still in town?”

Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly, protective by instinct. “Yeah. He’s still in town.”

Tommy made a face like he remembered old rumors, old nonsense. “Huh.”

Steve didn’t give him anything else. He just pushed the cart forward.

Pamela stayed close to Steve’s side now, like she could feel the shift, even if she didn’t understand it. She reached up and hooked her fingers around the hem of his shirt, tugging it gently like a tether.

Steve looked down and smiled at her, warm and automatic. “You okay, kid?”

Pamela shrugged, trying to look casual. “Yeah. They were just… weird.”

“They’re from a long time ago,” Steve said.

Pamela thought about that, then nodded solemnly like she understood time as a concept. “Okay.”

Joanna trotted ahead again, already over it. “ICE POPS!”

Rosanna stayed beside Steve, voice small. “Did you not like them?”

Steve glanced down at her, surprised by the quiet question. Rosanna wasn’t usually the one who asked about feelings. That was Pamela’s job.

Steve considered it for a second, then answered honestly, because he always did with his girls. “I liked… parts of them. A long time ago. But people change.”

Rosanna nodded, absorbing it. “Like how you used to be a student and now you’re a teacher.”

“Exactly,” Steve said, smirking.

Rosanna’s eyes brightened a little. “So you were… their friend when you were a student?”

Steve exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”

Pamela, listening again, said, “Were they mean to you?”

Steve stopped walking and looked at her, startled. Considered that because this was more complicated than differing between 'mean' and 'nice'.

“No, Pam.”

Pamela frowned. “They looked at you like you were… like you were something they found in the attic.”

Steve laughed, but it was soft. “That’s… a weirdly good way to put it.”

Pamela shrugged. “I’m smart.”

“Yes you are,” Steve said, and ruffled her hair gently, careful not to mess up her carefully clipped barrettes—the ones you’d put in that morning while she sat on the bathroom counter, chattering about rollerblades and how Mrs. DeLacey’s son had told her she threw like a girl, which Steve had taken as a personal insult.

They made it to the freezer aisle, where Joanna pressed her face against the glass dramatically and fogged it up.

“I want the rocket ones,” she announced. “The red white blue ones.”

Pamela rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.”

Rosanna leaned in, studying the boxes like she was choosing lab equipment. “The rocket ones melt the fastest.”

Joanna pointed at her. “Science is ruining my life.”

Steve bent down carefully, keeping Anita tucked close, and pulled open the freezer door. Cold air rushed out like relief.

He grabbed two boxes of ice pops before he could second-guess himself.

Pamela’s grin turned triumphant. “See? He’s a softie.”

Steve shut the freezer, giving her a look. “I heard that.”

Pamela didn’t care. “You were going to get them anyway.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, then stopped because… she was right. He was always going to get them anyway.

He turned the cart toward the registers and heard his name again. Not shouted this time—called softly, like someone trying not to startle him.

“Steve?”

He turned and saw Mr. Melvald himself at the front counter, smiling like he’d been waiting for him. He glanced at the girls, eyes crinkling. “Oh my goodness. Look at you all. Growing like weeds.”

Pamela straightened immediately, polite as anything. “Hi, Mr. Melvald.”

Joanna waved both hands. “Hi!”

Rosanna gave a small smile.

Mr. Melvald’s gaze softened when he looked at Anita asleep on Steve’s chest. “And the baby,” he murmured, like it was a prayer. “You’re doing good, Steve.”

The words hit him somewhere deep. Not because he needed Mr. Melvald’s approval, but because Hawkins had once looked at him like he was a joke wrapped in nice hair. And now it looked at him like… like he belonged.

He paid, thanked Mr. Melvald, and guided the girls out into the heat again, the plastic bags swinging at his side, Anita still asleep against his chest like she trusted his heartbeat more than the whole world.

Behind them, Carol’s laugh echoed once more, but it sounded farther away now, like it belonged to someone else’s life.

Steve stepped into the sunlight, squinting.

Pamela reached for his hand without making a big deal about it, fingers slipping into his like it was automatic. Rosanna pressed close on his other side. Joanna skipped ahead toward the car, shouting about rockets and red-white-blue ice pops.

Steve breathed out slowly, feeling the weight of the groceries, the weight of his baby, the weight of the day.

And under it all, steady as the radio hum you could hear if you tuned the dial just right, was the thought of you at the station—voice bright in the early morning, laughing at a caller, keeping Hawkins stitched together with music and weather reports and the sound of home.

He looked down at Pamela’s hair catching the sun—brown and thick like his. Looked at Rosanna’s thoughtful face. Joanna’s scraped knees. Anita’s tiny mouth pursed in sleep.

And he thought: let them be surprised.

Let them stare.

He’d found something better than being King Steve.

He’d found you.

And he was going to get the girls home, get them ice pops, and then—if he was lucky—catch you in the kitchen doorway when you finally came in, let you tell him everything about your shift while he leaned against the counter and watched your mouth move like it was the only thing in the world worth listening to.

“Daddy,” Pamela said suddenly, tugging his hand gently, pulling him back to now. “Are you okay?”

Steve blinked, then smiled down at her, real and easy. “Yeah, kid. I’m okay.”

Pamela narrowed her eyes like she didn’t believe him, then decided she did. “Okay.”

And somewhere across town, the radio kept talking. Your voice carrying through kitchens and garages and open windows, while Steve Harrington walked across the Melvald’s parking lot with his whole life in his arms.

Likes, reblogs and especially comments are super appreciated. Thank you for reading this. Inbox is always open, I would love to talk to you guys! <3

[minecherrybaddie]

que tiernoo, es tan papá de nena 😭🥰

[sharkbitewrites]

𝓚𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓘𝓽 𝓑𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓮𝓻

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Word Count: ~1.2k

Summary: Steve gets a minor concussion, but all he wants is for you to take care of him at all times.

Warnings: None!! Just Steve being needy and all sweet.

Steve got a concussion last night. He somehow managed to fall off his bed while he was asleep last night, waking you up at 2:43 AM with a call from the hospital.

He was released only two hours after, but he still has some restrictions and pain today. He's taking every chance he can to get babied by you.

"Sweetie...?" He calls from the couch as you move around the kitchen, grabbing things to make him a sandwich.

"Yes, Steve?" You ask, a smile on your face as you watch him lie on the couch, head propped up on pillows and an ice pack on his forehead.

"I miss you." Steve sighs, looking at you with big eyes and a pout on his face. "Steve, I'm right here." You laugh, turning around to get the bread from the toaster.

When you spin back around, Steve is standing up, a hand on his head. "Steve-- No. Lay down." You point at the couch, a stern look on your face because you don't need him to make anything worse.

Steve glances between your face and the couch, clearly deciding if he wants to listen to you or not. He's a grown man. He doesn't need to sit back down just because you said so. He doesn't need to sit down because you look at him with that stern face that still has a hint of a smile on it.

But he plops back down on the couch and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks at you with those stupid, big eyes as you carry his plate over to him.

You set the sandwich down on the coffee table in front of the couch, smiling as you sit down next to your needy boyfriend. He immediately throws himself into your arms, burying his face against your chest.

He lets out a deep sigh, wrapping his arms around you and pushing you back so that you're on your back and he's lying flat on top of you. You let out a huff of laughter, sliding your hand up Steve's back and into his hair.

"Steve, you're gonna crush me." You groan, but the smile on your face betrays you completely. He lets out a little laugh, then a soft sigh. "My head..." He whines, almost instantly turning your smile into a frown.

"Oh, baby." You coo, stroking his hair ever so gently as to not hurt his head anymore. Your other hand runs up and down his spine a few times until it finally rests between his shoulder blades.

Steve looks up, resting his chin on your chest. He gives you the biggest puppy dog eyes and juts his bottom lip out at you. "What do you need, Stevie?" You ask with a little smile, knowing that his face can only mean he wants something.

"Kiss it better f'me." Steve mumbles, shining you the brightest smile. You press a kiss to his lips, then one cheek, and the other, and then all over his face. "Mmmhmm..." He hums and closes his eyes with a soft sigh.

You pause after a moment holding his face in your hand and smiling at him. You take a moment to just look at the love of your life. Your Steve.

"I like your freckles." You whisper with a smile as he forces his eyes open for just a moment. "I like you." He murmurs, closing his eyes once more, already nearly falling asleep in your arms.

"You're a flirt." You whisper, stroking his hair back to take a look at the bruise on his forehead right at his hairline. He hums softly as his body begins to fall slack in your grasp.

.·:¨¨ ≈☆≈ ¨¨:·.

"C'mon, Steve. You're gonna get stinky." You laugh as you tug Steve towards the bathroom by his arm.

You already have the tub full of water, but Steve is not fond of the idea. "Nooooo." He groans, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Steve, you won't even have to do anything. I'll do all the work." You thread your fingers through his hair. He sighs and begrudgingly walks towards the bathroom with you.

You peel his clothes off and get him a towel from the closet as he sinks into the water. You come back to the tub and sit on your knees next to the edge of it.

Steve lolls his head to the side, giving you a soft smile as you grab his shampoo off the shelf. "You're so perfect." He whispers as you wet his hair.

You smile softly and squirt some shampoo into your hand. You scrub his scalp, not missing the way Steve's heart eyes are on you the whole time. The way he looks at you like you hung the moon and stars, no matter the task, never fails to make your heart stutter and your breath catch in your throat.

"How's your head, my love?" You stroke his sudsy hair back before returning to gentle scrubbing.

"Mmh... Hurts a bit, but m'alright." He murmurs, eyes fluttering shut as you scoop water into your hands to rinse out the shampoo from his thick hair.

You then clean his body with a loofah, smiling as he lets out little hums and sighs. After he's all clean, you hand him the towel and look away with a little blush as he stands up.

He leans most of his weight on you as you walk him back into the bedroom. You grab him a pair of boxers and old Hawkins High sweats, rummaging through his drawers again to find your favorite shirt of his.

"Whatcha lookin' for, babe?" Steve leans back against the pillows with a smile, already knowing exactly what it is that you want.

"Where's that Queen shirt?" You spin around, nearly losing your breath at the sight of your boyfriend sprawled out on the bed with his sweats low on his hips.

He smiles, pointing to the end of the bed, where he's left it out for you. You melt at his small, but heartfelt sentiment, walking over to the bed and quickly changing out of your shirt and into Steve's.

Steve smiles, sinking further into the pillows, and turning onto his side when you crawl into the bed beside him. "Your head feel alright still?" You whisper as your hand slides into Steve's still wet hair.

"Uhm... Yeah... Yeah, s'alright." He lies, painfully obvious because he really can't lie to you. You roll your eyes, gently scratching at Steve's scalp.

"C'mere, Stevie." You coo, scooting closer to Steve and humming softly as he buries his face against your chest. It's nothing sexual, he just loves being close to your heart.

"Baby..." He sighs, wrapping his arms around you. "Mhm?" You hum, pressing a kiss to the top of your boyfriend's head.

"I love you. I love you more than anything." He slurs, already about to fall asleep in your arms. "I love you, too, Steve." You whisper against his head, a smile pulling at your lips as he begins to let out soft snores.

OMG I'm so sorry I died I was sick and then I was so busy and then I got sick again and then I just needed to get motivated. I'm not the happiest with this but whatever!

