Hi! I'm Sami (she/her) - a twenty-something writer with too many thoughts and not enough notebooks. This is my little corner of the internet to keep my writing in one place, scream about fictional men, and romanticize life like it's an old VHS tape.
B.A. in English Education
ex-marching band kid/nerd (forever proud)
What You'll Find Here
Stranger Things (especially Steve & Eddie stans, hi)
Marvel (TFATWS Bucky owns my heart)
Supernatural feelings I'll never fully process
Harry Potter fics - mostly Fred Weasley because I'll never forgive Rowling for killing him (and I don't like her so this is my revenge)
Nostalgia, playlists, and posts that feel like polaroids
Occasional screaming about music & memories
Mostly 18+ writing - reader discretion advised
Kinktober 2025 Masterlist
Currently Reading: Song of a Blackbird by Maria van Leishout
Last Book Finished: Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson
Top Book this Year: Sunrise on the Reaping by Suzanne Collins
I try my best to tag fandoms & ships for easy scrolling. Feel free to ask if you're looking for anything specific.
This blog is queer and mental-health friendly. Racism, homophobia, transphobia, and general jerk behavior will get you blocked faster than you can say "Vecna."
Summary: In March of 1994, Robin and Steve are living in Chicago when they receive the invitation to Nancy and Jonathan's wedding which will take place in Hawkins. Of course, Steve is terrified of going back and seeing how everyone still considers him a childish loser. Robin proposed the idea of Steve pretending to have a stable romantic life to prove he'd changed and Y/N got cast for the role of fake girlfriend; it's just bad irony that she likes Steve Harrington.
Pairings: Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader.
Rating: General.
Warnings: there would be characters from the TV show ER (John Carter, Mark Greene and Doug Ross), mentions of typical-period diseases and issues, fake dating, slow-burn, all up until the end of season 4 had happened (Eddie's dead and Max's blind, sadly).
Note: Steve was born in 1966, so he's 28 here. Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan were born in 1967, so they're 27. Dustin and the other kids were born in 1971, so they're 23. As for Y/N, she's 24 here, so she might've been born in 1970 to keep with the story.
Chapter One.
Chapter Two.
Chapter Three.
Chapter Four.
Chapter Five.
Chapter Six.
Chapter Seven.
COMPLETE
Now also aviable on AO3 although I've changed the Reader for an Original Female Character and I've rewritten some parts. It's a 'Nancy's Wedding' 2.0 fic.
“Would you ever wanna try something a little… different?”
“Different how?”
“Mm, nothing crazy. Just… rougher, maybe?”
pairing: steve harrington x reader
warnings: established relationship, softservicedom!steve, sub!reader, first time bdsm, light bondage, rope, oral (f!receiving), piv sex, dirty talk, praise, pet names, light orgasm control/degradation, hint of possession kink, lots of check-ins, kink negotiation/exploration, nervous loverboy stevie, light angst, domestic fluff, steve's pov, aka ur his one-way ticket out of vanilla-town
word count: 4k
a/n: he ties you up but like, he loves you or whatever | playlist 𝜗ৎ
Steve Harrington can take a punch.
He’s taken plenty, actually. To the face, the gut, the ego.
He’s been thrown into walls, into worlds that shouldn’t exist. Walked away from concussions, black eyes, bruised ribs, a goddamn Russian torture lab under a shopping mall.
He can take a hit, is what he’s saying.
He’s learned how to breathe through the pain. How to swallow the blood and ignore the ringing in his ears. Tape over the cracks. Wash off the dirt. Pretend the ache doesn’t reach as deep as it does.
But the thought of hurting you?
That’s the one that floors him.
That’s the kind of fear that crawls up into his throat and sits there, trembling.
ꨄ
“Baby, you’re overthinking this.”
Your voice comes soft, lilting with amusement. You’re sat cross-legged on the bed, wearing one of his old shirts: faded navy, collar slipping off your shoulder in a way that makes his brain fuzz out a little. He loses focus for all of two seconds before he starts pacing again, back and forth over the same six feet of carpet.
“I’m not,” he says. Biggest lie in America.
“Uh-huh.” You glance at the floor. “I think the rug might disagree.”
He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair again, that nervous tic that’s been with him since high school. The same hands that used to grip baseball bats and steering wheels now twisting through his own hair, because it’s the only way he knows to keep still.
“I just... I don’t wanna screw this up. You said you wanted to try, and I do too, but—” He swallows. “What if I get it wrong?”
You tilt your head, eyes soft. “You won’t.”
“What if I do, though?”
“Then we talk. That’s the whole point, right? To figure it out together.”