[djoguts]

⋆˚. 𝐰𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐞 | kurt kunkle

gif creds go to: chariotgifs

pairing: kurt kunkle x reader summary: Kurt never meant to become that guy online. He just wanted someone—anyone—to look at him like he mattered. So he hit record, posted a few late-night videos, and somehow it worked. You weren’t even looking for him. One accidental scroll turns into watching every video, then following, then a DM you definitely shouldn’t answer. wc: 5.7k tags/warnings: 18+ ! MDNI ! smut, fem!reader, camboy!kurt, virgin!kurt, sub!kurt, light dom/sub, fluff & smut, strangers to lovers?, casual sex, sexting, AFAB reader, dirty talk, praise kink, mutual masturbation, photo exchange, loss of virginity, oral sex, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, creampie, reader is on BC, body worship, slightly breeding kink, edging?, aftercare. author's note: hey! this is my first smut fanfic ever + my first post on tumblr 😭, so please be kind :( I tried to write Kurt as canon as possible! I had so much fun writing it :) enjoy, and thank you for reading! feel free to share your thoughts :) I’m always glad to receive some feedback! (pics used are from pinterest, everything is fiction). ao3

Until recently, Kurt had only ever filmed himself.

He'd tried the "normal" path first— painfully earnest tutorials, vape unboxings that nobody asked for, daily vlogs where he'd ramble about nothing like it was profound wisdom. Shoot. Edit. Upload. Repeat. The views stayed stuck at double digits. Comments were mostly bots or people straight-up telling him to delete his account and disappear.

So he pivoted.

If the internet didn't want him informative or relatable, maybe it wanted him raw. Exposed. Desperate.

He didn't think it'd actually work. Why would it? He'd never been the guy anyone noticed. In school he was background static—or worse, the easy punchline. No girl had ever looked at him like she was starving. No one had ever wanted him like that.

Still, he hit record.

Three videos. That's literally all it fucking took.

Three shaky, harshly lit, way-too-long clips dumped at 3 a.m. like dirty confessions.

And somehow… it clicked.

Followers started climbing. DMs flooded in. Notifications pinged with tips, subs, custom requests. People started typing his name like it tasted good in their mouths.

It wasn't love. It wasn't real connection.

But it was attention.

And for Kurt, attention was enough.

You found him by accident.

You barely touch Twitter anymore. You were just killing time, thumb flicking mindlessly, when a thirty-second clip auto-played. You almost swiped past.

Almost.

Something made you pause. Then tap.

@KurtsWorld69 8,418 followers. Cam link pinned. OnlyFans in bio.

Instant cringe crawled up your spine.

That username alone should have ended it.

The bio was somehow worse.

Yet you kept scrolling.

It was pathetic.

The emojis. The fake-laugh confidence. The way he tried to play it off like he wasn’t literally jerking off for strangers’ validation.

And still—you didn’t close the app.

It was cringey. Stupid. Borderline embarrassing.

But you watched every single video that night.

Curiosity? Sure. Morbid fascination? Definitely. Same Kurt every time: flushed cheeks, messy hair flopping into his eyes, staring straight into the lens like it could touch him back. Like he needed the camera to tell him he was good. Needed someone—anyone—to want him.

By the third video your thighs were already clenched tight. Heat coiled low and heavy in your belly. Your breathing turned shallow, uneven.

You didn’t even register your hand slipping under the waistband of your panties until your fingers met drenched, swollen heat.

“Fuck,” you breathed, barely audible.

You didn’t stop.

On screen, Kurt’s shirt was bunched between his teeth, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped. His tummy flexed with every rough pump of his fist around his cock—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip. He was loud. Shamelessly loud. Broken moans and whimpers spilling out like he couldn’t cage them anymore. No fake porn-star groans—just raw, needy, unfiltered sounds that hit you like a punch.

It shouldn’t have worked.

It did.

You propped the phone against your pillow, volume low, his ragged breathing filling the dark room like he was panting right against your ear.

You hit follow before common sense could catch up.

Then killed the light.

You lasted maybe thirty seconds in the pitch black before your hand was back between your legs—slower now, deliberate. Fingers dragging through your own slick before plunging inside. You gasped when your fingertips grazed your clit—already so sensitive it almost hurt. Your hips rolled up instinctively, back arching off the mattress.

You pictured him.

That same pleading stare aimed at you instead of a lens. That same desperate edge. All that pent-up hunger with nowhere to go except his own fist… until you imagined it going somewhere else.

What if those shaking hands gripped your thighs instead? What if that wrecked voice begged against your throat while he fucked into you—deep, frantic, like he couldn’t get close enough?

Your fingers curled, thumb circling tight. You matched the rhythm from memory—the wet slap of his hand, the hitched “fuck—yeah—please—” leaking from the speaker.

You told yourself it was just curiosity.

Curiosity doesn’t make your thighs quake like that.

Curiosity doesn’t make you bite your knuckles raw to keep quiet.

When you finally came it wasn’t gentle. It ripped through you—sharp, sudden, almost violent. Your cunt clenched hard around your fingers, slick dripping down your wrist, a choked whimper of his name muffled into your palm.

Your body stayed hot. Oversensitive. Breath still ragged.

You lay there staring at the ceiling, aftershocks pulsing faintly, the room heavier, quieter.

Then—

Buzz.

You flinched.

Another buzz.

Heart slamming back into your throat, you rolled over. Screen glowed in the dark.

@KurtsWorld69 followed you back.

You stared. Blinked. Stared again.

No fucking way.

You hadn’t liked. Hadn’t commented. Just… followed.

Pulse roaring, you tapped anyway.

His profile loaded. Same dumb bio. Same try-hard energy.

Except now: Follows you.

Your mouth went dry.

Had he scrolled your page? Seen the unfiltered you—the beach pic with the crooked bikini top, the blurry concert selfie where you’re laughing too hard, the candid where you look soft and real?

Another notification.

A DM.

From him.

You waited three full heartbeats before opening it.

“Hey :)”

Too casual. Probably automated. A funnel script. “Hey cutie, special discount just for you 😉”

You should’ve ignored it.

You didn’t.

You typed. Deleted. Typed again.

You: Hi

Sent.

Typing bubble instantly.

He’d been waiting.

Kurt: oh shit hi Kurt: didn’t think you’d actually reply lol Kurt: you’re real right?? not a bot 😭

You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. Not what you expected.

Kurt: sorry that sounded dumb af Kurt: i just get so many fake accounts Kurt: but your pics are… normal. like actually normal

Normal.

He’d seen them.

Your skin prickled, suddenly hyper-aware he’d looked.

Kurt: anyway Kurt: hi :)

That stupid smiley again.

For a second you considered blocking him. Thumb hovered over the dots.

This was stupid. Humiliating. Dangerous in the pettiest, most pathetic way.

You’d literally come five minutes ago fantasizing about him.

And now he was here. In your DMs. Acting like some awkward guy saying hi.

Shame hit late and hard—crawling up your neck, burning your cheeks in the dark. He didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. But you did.

You could end it. Block. Pretend it never happened.

He’d think you were a bot.

Your thumb dropped.

You typed instead.

You: yeah I’m real You: promise I’m not here to sell you crypto

You cringed at yourself.

Typing bubble popped up immediately.

Kurt: LMAO okay good Kurt: that would be actually tragic 😅 Kurt: imagine getting scammed by my own followers 🥺🥺 #notcool

A pause.

Then:

Kurt: sooooo… Kurt: what made you follow me? 👀

Your stomach twisted—different heat now. Sharper. More exposed.

What the fuck do you even say?

I binged your whole page and came so hard thinking about your cock I forgot how to breathe?

You shifted under the sheets, bare skin sliding against fabric, still slick between your thighs.

Kurt: wait !! don’t ghost pls Kurt: i was just curious 🥺 Kurt: i mean… i’m just asking 😏 nothing weird unless you want it to be weird… then i’m 100% in 😳

Heat flooded your face. He was terrible at this—awkward, over-explaining, spiraling—but god, it was working. Your cunt gave a traitorous throb.

Kurt: be honest… Kurt: you followed cuz you think i’m hot right? Kurt: …don’t you? 😏

Your heart hammered. Shame and want twisted together until they were the same thing.

You: maybe

Instant.

Kurt: oh 😳 Kurt: okay… wow Kurt: that’s… uh… really flattering lol Kurt: and also kinda hot that you just said it 😏

You rolled your eyes, fighting a stupid grin even as your cheeks burned.

You: don’t get used to it

Kurt: lol i won’t…Kurt: unless you want me to 😏

You leaned back against the headboard, thumb hovering, smiling despite yourself.

You: we’ll see.

He didn’t reply right away.

Maybe he was already stroking himself again—thinking about you this time. About the “maybe.” About what your voice would sound like moaning his name instead of just typing it.

You set the phone down, heart still racing, thighs still slick.

Because whatever this was, it definitely wasn’t over.

The silence after “we’ll see” settles like fog—thick, quiet, impossible to ignore.

Thursday is empty. No ping at dawn with some frantic “you still there???” No panicked voice note rambling apologies. No blurry selfie begging “pls don’t hate me”with big puppy eyes and messy hair. You wake up half-expecting it, half-dreading it, and when nothing comes you feel oddly off-balance.

During your mid-morning coffee break you check his profile anyway, telling yourself it’s just curiosity. Follower count now 9,312. A pinned post from yesterday teases:

hey kurties ! late night live in 20 👀 come say hi 😎✌️

You close the app fast, cheeks burning with how ridiculous you feel. He’s a cam guy. Thousands watch him every week. You’re just some random who stumbled into his orbit.

You spend the rest of the day telling yourself to block him. Delete the chat. Go back to normal life—spreadsheets, endless traffic, burnt office coffee. But you don’t unfollow him on Twitter. You just leave it. Like a door you’re not ready to slam shut.

Friday afternoon, 3:58 p.m., he finally breaks through.

Kurt: hey …  🥺 Kurt: didn’t wanna doubletext like a desperate loser but i’ve been staring at our chat since that night Kurt: “we’ll see” is officially haunting me LOL Kurt: sorry if that’s pathetic :/

You’re home now, kicking off your heels in the entryway, still in the wrinkled pencil skirt and blouse that smell faintly of toner and stale meetings. The message lands low and warm, like fingertips brushing the back of your neck. You change into soft shorts and a tank top, buy yourself time by staring into the fridge like it holds the answers, then reply anyway.

You: Hey You: Not pathetic

Kurt: FR ??!  😳 Kurt: okay okay that just Kurt: made my whole day hehe Kurt: did a live last night actually 😎 Kurt: peaked at like 1,180 viewers Kurt: some girl tipped big for a custom but i kept restarting bc my head was elsewhere 😭

You huff a quiet laugh into the empty kitchen. You saw the teaser post. He knows you’re still following even though you didn’t reply all day, didn’t engage, didn’t tip, didn’t do anything. Still here. Still watching from the sidelines.

The chat drifts for a long while—easy, almost normal.

You complain about the 405 traffic that made you twenty minutes late and the coworker who “forgets” to mute every single call. He sends a blurry photo of one of his dogs on the floor by his gaming chair, tongue lolling out like he’s judging the whole situation:

professional distraction,, he thinks the whole apartment is his throne !! 😡😡

You reply laughing and a picture of your half-dead succulent on the windowsill:

Tired as fuck zzzz

He asks what kind of music you’ve been replaying lately; you mention that one indie playlist that’s been on loop. He sends back three voice notes—his voice softer than in his videos, hesitant and stumbling over his words, a little raspy as he laughs at himself and admits he tried to film earlier but couldn’t focus on anything except your messages. You send a short one back, teasing him gently. He floods the chat with heart-eyes and:

your voice is literally perfect WTF i’m smiling like an idiot now LOL 🥲

It’s comfortable. Too comfortable.

Saturday night, 9:42 p.m., you’re already in bed scrolling when he shifts the tone.

Kurt: can i like be honest for a sec Kurt: you don’t have to answer if it’s weird 🥺

You: Go ahead

Kurt: i keep wondering what you look like when you’re  .. Kurt: alone ?? Kurt: like thinking about me Kurt: maybe like Kurt: touching yourself Kurt: that’s creepy right Kurt: i’m SORRY 😭😭

You set the phone face-down on the nightstand. Walk to the bathroom, splash cold water on your face, stare at your reflection in the mirror. This is insane. He comes on camera for strangers every week. Thousands watch, tip, beg for more. You barely know him. What if he’s recording this? What if tomorrow he posts a screenshot somewhere? What if you regret every single second? Your pulse is already racing, heat pooling low despite every warning light in your head. You come back to bed, hesitate a full minute, thumbs hovering.

You: It’s not creepy You: I do think about you

Kurt: fuck Kurt: okay thats Kurt: wow Kurt: i’m getting hard just from you saying that Kurt: is that too much ??

You hesitate again—thumb frozen over the keyboard. Part of you wants to type “yes, too much, goodnight.” The other part is already soaked, thighs pressing together under the covers, imagining him right now in that dim room.

You: No You: Show me

The photo loads almost instantly. Dim bedroom light, hoodie shoved up to his chest. Slim, soft torso—no cut abs, just pale skin with a faint happy trail of dark hair trailing down from his navel. Scattered moles dot his chest and stomach like tiny perfect beauty marks, the kind that look almost deliberate, warm and human under the lamp glow. Boxers pushed low, hand wrapped tight around a thick, flushed cock curving upward—tip glistening and dripping pre-cum. He’s clearly been stroking for a while; the head is dark, slick, flushed deep.

Kurt: fuck Kurt: thats what you did to me Kurt: just from you saying you think about me … Kurt: i’m shaking rn Kurt: your turn?? Kurt: pls? Kurt: only if you want Kurt: no pressure I SWEAR 🥺

You stare at the photo longer than you should. Heat floods your belly, insistent and undeniable. Your clit throbs even before you touch. You stand, tug your shorts and panties down just enough—dark wet spot already soaking through the fabric, clinging to your swollen folds, a visible damp patch spreading. No face. Just the evidence. Send.

Kurt: OH MY GOD Kurt: you’re fucking soaked Kurt: that wet spot Kurt: shit Kurt: i can see how puffy your lips are through the fabric Kurt: i’m literally shaking harder now

You sit on the edge of the bed, heart hammering. Your hand slips between your legs over the fabric, slow hesitant circles over your clit through the cotton. You’re dripping already, slick seeping through. The hesitation is still there—loud, screaming—but your body doesn’t care.

You: Tell me what you would do if you were here with me right now

His typing bubble appears, disappears, appears again. Then the messages start flooding in, frantic and explicit.

Kurt: fuuuckk Kurt: ookay Kurt: my hand is shaking so bad i can barely type Kurt: i’d walk in and kiss your neck first Kurt: then drop to my knees Kurt: spread your thighs wide Kurt: drag my tongue over your panties first Kurt: just to taste how soaked you are for me Kurt: pull them aside Kurt: bury my face Kurt: lick slow circles around your clit suck it into my mouth Kurt: push two fingers inside you, curl them while i keep eating you out Kurt: make you come on my tongue Kurt: i’ve never done this irl so i’d probably be messy AF Kurt: but i’d try so fucking hard to make you feel good

You: You wouldn’t be messy You: Keep going

You push your panties aside completely now—two fingers sliding deep into your dripping cunt, curling, pumping slow while your thumb grinds tight circles on your swollen clit. Breath coming faster.

Kurt: o ok Kurt: okay Kurt: then i’d stand up Kurt: rub my cock against your clit Kurt: teasing Kurt: push in slow inch by inch watching your lips stretch around me Kurt: yk i’m a virgin LOL Kurt: i know that’s kinda pathetic, no one ever wanted me irl Kurt: but you do, right?

You: Yes

Kurt: fuck Kurt: okay Kurt: i’d go slow at first Kurt: then once i’m all the way inside i’d lose it Kurt: fuck you deep and messy and hard Kurt: probably come embarrassingly fast the first time Kurt: but i’d stay hard for you, keep going Kurt: i want to be good for you Kurt: fill you up Kurt: watch it drip down your thighs Kurt: breed you so deep you feel me for hours Kurt: idk why that part gets me so fucking hard

The confession hits like gasoline on fire. You add a third finger, stretching yourself, pumping faster, thumb frantic on your clit. The room feels too hot, too small.

You: I’m so close already

Kurt: fuck yes Kurt: me too Kurt: stroking faster now Kurt: picturing your pussy clenching around my fingers Kurt: or my tongue Kurt: or my cock Kurt: i’m Kurt: shit

You shatter hard—back arching off the mattress, thighs trembling violently, a choked “Kurt—” breaking into the dark room before you clamp your hand over your mouth. Slick gushes over your fingers, soaking your hand and the sheets beneath you.

His messages flood in seconds later, messy and frantic.

Kurt: coming Kurt: fuck Kurt: so much

A photo loads; thick ropes of cum streaked across his soft stomach, caught in the happy trail and those scattered perfect moles like little stars, pooling in the dip of his navel. His cock still twitching in his loose grip, last bead dripping from the slit. Chest flushed.

Kurt: … holy shit Kurt: i’m actually shaking 😭 Kurt: came so hard i think i blacked out for a second LOL Kurt: that was insane  .. Kurt: but idk i don’t wanna keep doing this over text Kurt: we’re both in LA right?? Kurt: i could drive over tomorrow night after you get off work Kurt: protection or not i don’t care ATP 😅 Kurt: i just need to feel you for real Kurt: no recording stuff ofc !! Kurt: i’ll be SO good i swear Kurt: PLEASE say yes 🥺

You lie there panting, thighs sticky and trembling, heart hammering against your ribs. Every rational thought screams no—this is a stranger, a cam guy with thousands of fans, what if he’s not who he seems, what if it’s awkward or worse, what if you regret opening this door you can’t close? But your body is still pulsing, clenching around nothing, and the image of him showing up at your door—nervous, inexperienced, desperate and real—makes you clench again.

You stare at the ceiling for a long minute, phone heavy in your hand. Then your thumbs move before the doubt can win.

You: Yes You: Tomorrow night. My place. Around 11. You: I’ll send you the address You: Don’t overthink it. Just show up.

Kurt: fuck Kurt: yes Kurt: i’ll be there Kurt: thank you thank you thank you !!!!!!! 😭 Kurt: i can’t believe this is actually happening

You set the phone down in the dark, city lights flickering through the blinds outside. Tomorrow. No more screens. Just him—awkward, needy, painfully real despite everything.

And no matter how many times you tell yourself this is crazy, you’re already counting the hours.

The apartment feels too quiet in the hour before 11:00 p.m.

You’ve spent the day channeling anxiety into motion: scrubbing counters that were already spotless, remaking the bed with fresh sheets that still carry the sharp, clean bite of detergent. In front of the mirror you stood far too long, holding up jeans, then a tighter top, then leggings—each option feeling wrong in its own particular way: too deliberate, too casual, too obvious, not obvious enough. In the end you pulled the black cotton sundress from the back of the closet. Sleeveless. Thin straps. Hem skimming just above mid-thigh. Loose enough to pretend this was casual, light enough that the fabric would slide up easily if things went that way. Nothing desperate. Nothing calculated. You were lying to yourself the whole time.

You almost texted him to cancel. Draft after draft: actually maybe not tonight, headache, long day. Every time your thumb hovered over send, you remembered last night—his cracked “thank you” like you’d handed him something fragile and rare; the photos he sent; the way you’d come whispering his name into an empty room like a secret you weren’t supposed to keep.

You didn’t cancel.

At 11:01 p.m. three soft knocks—careful, almost scared, like he’s afraid of waking someone who isn’t even asleep.

Through the peephole: Kurt, green hoodie zipped to his chin, hair falling messily into his eyes, shifting from foot to foot. A small paper bag dangles from his white-knuckled grip.

You open the door.

And there he is.

The guy you found by pure accident on Twitter—@KurtsWorld69, the one with the ridiculous username. Real. Not a clip. Not a thumbnail you tapped out of curiosity. Him.

Your stomach flips, a quick, dizzy rush of disbelief. A soft, almost amused laugh slips out—more exhale than anything. “Can't believe this is happening.” You mouthed.

He freezes. Eyes widen behind the fringe. Mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“Hey…” The word cracks. He clears his throat, tries again softer, grin too big. “Hi. Fuck. You look… insanely good. Yeah. Hi. Sorry, I’m already short-circuiting.”

You step aside. “Come in before the neighbors think I’m harboring a fugitive.”

He huffs a small, relieved laugh—real this time—and slips inside. Door clicks shut. Outdoor light dies. Just the warm amber glow from the living-room lamp now, soft and forgiving, turning the edges of everything golden.

He stops two steps inside, clutching the bag like armor. Eyes flick everywhere: couch, windows, the faint mix of your perfume and yesterday’s takeout. He looks ready to bolt, then squares his shoulders, summoning the same bright energy he uses on camera.

“Brought… stuff,” he says, lifting the bag a fraction. “Condoms—obviously. Waters. And gummy bears. I panicked at the store trying to guess what you’d actually want after… y’know. Or during. Fuck, saying it out loud sounds so dumb. Sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous. Like right now. Hi again.”

You lean back against the door, arms loosely crossed. “You okay?”

He nods too quickly. “Yeah. Totally.” He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks pink. “Okay, maybe freaking out a little. In a good way. Thousands watch me jerk off on stream every week, but this? This is you. In your apartment. With gummy bears. I’m… stupid happy I’m here.” He swallows, voice dropping lower. “Also… been hard since I left my place. Like, painfully. Had to sit in the car reciting license plates just to calm down enough to walk up here.”

You study him. Taller than the camera angles ever made him look, but still slim—lean shoulders, soft middle you already know by heart. His hands—surprisingly large—flex nervously at his sides. The nervous buzz rolling off him is electric, but underneath it that familiar extroverted spark flickers.

You push off the door and close the distance slowly. He doesn’t step back. Just watches, dark eyes tracking every step.

When you’re close enough to catch the faint woodsy bite of his cheap cologne, you reach up and ease his zipper down a few inches. His breath hitches.

You can feel it already—the unmistakable hard line of him pressed against your thigh through the denim, straining, insistent. You’ve known since the moment he stepped inside; the way he’s been shifting, the faint flush creeping up his neck, the way his eyes keep darting down to your mouth and then away like he’s trying not to stare. He’s not subtle. He’s never been subtle.