He lets out a slow breath, nods.
He’s trying. Really, he is.
But his eyes won’t stop drifting.
Toward the bed. Toward the thing sitting there like a dare.
It’s a ten-foot coil of rope.
Soft, white cotton. The kind they sell in loops at Melvald’s, next to the gardening shears and seed packets. Ordinary, if you don’t know what it means. Harmless, except for the way it’s making his stomach feel like it’s going to launch out of his throat.
He stares at it like it might sprout teeth.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching out to touch his wrist. “Come here.”
You tug him down beside you, thigh to thigh, your skin warm through his jeans. Your hand finds the back of his neck, thumb tracing over the ridges of healed scars he still avoids in the mirror sometimes.
“You know we can stop any time,” you whisper, smile gentle.
He nods. “I know. I want to. I just... don’t wanna mess it up.”
“You won’t,” you tell him again, even softer this time. Your eyes track him for a moment, quiet and fond.
Then you smile. Let your voice drop honey-warm, just a tad teasing: “Hey, how about you stop worrying for a bit and just kiss me?”
He huffs out a laugh, shaky. “Yeah, okay.”
That, at least, he knows how to do.
ꨄ
It started as a whisper in the dark, weeks ago.
Drowsy pillow talk turned into a question. Naked and tangled together, your voice soft against his chest.
“Would you ever wanna try something a little... different?”
He’d blinked up at the ceiling, pulse stuttering. “Different how?”
“Mm, nothing crazy. Just… rougher, maybe?”
It followed him around for days, that word.
Tugged at him while he showered, while he washed the dishes, while he tried, unsuccessfully, to focus at work.
He carried it with him everywhere, turning it over and over like a smooth stone in his pocket.
Wondering what it meant, coming from you.
You, who never asks for more than he can give. You, who makes him feel seen, wanted, safe.
He thought about it long enough that he started noticing things he hadn’t before. Like how your breath hitches when he gets a touch bolder with you, when he pulls you in by the hips, when his voice gets a little firmer, drops a little deeper.
And now that he's seen it, seen you, he can't unsee it. Can't stop imagining what this might mean for you.
For him.
What rougher might look like between two people who love each other the way you do.
ꨄ
Three days later, he drove all the way up to Chicago to run “errands.”
Spent the whole afternoon wandering through record shops, bookstores, antique stalls, looking for something he didn’t quite have words for, until he found it: tucked in the back of a cramped little store that smelled like incense and weed.
A zine.
Hand-stapled, smudged with black ink:
Soft Restraint: Notes on Safety & Play
The title alone made his pulse jump.
He flipped through it in a corner like a kid sneaking a dirty magazine.
Except... it wasn’t dirty. It was gentle. Thoughtful. It talked about trust and boundaries and “the quiet work of keeping someone safe.”
That part stuck.
So he bought it, stuffed it between two Duran Duran tapes, and drove home with his heart thumping double time. Spent the weekend cross-legged on his bed, reading safety notes and how-to guides, squinting at tiny diagrams while he practiced.
A shoelace around a chair leg. A necktie around a throw pillow. A silk scarf looped between two slats of his headboard.
Learning the rhythm of it: tying, untying, tightening, loosening. Two fingers loose, always.
"Every knot you tie is a promise, not a bond."
He memorized that line. Repeated it under his breath until it felt like prayer.
ꨄ
Tonight, that prayer’s being tested.
“Okay. How’s that feel?”
“Good.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Steve. It’s perfect.”
He checks again anyway, fingers trembling as he tugs at the restraint. It drapes in clean lines across your wrists, pale rope winding around the dark mahogany of his bed frame.
He hadn’t planned on using rope at all. Thought he’d get something familiar and harmless, like one of his many neckties (he’s got plenty, all unused), but the guide had warned about narrow fabrics cutting off circulation. He’d taken one look at the words nerve damage, muttered “jesus christ,” and driven straight to Melvald's.
Poor Don didn’t even glance up from his Wednesday crossword when Steve walked up, cheeks redder than a stop sign, and asked for ten feet of cotton rope.
Now, kneeling over you on the bed, his face is flushed that exact same shade of cherry. Hair a mess, shirt tossed somewhere on the floor, his lips swollen from all the times you pulled him down, stealing kisses whenever he leaned too close.
You’re grinning up at him now, happy and radiant and impossibly calm, which admittedly makes him more uneasy. Makes him more determined to get this right.
“You know,” you muse, “I’m starting to think you might’ve missed your calling as a Boy Scout.”
He snorts, loosening one knot just to retie it. “Yeah, well. If I’m gonna do it, I wanna get it right.”
“Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“Breathe.”
He lets out a shaky laugh. “I am breathing.”
“Barely.”
It’s teasing, but there’s tenderness behind it. And when he looks down at you—at your hands, at your face tipped up toward him, smiling like you’ve never been safer—something inside him goes quiet.
“I’m never gonna finish this if you keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, lips twitching.
Your laughter fills the room. It’s a sound he’d build a life around, if he could. He’s been thinking about that a lot, actually.
He stops fussing with the rope long enough to take your hand. Threads his fingers through yours, palm to palm, tracing the faint indents where your rings usually sit.
Wonders, not for the first time, what it would mean to add another one there someday.
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure.”
“Not just because you think I’ll like it?”
“Steve,” you smile, eyes certain. “I trust you.”
ꨄ
Trust.
Steve Harrington has been rebuilding that word from the ground up.
He’s spent years trying to be someone worthy of it. Chipping away the old armor, the fake cool, the paper-thin ego he balanced like a crown because it was easier than being known.
He used to be the king of pretending.
Steve Harrington knows how to take a punch because he’s been taking them his whole life—some with fists, most with silence.
His first heartbreak wasn’t with any girl. It was with a front door closing at age twelve, the sound of his parents’ car pulling away for another “business trip.” The kind that lasted weeks. He’d wander around his empty house with a bottle of Coke and the TV humming, pretending the static counted as company. His mom would call twice, maybe three times a month. Once, from Paris, to ask if he’d fed the dog they didn’t have anymore.
So he learned early: if you want to survive, you get good at pretending. You smile. You make it look easy. You become the kind of person people envy, so they don’t see how empty you are.
Smirks sharp enough to cut glass, laughter loud enough to drown doubt. He coasted on locker-room bravado and casual cruelty. Smoke and mirrors. Nothing but bullshit.
He used to think confidence meant control. That being untouchable meant being safe.
But monsters changed that. Watching his friends bleed changed that. Realizing he’d die for any one of those dumb, brave kids changed that.
You changed that.
You taught him that caring out loud is its own kind of courage.
That love isn’t what you earn by being impressive, it’s what you build by being honest.
And if he's being honest, if there’s one thing Steve's come to realize about himself—after monsters and heartbreak and all the quiet, ordinary fears that came in between—it’s that he’s never been cool about caring. Never. And when it comes to you?
He doesn’t even want to try.
He wants to be the guy who cares. Loudly. Clumsily. The guy who asks, who listens, who gets it wrong and learns. The guy who remembers the little things: the sound of your laugh, the weight of your hand, the way you sigh out his name when you’re close.
He used to think trust meant being liked.
Never getting dumped. Never getting left behind.
Now, he knows better.
It’s quieter.
It’s earned.
It’s work.
Tonight feels like a trust fall. His biggest one yet.
ꨄ
“Too tight?”
“No.”
“Can you move your fingers?”
You wiggle them. “See? All good.”
He exhales. “Okay. The book said it should be, like, two fingers loose, so—"
“Wait,” you grin, “you read about this?”
He scoffs, ears turning red. “Well, yeah. Figured I should, you know… practice.”
You study him for a long moment, quiet.
“Wow,” you whisper, awe blooming behind your teasing smile. “So you’re an expert now, huh?”
Cheeks tinged pink, he grins, thumb stroking over the soft curve of your lips. Dips his voice all low and playful, edged with something daring:
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
You giggle softly, and he can’t help but lean down. To kiss you slow and sweet, even as everything inside him riots: heart hammering, mind buzzing, all his instincts screaming be careful, be good.
He’s trying. Really, he is.
He brushes his fingers up your arm, light as a sigh.
“Still okay?” he whispers.
“Still okay.”
“You’ll tell me if you want to stop?”
“Steve.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
He blinks, throat tight.
“I love you too.”
ꨄ
He eats you out first, always.
He gets lost in it, goes a little crazed for it, the way he tends to do when he’s down here. Tip of his nose glistening, pressing, soft nudges to your clit that punctuate the relentless pressure of his tongue as he licks his way inside. The taste, the feel, the rich heady scent and the slick glide of it against his lips—its enough to quiet everything else.
His hand slides up your thigh, past the junction of your hip, reaching up your stomach. But where he expects to find the familiar grasp of your fingers threading through his, that grounding touch he relies on to steady himself just as much as you do, he finds only empty air.
For a moment, he falters.
It’s strange. Disorienting, even. He’s used to that anchor, the feel of you squeezing back with a grip so tight it borders on desperation, a silent promise that you’re right there with him, holding on.