“So... you've been hard since you left your place, am I right?” you say, voice low, teasing. Inside, doubt spins quietly: stranger, bad idea, what if he ghosts, what if tomorrow feels empty? Your body ignores all of it, already warm and tightening, pulse heavy between your legs.

His eyes snap to yours, wide and glassy. A choked sound escapes him—half laugh, half whimper. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice wrecked already. “Fuck yeah. Since I locked my door. Since I got in the car. Kept having to adjust myself like some desperate teenager. I’m… sorry? I mean—not sorry. Just—yeah. You do that to me.”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple jumping, cheeks burning brighter under the lamp glow.

You let your hand linger a moment longer, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, the faint twitch when your fingers curl just slightly. Then you slide both palms under his hoodie instead, pressing flat against the warm, trembling skin of his stomach.

“Good,” you say quietly, thumb brushing the soft line of hair trailing down from his navel. “I like knowing.”

His whole body shudders at the words. Eyes flutter half-closed.

You kiss him first—slow, careful, testing.

He melts into it with a helpless little noise, kissing back messy and hungry at first—too eager, a little sloppy—then softer, like he’s terrified of ruining it. His big hands find your waist, fingers curling, pulling you flush until there’s no space left between you, until you can feel every inch of how badly he’s been aching for this.

Foreheads resting together. Breathing ragged.

“Bedroom?” you ask.

He nods fast. “Yeah. Lead the way.”

You turn. He follows—stumbles once on the edge of the rug in the hall, catches himself with a quiet “shit—” and you both huff soft laughs under your breath like teenagers sneaking around.

Bedroom door open. Lamp low. Gold light pooling across the sheets. You push him gently until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. He drops to sit, knees spread, looking up at you with those huge honey eyes—pupils blown, lips parted, cheeks blotchy red.

“Can I see you?” Voice cracks on the last word. “The dress… please? No pressure. I just… you’re so beautiful.”

Doubt flickers—quick and bright—but you step back and pull the black dress over your head in one smooth motion. No bra. Just the black cotton panties already clinging damp between your thighs. His gaze drops, pupils blowing wide.

“Fuck…” Almost reverent. “You’re… holy shit. Perfect. Actually perfect. Can I touch? Please?”

You nod.

His hands come up—shaking at first—cup your breasts gently, thumbs brushing over nipples that pebble instantly. He exhales like he’s been punched. “So soft… so warm… fuck, your skin…”

You climb into his lap, straddle him, roll down once against the bulge in his jeans. He groans deep, head tipping back, hands flying to your hips.

“Off,” you murmur, tugging his hoodie.

He yanks it over his head in one frantic motion—hair staticky, wild. Bare chest now: lean but soft in the middle, moles like stars, happy trail dark and inviting. You drag your nails lightly down his sternum; he shivers hard, goosebumps rising.

You tug at his belt loops. “Jeans.”

He fumbles—buttons, zipper, shoves denim and boxers down in a rush. Cock springs free—heavy, flushed dark, tip slick and leaking steadily. Thicker than the pics. Harder.

He’s trembling just from being exposed. “Shit… look how hard I am. All for you. Been like this since I left home.”

You shimmy out of your panties. He stares, chest rising and falling fast.

You wrap your hand around him—firm, slow stroke. He jerks up into your grip with a choked “oh fuck—your hand—so much better than mine—”

You chuckle softly. “First time anyone’s touched you like this, huh?”

He nods frantically. “Yeah. Never… fuck. Feels… unreal.”

You guide him to your entrance, sink down slow. The stretch is exquisite—thick, hot, filling you inch by inch until he’s seated fully inside. Your inner walls flutter around him instinctively, adjusting to the fullness, the heat radiating from him. He’s trembling beneath you, every muscle locked tight.

“Breathe,” you whisper.

He tries. A shaky laugh escapes. “If you move I’m gonna lose it so fast. Swear. You feel too good.”

You start small—tiny rolls of your hips, grinding in slow circles so your clit drags against the coarse hair at his base. Pleasure sparks low in your belly with every motion, building in lazy waves. He groans low, hands gripping your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks.

“Yeah… fuck, roll like that. Just like that. Don’t stop. Feels perfect.”

You lift and drop once—harder this time. The sudden depth makes you gasp, a sharp bloom of sensation spreading through your core. He bucks up on instinct, chasing the feeling, and the friction sends another jolt straight to your clit.

From there it’s rhythm: steady at first, then faster, grinding down so every stroke rubs you exactly right. His hands roam—waist, hips, breasts—holding on like you might vanish. He doesn’t talk much now—just short, desperate sounds: “fuck,” “so good,” swallowed moans when you clench around him deliberately, testing how it makes him twitch inside you.

“So good,” he pants. “Better than anything. Fuck—I’m—” He stills you suddenly, hands gentle on your hips. Panting against your throat. “Wait—want you to come first. Can I taste you? Please? Need to make you feel good. Really need it.”

You nod, pulse racing.

He flips you carefully—settles between your thighs, spreads you open slow, reverent. “So pretty… so wet… all for me? Fuck, that’s hot. Tell me if I mess up, okay?”

Broad lick up your folds. The first contact is electric—warm, wet tongue dragging slow and deliberate. Then focused—soft sucks, tongue circling your clit in tight, patient loops. You thread fingers through his hair; he moans into you, the vibration traveling straight through your core. Pleasure coils tighter, building in slow, insistent pulses.

“Like that? Tell me… fuck, you taste so sweet… driving me crazy…”

“Circles,” you gasp. “Slower.”

He obeys instantly. “Like this? God—tell me if it’s good… wanna be perfect for you.” Two fingers slide in—curl slow, searching, pressing against that sensitive spot inside until your hips lift off the mattress. “Tight… wet… fuck, am I okay? Please tell me.”

“Good,” you breathe, voice shaky. The combination is overwhelming: his tongue flicking steady, fingers stroking in perfect rhythm, the soft, needy sounds he makes against your skin. Heat surges, coiling low and tight until it snaps—your thighs clamp around his head, back arching, his name spilling out in a broken cry as waves crash through you, sharp and consuming.

He pulls back slow, chin glistening, grinning wide and dazed. “You okay? Fuck… you came so hard. Felt it. So hot.”

“Yeah,” you pant, chest heaving. “Really good.”

He crawls up, kisses you deep—lets you taste yourself on his tongue, salty-sweet and intimate. “Inside again? Please? Need to feel you. Need it bad.”

You pull him close. He settles on top of you, weight comforting, grounding. He pushes in carefully, groaning the whole way down. “So tight. Warm. Perfect.”

He bottoms out and stays still, trembling, forehead pressed to yours. “Can I move? Please?”

You nod.

Slow thrusts first—deep, careful, savoring every slide. Words spill between breaths: “Feels so good… love how you squeeze… tight… perfect… don’t stop… gonna lose it… so fucking good…”

You whisper “Good boy” once.

He shudders hard. “Fuck—say it again? Please? Makes me… yeah.”

“You’re such a good boy, Kurt…” The words come between soft whines as he hits deeper, the praise making him thrust harder, more desperate.

Pace builds. Then he snaps—harder, deeper, hips snapping with raw need. “Gonna come,” he rasps. “Inside—can I—please? Wanna fill you… need to… please say yes.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Pill.”

He buries himself deep—comes with a long broken moan, hot pulses flooding inside you. The sensation tips you again—clenching hard around him, gasping as another orgasm ripples through, softer this time but no less intense, your body milking every last tremor from him.

You collapse together—sweaty, shaking, hearts slamming against each other.

He stays inside a minute longer, kissing your shoulder, collarbone—soft, open-mouthed. “You okay? Was I… too much? Too fast? I talk too much, I know—”

You lace fingers with his. “You were perfect.”

He exhales, shaky relief. “Really?”

“Really.”

You feel him smile against your skin. He pulls out gentle, grabs a warm cloth from the bathroom, cleans you both—careful, tender, almost worshipful.

Climbs back under the covers, curls around you—face in your neck, arm across your waist, leg slung over yours.

You hum, tracing lazy patterns on his back. His breathing evens out slowly. You card fingers through his damp hair. “Stay tonight. Sleep here.”

He stills. Lifts head just enough—eyes searching, vulnerable. “You sure? Like… really sure?”

“Yeah. Want you to.”

Something soft and wrecked flickers across his face. “Thank you… Fuck… thank you. For this.”

Quiet stretches—warm, easy. His breathing slows, body heavy against yours.

Then, sleepy murmur: “Hey… random thing.” Thumb brushes your hip under the blanket. “What if… sometime… we recorded something? Just us. You’d be totally anonymous—no face, no voice, nothing. Could be hot. Fun. No pressure. Just… putting it out there.”

You stare at the ceiling a beat. His heart thumps steady against your side.

“We’ll see,” you say softly.

He laughs quiet against your throat—happy, sleepy. “There it is again. ‘We’ll see.’ Those are my favorite words now… for real!”

You turn your head, meet his eyes. “Maybe,” you murmur. “We’ll see.”

He chuckles—low, warm—pulls you closer. “That’s enough for me. For now. But, seriously, like… You would totally get so much clout! I mean, you’re so pretty and I’m sure my followers would love to… know you? I mean, like your sexy-anonymous-internet sona, or whatever.. so there’s this—”

He starts rambling again, words tumbling out in that familiar, nervous rush. You simply listen, letting the sound wash over you without paying close attention. Something in your chest feels warm, at ease, comfortable—quietly surprised by how right it all feels in this moment.

The lamp glows. City hums outside.

Night stretches—warm, quiet, open-ended.

author's note: I hope you enjoyed my fic ! If so, reblog, comment or share please 🫶🏻 it motivates me to write more !

[djoguts]

.ᐟ.ᐟ let's collab | kurt kunkle

gif creds go to chariotgifs

pairing: kurt kunkle x camgirl!reader summary: a chance Spree ride turns steamy when you recognize your driver as your top donor, KurtsWorld96. Kurt eagerly seeks streaming tips from his favorite camgirl. Flirty banter escalates into a live-streamed backseat collab, proving some lessons are best learned hands-on. wc: 4.1k tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fem!reader, camgirl!reader, pre #thelesson, car sex, public sec, voyeurism, exhibitionism, praise kink, virgin!kurt (implied), oral sex, AFAB reader, vaginal sex, consensual sex, light dom/sub, aftercare (implied) author's note: HEY HEY HI !! thank you so much for all the support ,,,, I’m literally FREAKING OUT 😭😭 also… thank you so much for the +100 followers lol, I really wasn’t expecting any of this at all ! this oneshot was written thanks to a suggestion from my inbox :3 !! enjoy! ao3

The bass from the club is still thumping somewhere behind you when you step out onto the sidewalk, phone held up in one hand like it weighs nothing. The night air feels cool against your bare thighs, thick with that electric LA promise that anything can happen after midnight. Your tight black leather skirt rides up every time you shift your weight; the cute little cropped top you threw on earlier clings soft and easy, one thin strap already slipping off your shoulder on purpose. City lights glow behind you, neon bleeding into the dark, and your Instagram Live is already popping off exactly like you knew it would. The viewer count ticks up steadily: 1.4k, 1.7k, climbing fast.

“Hey babes,” you say, voice soft and playful, lips curved in the smile that always works. “Stuck waiting for my Spree ride after the longest night. Club was cute, but I’m so over it. Ready to get home and slip into that new lace set you all voted on —the one that barely covers anything. Might even start the full show early if the vibes feel right tonight. What do you think, chat? Should I give you a sneak peek right here on the sidewalk?”

Comments roll in fast, hearts floating up the screen like little fireworks.

@lacefreak298: YES QUEEN START IT NOW I’M BEGGING 😩💦 @tipking420: already subbed twice don’t tease us... @yourgoodboy69: that set is lethal omg @camwhoreluvr: your legs in that skirt tho 🥵 @s817paypig: finger yourself in the car @thirstyforcontent: just start the show already with the driver lmaooo

You laugh under your breath, reading the last one aloud so the mic catches it. “Y’all are wild tonight. Driver’s just some normal dude—I can tell from the profile pic in the app. Be patient for the real thing, okay? I’m not teasing that much… yet.” You don’t end the Live. The red dot stays glowing steady in the corner. You keep the phone up casually, half your attention on the street, half on the chat.

Headlights cut through the haze, sweeping across the sidewalk in a smooth arc. A silver Toyota Camry pulls up quiet and unassuming, the Spree sticker glowing soft on the windshield. You open the back door, slide in, leather skirt creaking against the seat, and shut it with your hip. The phone stays raised—chat still going, viewers none the wiser that the ride just got a whole lot more interesting. You clock it immediately—the array of cameras rigged up inside. One GoPro-style cam mounted on the dash facing the driver, another clipped to the rearview mirror for that wide passenger view, a third on the headliner pointing straight back at the seats, and his mobile phone secured in its car phone mount. Multiple red recording lights blinking in sync, all feeding into his setup.

Up front, the driver is already mid-rant, phone mounted on the dash, camera light glowing red. His voice fills the car, bright and manic, cutting through the low hum of the engine.

“—and Bobby, dude, come on. The algorithm loves consistency, okay? That’s why KurtsWorld96 is still grinding even when the views dip. We’re building an empire here—”

A robotic voice crackles through the car speakers:

BOBBYBASECAMP DONATED 1$: YOUR VLOGS ARE MID AF

Kurt laughs, bright, try-hard laugh, drumming his fingers on the wheel as he pulls away from the curb. Blue t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, the fabric pulling taut over his chest, sunglasses perched on his nose even though it’s pitch black out —because of course he thinks it looks cool. Messy brown hair falling into his eyes, a little damp. You stare at the back of his head as the car glides forward, stomach doing a sudden slow flip. KurtsWorld96. That exact handle. The one that’s been your top donor for months—the ghost in your chats who drops three hundred dollars without a second thought, who always types “you’re unreal, keep doing you queen” right before the big tips flood in. Same spelling, same numbers. No coincidences here. Of course he uses it everywhere, even on the adult sites.

You stay quiet at first, settling deeper into the seat, eyes locked on him through the rearview. He’s not model-hot, but there’s something about the way he fidgets, the nervous energy rolling off him in waves. Total dork. The kind who probably practices lines in the mirror. And for some reason that makes heat curl low in your belly.

Kurt chuckles nervously. “Bobby! That’s so mean! People are starting to notice. I can feel it. Smash follow if you’re not a hater like Bobby! Hastag ‘haters gonna hate’.” He made a peace sign with his fingers toward his nearest camera.

That robotic voice cuts in again:

BOBBYBASECAMP DONATED 1$: DUDE I’M OUT TS BORING

Kurt groans, shoulders slumping dramatically as he glances at his cellphone. “Awesome. Zero viewers. But hey, chat—wherever you are—we’re rolling through the city that never sleeps. Who’s out there with me? Drop a like if you’re grinding too...”

He finally glances in the rear-view mirror to check on his passenger. His eyes meet yours.

And freeze.

The car drifts half a lane for a split second before he yanks it back, cheeks flushing a deep, telling red. “Holy—wait. You’re… you’re her. Like, the cam girl. The one with the—shit. Hi. Wow. This is… I mean, small world, right? Like, tiny world.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. He looks like he’s just won the lottery and seen a ghost in the same breath. His sunglasses slip down his nose, revealing wide, honey-brown eyes. “Yeah. Small world. Hello KurtsWorld96”

His grip on the wheel tightens, knuckles pale. “Oh god. You actually know the username. Please tell me you don’t remember the tips or the comments or—fuck, I sound like a total creep. I’m not. I swear on my life. I just… your streams are actually good. Like, you’re funny and hot and you don’t fake a single thing. It’s refreshing as hell. I’m a huge fan. Huge. Not in a weird way. Totally normal, respectful fan. Like, I’ve been subbed forever.”

You laugh softly, the sound genuine and warm, leaning back against the seat as the light turns green and the car eases forward again. “Relax. I remember the tips. They were generous. Saved my electric bill last month. Didn’t expect my top donor to be driving me home.”

You tilt your phone just enough to glance at the flood of comments scrolling across your Live.

@softdom555: THERE’S NO FUCKING WAY @youronlyfan: he’s living my dream… @lacefreak: W @tipking420: KURTSWORLD96 KYS I GAVE BIGGER TIPS @paypig69: LMAAAOOOOOOOOOO

He lets out a shaky breath, trying to play it cool and failing spectacularly. “Yeah, well… same handle everywhere. Rookie mistake, I know. But hey, I’m all for it. Women owning their bodies, doing their thing—no judgment here. I’m a feminist, actually. Like, full-on support. You’re out here pioneering, and I respect the hell out of that. For real.”

The line lands so earnestly cringey you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. He means it, though. That’s the weird part. It’s sweet in its own awkward way.

The car rolls to a stop at a red light. He risks another glance back, his eyes flicking over you in the mirror—the way your leather skirt has ridden up just a little higher on your thighs from the seat, the cropped top slipping further off your shoulder, your hair still tousled from the club’s heat. His gaze lingers, hungry but shy. His Adam’s apple bobs.

“So… how do you do it?” he asks, voice quieter now as the light flips green and he accelerates smoothly. “The followers, the tips, the whole thing. My vlogs and streams are dead. I talk, I joke, I show the city… nothing. You make it look easy… What’s the secret?”

You shrug, keeping your tone light, normal, the same voice you use with chat. “It’s not easy, trust me. Late nights, creeps, the algorithm’s a bitch. But people stick around when it feels real. When there’s something raw they can’t get anywhere else. Connection, you know? Instead of just talking at the camera, make them feel like they’re right there with you. Film yourself in the moment. Or with someone.”

The double meaning hangs in the air between you. You watch his ears turn pinker. The car turns onto a broader avenue, the route now detouring slightly from the straight shot to your place—maybe he’s buying time, or maybe the universe is just aligning.

Kurt’s laugh is breathless this time. “Like… adult stuff? I’ve thought about it. Once or twice. Never pulled the trigger because, I don’t know, nerves? But yeah… with the right person? Could be insane. Fun. Real.” He tries for a smirk in the mirror, but it wobbles, vulnerable. “I mean, if someone like you gave the green light, I’d be down. Hypothetically. Totally hypothetically. But for real, any tips? Like, actual advice from the pro?”

You lean forward a fraction, elbows on the console between the seats, your phone angled to capture more of him. “Hypothetically, huh?” you tease, voice dropping just a touch. “Tips: Stop overthinking the vlogs. People want the mess. The real you. Or… show what you’re actually good at when the camera’s rolling. Vulnerability sells. And chemistry? That’s gold.”

He nods frantically, the car slowing as he merges onto a side street. “Chemistry. Right. Yeah, I get that. Like, I’ve watched your stuff for months—your laughs, the way you interact with chat—it’s addictive. You make everyone feel seen. I try that, but it’s like… I’m just yelling into the void.” He pauses, glancing back again as the car rolls to a stop at a four-way, the engine idling soft. “God, this is surreal. You’re in my car. Talking to me. About this. I’ve jerked—fuck I’ve watched your streams more times than I can count. But like… what’s it like for you? The attention? Does it ever get overwhelming? Or do you love the attention?”

The conversation flows easier now, the tension building like a slow burn. He opens up, confessing how he dreams of going viral but always falls short. The car winds through quieter neighborhoods now, car passing sleeping bungalows and the occasional late-night dog walker. Headlights from oncoming cars sweep across the interior, illuminating the array of cams—the dash one capturing his flushed face, the rearview one framing you in the back, all of it feeding live to his dead channel.

“You know,” he says after a beat, voice softer, “I’ve always wondered what it’d be like to collab. Not just donate? Actually be in it you know. With someone who gets the game. You make it look so… fun.”

Your eyes meet his in the mirror, heat pooling between you. The chat on your phone is a storm now.

@thirstyforcontent: THEY’RE FLIRTING SO HARD @yourgoodboy: pull over already PLEASE @camwhoreconfessions: this is better than porn omg @sub4life: $200 tip if he gets fucked in the car😉

The car is getting warmer now, windows starting to fog at the edges even though the AC is on. Your pulse picks up. He’s trying so hard to act chill, but the mask keeps slipping, and you like it. Like how eager he looks under the nerves. You bite your lip, decision made. The energy is too thick, too perfect to waste on the rest of the drive.

You lean into the frame, voice clear and commanding for your Live. “Hey everyone… big change of plans. Tonight’s full show isn’t happening at my place after all.” You tilt the phone to give them a full shot of his profile in the mirror. “Say hi to KurtsWorld96. The show’s moving to his channel tonight. Right now. Just search KurtsWorld96. You won’t want to miss a second of this. See you there in five.”

The chat explodes. Hearts. Fire emojis. All-caps screaming.

You lock your phone screen immediately, ending the Live with a quick tap. The red dot vanishes. “There. All yours now.”

Kurt’s eyes are huge in the rearview, his own dashboard stream lighting up with the flood of new viewers who clicked over from your announcement. “You just… announced it? For real? Holy shit, the views are already at 500 and climbing.”

You meet his gaze, steady and warm, a slow smile spreading. “Yeah. Figured you wanted the boost. And I wanted… this.”

The silence stretches half a second before he exhales a laugh—half disbelieving, half thrilled. “Okay. Okay. Cool. I mean—not cool, this is the most insane, best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve never… in a carr—fuck. Okay.”

You reach forward, fingers brushing shirt along the collar. “Pull over somewhere quiet.” He doesn’t ask questions. Just nods.

The car turns down the next side street. He kills the engine with a decisive twist of the key. City hum distant now, just the faint tick of cooling metal and the soft whir of the cams still rolling. Thousands are already tuned in.

He doesn’t wait. He climbs over the console into the backseat with you, both of you laughing breathlessly when his knee bumps the gear shift.

“Cars are not specially built for this. But we’ll make it work.” You murmur. He tossed his sunglasses without caring much where they landed.

“Tell me about it,” he mutters against your neck, his voice already wrecked as he follows your lead. His hands find your waist immediately—gentle but hungry, sliding up your bare thighs under the leather skirt, pushing the hem higher like he’s memorizing every inch. You straddle his lap fully until you both shimmy deeper into the cramped backseat. The cams are capturing every shift—the way your thighs spread over his, the leather seats creaking under you.

He’s already hard, pressing insistently against you through his jeans, hips twitching with barely contained need. “Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to rest against yours, breath hot and shaky. “You’re really here. On top of me. In my car. This is… you’re so fucking pretty. Like, unreal. I’ve watched you for months—every stream, every private—and you’re even better in person.” He groans, hands trembling as they shove your cropped top up and over your head, tossing it somewhere into the footwell. His palms cup your breasts immediately, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble tight under his touch. “These are—holy shit. Even better than the streams. So soft. Can I taste? Please? I’ve thought about this so much, dreamed about it—your tits in my mouth, you moaning my name.”

You nod, arching into him, one hand tangling in his messy hair. He ducks his head, shirt riding up his back as he mouths at your chest open-mouthed kisses, tongue swirling lazy circles around one nipple before sucking it between his lips. Gentle bites follow, just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips grind down harder. Every few seconds he pulls back, eyes wide and glassy, checking your face like he needs the green light. “Like that? Is that good? I’ve never done this for real, but I watched all your videos and practiced on my hand and—fuck, you taste so good.”

“Kurt,” you laugh softly, tugging him back down by the roots of his hair, your voice husky. “Stop thinking so hard. Just feel. You’re already making me so wet I can feel it soaking through.”

He listens. His hand slides between your legs, pushing the leather skirt up to your waist, fingers tracing the soaked edge of your thong. When he feels the heat, the slickness, he whimpers outright, a broken, needy sound that goes straight to your core. “You’re soaked. For me? Holy fuck. I did that?”

“All you,” you confirm, voice thick as you reach down and palm him through his jeans. He’s thick, straining hard, the denim damp at the front where he’s leaking. You grab the hem of his shirt, yanking it up and over his head. It joins your top in the footwell. His chest rising and falling fast, a light dusting of dark chest hair across his pecs that trails down in a delicious happy trail, disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. His skin is warm, a little flushed. You run your hands over him, fingers threading through the hair on his chest, nails grazing his nipples. “Fuck, you look good like this. I love it.”

His cheeks burn deeper, but he grins, shaky and proud. “Yeah? You do? I was self-conscious about it, but if you like—” He doesn’t finish, too busy shoving his jeans and boxers down his thighs just enough to free his cock. It springs up heavy and flushed, curving up toward his belly.

You wrap your fingers around him, stroking once—slow, firm, thumb circling the slick head and spreading the wetness. His head falls back against the seat with a thud, eyes squeezing shut. “Oh my god. Your hand—fuck, that’s… way better than anything. Don’t stop—please. You feel so good I might actually cry. Or come. Or both.”

You keep the pace teasing, watching his face in the soft glow of the dashboard. The stream is blowing up—tip notifications pinging nonstop, viewer counts in the thousands now. You rise up on your knees, the leather skirt bunched at your hips, and push your thong to the side. Guiding him to your entrance, the first slow sink down has you both moaning loud—the stretch burning sweet and deep, his thickness filling you inch by inch until your ass meets his thighs.

“Jesus Christ,” he pants, hands flying to your hips, fingers digging in like anchors. “You’re so wet. So fucking tight. Feels… unreal. Like I’m gonna lose it in two seconds if you move even a little. Am I… am I okay? Does it feel good? Tell me, please—I need to hear it.”

You stay still for a torturous second, letting him feel you clench around him on purpose, your inner walls fluttering and squeezing just to draw out that wrecked groan from his throat. The cams catch it all: the way your tits bounce slightly with the shift, his cock buried to the hilt, the sheen of sweat already starting on his chest hair. “You’re so good, Kurt. So fucking big. Filling me perfect. Move, baby—slow at first. Let me feel you.”

He nods frantically, hips rolling up in tiny, experimental thrusts that drag the head of his cock right against that spongy spot inside you. The car fills with the filthiest sounds, wet slide of skin on skin, your quiet gasps, his broken little praises spilling out every time you sink down to meet him. “Fuck—yes, like that. You’re incredible. I don’t deserve this. I really, really don’t. Tell me I’m your good boy? Please? I’ve wanted to hear that from you for so long.”

You laugh breathlessly, leaning forward to bite his bottom lip, tugging it between your teeth. “You’re such a good boy, Kurt. So eager. So hard for me. Cock throbbing inside me like you were made for this. It’s so fucking hot.”

The praise wrecks him completely—he groans louder, hips jerking up once, sharp and deep, before he catches himself, trying to stay controlled even though his hands are shaking on your waist, thumbs stroking the soft skin there. You ride him harder now, one hand braced on the headrest behind him, the other tangled in his hair. The happy trail on his stomach brushes your clit with every downstroke. His cock hits that perfect spot over and over, the angle in the cramped backseat making it feel even deeper, dirtier.

“Fuck—right there, yeah? That feel good for you?” he asks, voice cracking with effort, eyes locked on your face like your pleasure is the only thing keeping him grounded. Sweat beads on his forehead, dripping down to mat the hair on his chest. “I want you to come first. Please. Want to feel you squeeze me when you do—clench around my cock like you own it. I’ve dreamed about this—about making you feel even half as good as you make everyone else feel on stream. God, you’re so tight, so wet—listen to how you sound taking me.”

You’re close already, his voice wrapping around you like velvet chains, the way he looks up at you—wide eyes glassy with lust, lips parted and swollen. Your free hand slips between your bodies, rubbing tight, frantic circles on your clit, and you let go—clenching hard around his cock, thighs trembling, a soft, keening moan spilling against his mouth as the orgasm crashes through you in hot, pulsing waves. The cams capture every twitch, every flutter of your pussy, the way your head tips back and your mouth falls open.

He holds you through it, whispering hoarsely against your ear, “That’s it—so good, you’re so fucking good for me, I can feel you—god, you’re squeezing me so perfect.” His hips keep thrusting up slow and deep, drawing out every aftershock until the waves finally ease, leaving you boneless and panting against his chest.

When you finally catch your breath, you kiss him deep—tongue sliding against his, tasting the salt of his sweat. “Your turn, Kurt. Want you to come for me. But not inside—pull out and come on my mouth. Let the chat see how pretty you look when you lose it.” You whisper.

His eyes roll back at the words. You climb off him carefully on shaky legs, knees hitting the cramped footwell between his spread thighs. The position is filthy perfection for the side cam—your flushed face inches from his cock, shiny and slick with your wetness, twitching desperately in the cool air of the car, his chest heaving. You take him in your mouth in one smooth, deep glide, tongue swirling around the sensitive head, tasting the mix of you both—salty-sweet and warm, addictive. One hand strokes what you can’t fit, twisting at the base, the other resting on his thigh, nails digging in just enough.

Kurt’s hands hover like he’s afraid to touch, then thread gently through your hair—not pushing, just holding on for dear life. “Oh my god—your mouth—fuck, you’re actually sucking me. This is the best night of my life. You look so pretty with my cock in your mouth—shit—so deep, so warm—gonna come—can I—please, I’m right there—”

You hum around him, the vibration shooting through his length, taking him deeper until he bumps the back of your throat. Eyes flicking up to meet his, then glancing toward the nearest cam like you know the thousands watching are losing their minds. That’s all it takes. He comes with a long, broken groan that echoes in the car, hot pulses flooding your tongue and lips in thick ropes, some spilling over to catch on your chin and drip down to your tits. You swallow what you can, milking him slow with your hand and mouth until he’s trembling, oversensitive, whimpering .

You pull off with a soft, obscene pop, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, smiling up at him soft and real, cum still glistening on your lips. The streams are still rolling—viewer counts insane, tips a constant chime, comments a frenzy of caps and emojis.

Kurt reaches down with trembling fingers, thumb brushing the mess from your bottom lip, then tugs you up into his lap again. Shirtless now, chest hair damp and sticky against your skin as he kisses you slow, tasting himself on your tongue, arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go. The cams keep blinking, capturing the afterglow—the way his happy trail brushes your thigh, the soft rise and fall of his chest.

“That was… the best ride ever,” he mumbles against your skin, voice hoarse but smiling wide. “No contest. You’re actually unreal. Like, actually unreal. We just—live. In the car. With the cams.”

You laugh, fingers carding through his damp hair, still catching your breath. “Told you vlogs weren’t your thing.”

He huffs a laugh, nuzzling into your neck, the city lights flickering through the fogged windows outside. “Yeah. Think I found my new niche. With you. If you’ll have me for more rides.”

The red recording lights keep blinking steady. The fact is that you wouldn’t mind. Not one bit.

author's note: soooooo ... hope you guys like it ! please reblog, comment or like if you feel like it <3

[minecherrybaddie]

me encanto, era justo lo que quería leer de Kurt

[fayes-fics]

Lightning & Lilies [Benophie]

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Baek

Summary: A memorable night in the greenhouse at My Cottage…

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni. Married couple engaging in d/s play - domBenedict, subSophie. Rope bondage, mild sensation play (flower petals), teasing, dirty talk, vaginal sex.

Word Count: 2.0k

Author's Note: Benophie remix of a very early fic of mine, as suggested by a lovely friend. Enjoy! <3

“Please…” 

Sophie’s whine sounds somewhat pathetic; she knows it, but is powerless to do anything else.

“Please, what?” 

Benedict teases, circling, close enough for her to smell his skin, his cologne. He's barefoot, just his trousers with braces hanging around his hips, his lithe torso tauntingly on display.

“Touch me…” 

It’s a breathless and desperate plea, Sophie writhing ineffectually in her binding, but it's just no use; she cannot move. The wrought iron pillar is cold against her bare back; the rope mildly chafes her wrists. And when she inhales, the heady botanical smell in the air, a riot of tropical flowers and plants in their greenhouse. In the distance, an approaching summer storm rumbles on the horizon, creating a foreboding hum in the air. 

Benedict smirks and plucks a lily from the beautiful patch blooming opposite, its neatly hammered brass sign Lilium candidum glowing in the moonlight. He takes a deep inhale of the flower as he walks back to her, then slowly trails the white petals over Sophie’s neck, down her breastbone, over the centre line of her stomach. The feathery touch is enough to enlighten the senses, but not enough to satisfy. His gaze is intent on the flower as he twirls its petals across Sophie’s belly button, making her stomach ripple.

“Is this what you want?” His voice is deep and rakish. 

“No…” she exhales; it's not enough and too much all at once. 

“That's a shame,” he offers ponderously, tipping the flower to drag the stamen up under her breast. Ticking the skin there, trailing up until its sticky yellow pollen dusts her nipple, pebbling under his gentle treatment. “How about that?” 

He knows how to torture Sophie to the point of frustration; this is his very favourite way to make her crazed for him. 

“No, I want you, your hands, your body,” Sophie whimpers.

He hums as if contemplating her request. Instead, he tucks some loose strands behind her left ear and slides the flower into her hair, long fingers trailing down the side of her face, admiring his handiwork.

“Such a beautiful sight; I should go get my easel…” he sighs thoughtfully.

“Do not dare,” she grits indignantly through her teeth.

“Beauty should be captured so that others may admire its wondrous nature,” Benedict intones, every inch the art professor he is.

“You are not at work now,” Sophie points out, squaring her jaw, frustration bubbling into insolence.

“An artist is never at rest, my love,” he clucks. “But, then yes, I suppose there are other ways to use my time,” he adds, suddenly crowding his whole body into her. 

She inhales sharply, fighting her bindings again, desperate to have her hands, to touch him. To feel something more than his smooth chest brushing her nipples.

“I really should have tied your hands above your head rather than behind your back,” he breathes against her temple, sounding near disappointed in himself for not thinking of it sooner. “You are always a touch frantic when your discomfort is ratcheted just a shade higher.”

His left hand runs down Sophie’s side, mapping the contours of her skin, listening to her breath hitch as there is a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder much closer than the last. That large hand rounds her bum cheek, then loops the back of her thigh, pulling her leg up off the ground, hooking it over his hipbone. 

“Is this what you wanted?” he queries, slowly pressing her further into the pillar.

“Yes, more of this, please,” Sophie’s voice sounds near drunk, even to her own ears.

His fingers dig into the meat of her thigh, the metal clasp at the waistband of his trousers grazing her belly, his breath hot on her hairline. He growls a little and pulls her leg higher and out further, exposing her slit to the humid air of the greenhouse.

“You smell better than all of these flowers, my love….” His cadence dropping lower and duskier, inhaling deeply. His ravishing, filthy words bring more moisture, almost dripping down her thigh.

“Please,” She implores again as another ominous clap of thunder rumbles across the room, rattling some of the looser glass panes.

“What is it now? I'm touching you, am I not?” Benedict chides playfully, kissing the dewy skin of her forehead.

“Just fuck me,” she whispers into his stubbled jaw, a heavy ache deep inside that only his cock can remedy now.

“Oh no, darling,” he drawls, amused. "You are going to have to ask me nicer than that, or you will not get it at all." 

He surges his hips into her, so she feels him hot and rigid through his trousers, divulging what she will be missing out on if she doesn't play by his rules tonight. Sophie’s moan is loud, but he soon pulls back again, leaving a few inches of humid, sticky air between their bodies.

“Please give me your cock. I need it,” Sophie appeals unabashedly, thrusting her hips out to chase what she just felt, her hands catching the metal. She cannot move far; he has made sure of it.

“But my love, are you sure you do not want my fingers?” He toys, running feathery touches over her biceps. “Or my tongue?” he adds, dropping his face lower to lick a hot line up her clavicle. 

“Anything you want to give me,” Sophie breathes in a stutter.

“Now we are getting somewhere….” 

A flash of lightning illuminates the smirk on his handsome face as Sophie finally uses the words he loves to hear when he has her like this.

“Good thing for you, my love, that I am not in the mood to tease tonight,” he concedes casually, kicking an upturned terracotta pot towards the pillar and dropping the leg he holds; her foot falling on top of it. 

A loud clap of thunder makes Sophie flinch, and there’s a static buzz across her skin from the ozone in the air. 

“Ask again, very nicely, and maybe I’ll give it to you,” Benedict murmurs silkily, his hands tugging on the buttons of his trousers. She knows he will; he just loves to hear her near-crazed for him.

“Please, I love your cock, and I need it. Please, my love, I'm aching.” Sophie gives up any pretence of propriety, just outright begging at this point.

That lopsided grin spreads across his face, knowing he has her right where he wants her. Benedict drops his trousers, but before Sophie can look down admiringly, he takes himself in hand, crowds into her again and presses into her slowly. Her eyes roll back, and she lets out a long, high-pitched noise as he stretches her out, being pushed up onto her tiptoes with the force of it, just as the sky is torn apart by a massive lightning streak and crack of thunder.

Finally, she has the remedy her body has been screaming for, the feeling as he reaches her hilt, so full, so hot, never gets old. His hands grasp, thumbs digging harshly into her hipbones. For the first time since he tied Sophie up, Benedict moves to kiss her, his tongue lashing deep into her mouth as he begins to move. Suddenly, the rain begins, a symphony of sound tapping on the glass roof above. He breaks the kiss to look up at the sky.

“Oh, my darling, do you know anything of the properties of lightning?” he asks, adopting a steady pace, rolling in and out of her body at a steady pace. 

Of course, she does - if anything, she is the more voracious reader of scientific discoveries than he. But the sonorous vibration of his voice through her body means she just wants to hear what he has to say.

“Enlighten me…”

“It is said to be attracted to metal objects,” he tutors, one hand moving above her head to tap, then grasp, the wrought-iron pillar Sophie is tied to, part of the greenhouse's skeleton holding all this glass aloft. “With a moment of bad luck from Mother Nature, we could expire.”

The last word is a harsh staccato - the danger, the tang of fear of being pressed to a metal post amid an electric storm, heightening his arousal. And now hers. 

“If I have to die, my darling, I prefer it be with you, inside you,” his voice passionate and breathy, as his pace increases.

Sophie pushes her breasts up into him, aching to feel more. “Yes. If I must die, I want to be with you.” 

Her wrists fighting under the rope he has lashed them with, her shoulder blades drag heavily against the pillar as he takes her harder. A boom of thunder coincides with his loud moan as she latches her lips onto his neck, biting gently on his overheated skin. 

“More, my love, please, give me more,” she implores.

With a resonant growl, Benedict reaches down and pulls Sophie up, wrapping her legs over his arms; she is now pinned entirely at his mercy; him carrying her weight, her hands still tied. 

“I've got you,” he soothes, sensing her disquiet.

The storm is now in full force, the glass rattling as the rain pours heavier, and an almost constant drone of thunder echoes around the sky. His pace is unrelenting. He kisses her so many times, each possessive and rough. Tomorrow, her spine will likely have marks from the unyielding metal, but it doesn't bother her; too desperate to come, desire knitted tight in her lower belly. The angle means he is striking her clit with every stroke; she won't even need his fingers to take her over the edge in this position.

“Oh yesss, right there, please don't stop,” she calls out unfettered, knowing all sounds will be lost, drowned by the tempest outside. 

Benedict is also more vocal than usual, loudly groaning with each stroke and babbling her name and how good it feels.

An intense flash of lightning blinds Sophie’s vision, and then she is tumbling over and over, yelling and shaking, dimly hoping he can bear her weight as she writhes and bucks hard around him. Pulsing hot all over - he roars at the sensation.

“Please look into my eyes,” Benedict entreats desperately, his movement becoming uncoordinated. 

She moves her jaw to lock eyes with him, his handsome face appearing to morph shape with the lightning flashing from all angles. 

“Tell me you love me,” he pleads; she can tell he is so close to his peak now.

“I love you, Benedict,” Sophie says, staring into his eyes, using his first name for the first time tonight. 

His responding moan is long and needy as he spears deep and freezes, his head dropping to bite down on her shoulder. Every time he empties inside her, it feels powerful and potent.

“I love you too,” he responds softly when his voice returns. 

He gently lowers Sophie to her feet as he breathes hard, resting his forehead against hers, then withdraws slowly, almost reluctant, from her body.

 The storm seems to be easing as it passes east over the woods. 

“Please untie my hands,” Sophie whispers after a few beats. 

Benedict nods and disappears behind the pillar, making quick work of the knots. She breathes a sigh of relief as her wrists are freed, and he brings them to his lips to soothe the nascent ache.

“This should be better by tomorrow morning,” he promises, softly inspecting the slight marks.

“I know,” she mollifies, crowding into him with a yawn as the storm becomes a pacifying background noise. “Tired,” she mumbles into his shoulder.

“I can tell,” Benedict chuckles affectionately, “come on, Mrs Bridgerton, time for bed.”

Sophie hums in agreement, placidly watching him pick up all their discarded clothing, always so comfortable in his utter nakedness. He plucks the lily she had forgotten about out of her hair and places it gently in her hands.

“A souvenir, my lady,” he smiles with a slight comic bow.

“A night of lightning and lilies?” Sophie giggles softly.

“Indeed…” 

His smile is warm as he throws the clothing onto his shoulder and picks Sophie up, carrying her across the small, rain-damp courtyard back into My Cottage.

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[keeryhours]

lonely on tour

modern!rockstar!steve harrington (totally not djo def not👀) x instagram baddie!fem!reader ; 1k words

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i can’t explain this yall it just happened enjoy some short filth inspired by my djame impala excitement and love for djo

modern!rockstar!steve, who gets lonely on tour.

his hand is a poor imitation for the real thing. he steals moments alone on the tour bus, and it gets the job done, but he craves more. especially when he finds your instagram, and it becomes his favorite thing to jerk off to.

pictures of you in a bikini on the beach—the third photo is his favorite, because you were there with all your friends but in that one you’re standing alone, perfect ass on display. the ones from your last birthday party, where you were in that club wearing that tight dress that left just enough to his (depraved) imagination.

it always made him cum embarrassingly fast. god, it had been a while.

so when the tour brought him to los angeles, where he knew you lived, how could he not shoot his shot? he half expected you to ignore him. you had millions more followers than he did—not that he cared about that—and he knew your dms had to be full of men begging for a chance.

when your response came up on his screen during sound check, his heart stopped.

before he knew it, he was performing, his eyes darting to the side of the stage more times than he intended just to see your reactions as you watched him. the clips and speculation would go wild online later—who was he looking at? who was there?—but that didn’t matter to him 

“fuck, look at you,” steve rasped when he had you spread out on the bed in his hotel suite after the show, bare and perfect and better than anything he’d dreamed of alone with his throbbing cock in his hand.

you smiled up at him, so pretty and too sweet for what he was about to do to you. his cock was rock hard, dripping with precum already as he pressed against your cunt, so soaked for him, just for him. when you’d told him you were on birth control and he could fuck you raw, he’d nearly cum on the spot.

he grabbed your thighs with those big hands you’d been watching all night, and pushed them up against your body, spreading you wide for him. the groan he let out at the sight was pornographic, making you clench around nothing. you wanted him inside you now—you’d heard the rumors, and they were true. steve was huge.

he nudged his thick tip at your hole, where you were so desperate for him, and then—

“oh, fuck,” he nearly whimpered as he sunk into you, inch by thick inch. he hadn’t realized how badly he needed the real thing until he was burying his cock into your perfect cunt. tight, wet, hot, and squeezing him so perfectly he wasn’t sure how long he’d last. but he was not going to embarrass himself now.

“god, steve,” you whined, writhing under him as you adjusted to the way he stretched you out. he only gave you a second before he was pulling back, then fucking into you like he couldn’t stand not to for another second. you gasped and moaned and cried out for him, your sounds making his hips buck uncontrollably, taking you harder.

“i—holy shit,” steve groaned, hips rutting against you so hard the bed was shaking against the wall. the heat in his gaze as he looked down at you nearly took your breath away, his cheeks flushed, messy hair stuck to his forehead. his fingers tightened against your thighs when he looked down, watching himself sink into you over and over. “jesus fuck. your pussy—oh—god, you’re so good, baby, could fuck you for hours, oh fuck yeah squeeze me like that again—“

he fucked you like a man starved, like he’d been craving this with his whole body for longer than you could even comprehend. he bent over you to capture your lips in a filthy kiss, pressing your legs tighter against you, nearly bending you in half as he licked into your mouth, bit your bottom lip, groaned against you.

you couldn’t even warn him before you came. it hit you when he sat up, adjusting the angle of his hips and using his grip on your body to drag you down against his cock so hard you were seeing stars.

“yeah, yeah, that’s it,” he coaxed breathlessly, his eyes rolling back as he felt you tighten around him, milking his cock for everything he had. “god, yeah, cum for me just like that, so good baby, so good, fuck, fuck—!”

he was so close, right behind you, you could tell. he watched your tits bounce from the force of his thrusts while he used your body to chase his high, the one he’d been craving for so long, and you were gonna give it to him.

“gonna cum in you,” he rambled, his mind going hazy from the pleasure. “gonna give it to you baby, gonna give it all, gonna fill you up so fuckin’ deep—“

he let out a choked moan, his hips losing their rhythm as he lost himself in you. “fuck, yeah, fuck, oh fuck, gonna cum, gonna make me cum, shit—“

it was your name on his lips when his cock jerked inside the tight confines of your perfect cunt, spilling every drop of his cum into you, pulsing deep and filling you just like he’d promised. it was the release he’d needed so badly, like he’d dreamed of, only better. he rode it out until it finally subsided, feeling like he could have come forever.

when he pulled out, he collapsed next to you. his hand resting on your waist as you both came down, neither of you in a rush to put any distance between you, or to get back to your individual hectic lives. there was something sweet about the way he looked at you now, like he couldn’t quite believe it was you here with him now.

“so…” he finally said, after he had the chance to catch his breath. “can i get your number?”

[keeryhours]

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[fayes-fics]

Absolution [Benophie]

Pairing: Benedict Brigerton x Sophie Baek

Summary: After a disagreement, Benedict seeks forgiveness.

Warnings:  18+, minors DNI. Slightly dom/sub tones-sub!Benedict, domme!Sophie, established relationship. Strip tease, slight begging, praise, massage, sexual tension.

Word Count: 1.9k

Author's Note: Benophie remx of a previous fic of mine. I received the prompt of Benedict being needy and on his knees for Sophie, and this fits quite well. We all know she is already the absolute boss of him, shooing him out of his own family home lol. Enjoy <3

Sophie feels as much as she sees him—a hovering, hesitant presence in the doorway.

“May I… join you?” 

His request is sotto voce, tinged with a gauzy hope that pulls her attention, eyes flicking to his reflection in the mottled glass of her vanity table mirror.

“You are not yet forgiven….” 

Her response is a touch sharp, perhaps, as she restarts her motions, untangling her hair with an ornate silver brush, the bitter edge of their disagreement still ringing in her ears, even now, hours later. Yet there’s an undeniable taste of victory that he is the one attempting to broker the peace. 

“Understood.” 

Benedict nods, stepping fully into the bedroom now, the door clicking closed behind him as he continues talking. 

“Perhaps I may find another way to apologise?” 

He bows his head, lacing his fingers together loosely in front of him—a gentle, reproachful demeanour that softens the sharper edges of Sophie’s irritation. 

After a beat, she twists around and stands up, moving towards him, the silk of her silk robe a balm on her flushed skin, her body reacting to him in this room as it always does, despite what has transpired, something almost Pavlovian about it. 

His light eyes seem to dance with the reflective candlelight from the nearby sconce as she stops just beyond touching distance.

“What are you proposing?” 

Sophie doesn't miss the way his gaze is drawn to the pull of fabric taut over the swell of her breast as she crosses her arms, perhaps still a shade defensive.

“I seek absolution…” 

His words are a sighed exhale, eyes pleading. she know precisely what he is referring to—that power dynamic play that neither of them can resist. And sure enough, a twitch of a smile ghosts over her lips in spite of herself.

“And will you do as I tell you?” 

Sophie doesn't mean her voice to be quite so throaty, but the rapid dilation of his pupils and the jump of the vein in his neck speak volumes.

“I will do anything for you…” His murmur draws attention to his pink, damp, plush, distracting bottom lip as if he has bitten it for her delectation. “My Lady.” 

It’s a goading, blatant addition, an invitation she is powerless to turn down, especially when he looks at her like that, all large pupils and quivering lip.

“Strip for me,” she commands, a warm surge through her veins as his lip quirks and his hands fly to his buttons instinctively. 

Sophie watches greedily as Benedict fights off his cropped jacket, dextrous fingers plucking next at the pearl buttons upon his paisley silk waistcoat. He is always so exquisitely wrapped in jewel-toned fabrics that part of her feels it nearly a shame to ask him to remove them. Nearly.

As both items fall to the thick rug with an audible thump, Sophie takes a step to the side and sits in a comfortable chair. She crosses her legs, enjoying the bob of his Adam's apple as her legs are revealed through the parting of her robe. Benedict has probably correctly guessed she is naked underneath; a keen flare of his nostrils as she sits back to get comfortable, gesturing for him to continue. 

She licks her lips reflexively as his elegant hands unwind his soft gold cravat, the candlelight catching the signet ring as he throws it to the floor. He takes a step towards her, a nascent trace of that troublesome smirk toying at the corner of his lips.

“All of it, Benedict,” Sophie warns, taking the upper hand as he advances upon her still in his boots, shirt and trousers. 

He stops short when he is a couple of paces away, close enough she can scent his cologne but too far to touch—perhaps an intentional tease. He will sometimes push up against her boundaries, that cheeky nature flaring under those beseeching, wanton looks. 

He follows her command, though, her skin flushing as he obediently pulls off his boots and tosses them aside haphazardly. He takes another half-step forward, watching her eyes tracking the movement of his hands as he pushes down his braces, bouncing once on the outside of his upper thigh as they fall. 

Subconsciously, Sophie squeezes her thighs together, tamping down the pulse of arousal, the sensual tension between them already heady and delicious, thick in the air, despite crossed words earlier.

“May I touch you, My Lady?” 

His soft, yielding tone makes a thrill prickle across her scalp, but Sophie’s tongue is still sharp with a barb.

“Earn it.”

Benedict's eyes flash briefly at her challenge, then he suddenly buckles to his knees before her, looking up at her imploringly again through those long lashes.

“How may I earn it, My Lady?” 

The ask is tender even as he makes short work of the buttons of his frilled shirt, kneeling temptingly just beyond her kneecaps.

“I am still awaiting your fulfilment of my last command” 

Sophie raises a brow to emphasise her point. He is indeed still in shirt and trousers, although the former now hangs loose from his broad shoulders, framing that lithe, toned torso.

“And once I am naked, what then, My Lady?” 

“Patience, my love…” She clucks.

Something melts in Benedict's expressive eyes at her term of affection, despite the somewhat brusque tone. His shirt sails down onto the rug, movements carrying more urgency than before, keen to hear her subsequent plans for him, no doubt. 

Sophie's breath quickens as he reaches for the buttons of his trousers, knowing as she does what lies beneath. Indeed, as the front falls away, she is unsurprised to see he is without underwear as usual, a teasing thatch of dark hair visible before his cock springs free before her.

She tilts forward slightly as Benedict pushes the trousers down around his bent knees. She can see his little half-smile, that flare of playful nature which makes his obedience so much more delicious. 

As he fights off his trousers the rest of the way while still kneeling, Sophie's eyes focus upon the constellation of freckles upon his left shoulder, temporarily transfixed by the play of muscle under his skin. His triumphant huff as he hurls the last of his clothing aside snaps her back from the short reverie, and indeed, what a sight it is to behold. A beautiful, toned, naked man before her on his knees, raptly awaiting her next word, his smooth chest rising and falling a little with shortened breaths of anticipation.

“My Lady…” 

There is a trace of prideful preening, knowing he has her captivated. Sophie’s legs uncross as she leans in further, her eyes drinking in the sight before her. He can't help but let his gaze drop briefly to her lap, hoping for a glance under her robe.

“You may touch my feet, my love…” 

Sophie emits a ragged sigh as his large hands cup her arch. A thumb presses into a sensitive spot that makes her collapse back, putty in his hands already. 

“Thank you, My Lady; I hope I can soothe you”

Benedict’s light whisper falls onto her skin like feathers, her eyelids fluttering shut as his hands work their magic upon her feet. His assured touch is the perfect salve to the ache of miles walked promenading, tension draining through her soles. 

Benedict’s hands move up, but she does not protest as he starts to massage her ankles and the lower part of her calves. Her whole leg relaxes, eyes still closed, breathing deep and even… until his sharp inhale makes her eyelids fly apart.

In her relaxed state, Sophie’s thighs have parted slightly. Benedict’s heated gaze is trained upon the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs, not yet open enough to betray how aroused she truly is.

“You may not touch.”

It's a clipped statement, an attempt to wrestle control when he had her compliant under his touch. A slight pout claims his handsome face, as if hoping a puppy dog expression will make her yield.

“You are the most beautiful creature, please, please, My Lady…”

“Not yet,” she modifies, his adulation weakening her resolve a touch.

Benedict moves to massaging her left calf, placing her foot upon the warm fuzz of his bent quad muscle. Sophie can feel the heat emanating from his nearby cock, resisting the temptation to brush her foot against it. 

But she can no longer tamp down her need to moan gently at his expert touch. The sound echoes softly against the walls as his fingers dig into her flesh, and he has to take a steadying breath, fighting his desire to pick her up and take her to the bed—desire raging brightly in them both.

As if catharsis for the earlier dispute, Sophie chooses instead to tease him more. Begins to writhe slightly in her seat, an undulation that inches her foot higher on Benedict’s thigh, her toes curling into his flesh as her noises become less restrained. His touch grows heavier, still soothing but with an undercurrent of urgency that speaks of pent-up passion. She can almost feel the increase in his heartbeat, the blood thrumming through his body, his cock no doubt leaking even though Sophie dares not glance at it—too tempting a prospect, wanting to elongate this moment, this foreboding simmering between them ratcheting up the tension to something truly delicious.

“You are heaven itself, My Lady. I veritably live to bring you succour….”

There is nothing like his lilting, wanton, poetic praise. 

When he reaches her kneecaps, Sophie permits him to move higher; his dextrous hands cup her lower thigh, squeezing the tension from the muscles there. His breath is laboured as her legs part further, and he can now see what he has wrought—a glistening temptation at the juncture of her shapely legs.

“Please, My Lady…. Please let me touch you there…”

Benedict’s tone is broken now, tumbling, fawning words as his whole body tilts over her lower half, supplicant arousal humming in his being, looking up at her so beseechingly. 

Sophie can feel the heat of his cock against her toenails as he leans in further, a deep, lewd inhale as he scents her body.

“Undress me.” 

Sophie’s voice is a breathy whisper, her heart skipping a beat at his responding hungry noise. 

Benedict’s fingers fly to the sash holding her robe cinched at her waist. She watches him work through a hooded gaze, a fluttering in her chest as he unloops the knot and then, as if unwrapping the most precious gift, slowly parts the material from around her body, pulling it down from around her shoulders until she is as naked as him.

“My Lady…”

It's a stuttering, wrecked sigh, his trembling hands ghosting over the quivering of her stomach, her ribs—not touching without permission, but still making her pulse race and her skin tingle. She hungers for him like nothing else, their earlier disagreement forgotten, irritation and pride usurped by the burning need they share.

And so she relents.

“You may touch me anywhere, my love.”

The green light has him almost howling, and before she knows it, Sophie is scooped up from the chair and carried to the bed, Benedict's body flexing deliciously against hers as their lips finally meet in a hungry, inelegant kiss, tongues tangling. 

Words of apology will come later—after their bodies have what they crave.

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