But now... now there’s space where your fingers used to be. And when he hears the dull rasp of cotton grating against wood... that’s new, too. So is the sight that greets him when he glances up, past the swell of your stomach, your breasts, the faint shimmer of sweat at your collarbone.
The subtle pressure at the bend of your elbows. The contrast of linen-white braids against your skin.
Steve’s gaze lingers there. Tracing the lines of it, studying it.
It’s a simple double-column knot, one he practiced over and over on a pillow until his fingers could do it without shaking.
But seeing it now, on you, it feels different. Alive. An extension of his touch in some strange, perfect way. And even though he can’t reach you there, can’t ground you the way he wants, it still feels right. Safe.
He lets that thought ground him instead as your hips start to stir beneath him, impatiently canting toward his face.
The sound of your soft whimpering pulls him back.
He smiles, eyes flicking down to the place he knows by heart, the place that beckons him louder than anything else.
Even in the low light, you’re positively dripping. Glistening under the dark glow of his bedside lamp, golden pools of warmth illuminating everything that’s wet: his fingers, his chin, the inside of your thighs.
He swallows hard, hand splayed over your knee as he gently pushes it back.
“God,” he breathes, tongue dragging across his bottom lip, licking up every bit of you left behind. “What’s got my girl so worked up, hm?”
You let out a soft groan, headboard creaking again as you tug on the binds.
His gaze flicks up. “Wrists feel okay?”
You nod, fingers flexing. Then, quiet as breath: “Steve?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Please?”
Heat flares through him. Something primal and tender sparking at the sight of your pleading gaze, made of equal parts awe and responsibility. He watches the rope flex against your skin, the way your body bends and arches with it.
Following the pull. Trusting the pressure.
Vulnerability, given fully.
It’s captivating. More stunning than anything he could’ve conjured up in his mind.
He almost tells you as much, right then, just how beautiful you look bound like this.
But then he remembers what you had told him, before this whole night started.
You wanted him a little different tonight.
A little firmer. A little meaner.
So he climbs back up your body. Swallows the softness in his voice and lets something steadier take its place.
His chest heaves as he leans down, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your temple, holding your face in both hands.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low. “All tied up like this. This what you wanted?
Your reaction is immediate, the creak of wood giving you away before any nod or whimper can. The sheets rustle under your back as you wriggle your hips.
“Y-yeah. ‘S what I wanted.”
“Thought so,” he hums, sliding a hand down to feel the velvety warmth of your slit. He drags a slow line upward, teasing over your folds, gathering up the pooled wetness on the pad of his index. Brings it back up to your mouth; he’s barely tapped his finger against your lips when you start opening for him, suckling instinctively.
“Wish you could see yourself right now,” he murmurs, watching the way your lips purse around his finger. “All spread out like this.”
Your hips twitch, the headboard groans.
“Soaking wet. Desperate. So greedy, you know that?”
“Stevie,” you moan around his finger, struggling harder. “Please.”
He tuts softly, pulling his hand away. “Stay still. Don’t move unless I tell you.”
The words land somewhere deep in his throat, the timbre of it surprising even him.
It’s new. Near frightening in its weight. But beneath that fear is a warmth, a rightness. A promise. Care that takes shape in guidance.
“I got you,” he whispers, chest pressing into yours. “Don’t pull too hard on the rope, okay? If anything doesn’t feel good, tell me.”
Your nod is all the permission he needs.
He shuffles closer, pressing against the back of your thighs and pushing them back. His own cock twitches against his stomach, tip red and swollen and leaking something fierce. He grants himself two quick strokes before he lowers himself fully.
The headboard gives a deep, resonant creak as he sinks in slow, reveling in the wet, plush stretch of your entrance. He watches your face the entire way. Doesn’t stop until he’s all the way inside.
“Fuck, Steve—” you gasp, fists clenching tight above your head. “S-so—it’s so deep. Feels so good.”
“Yeah? Right there?” He makes quick work of tucking a pillow under your hips, finding the angle that would’ve had you marking him in crescents if your hands weren’t folded helplessly above you.
“You like being tied up, baby?” He grunts, brows knitting as he starts rolling his hips; slow, deep rocking motions that have your lashes fluttering with every stroke. “Held down, made to—made to take my cock?"
Even now, after everything, hearing himself say it sends a hot flush crawling up his neck. That sudden surge of boldness, the raw, heady implication behind the words, it all sends a quiet thrill tightening in his chest. But you only mewl louder, head rubbing against the pillow as you nod fiercely.
“Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling. He can tell from the soft clench of your eyes, the tiny tears beading at the corners, just how much of him you’re feeling. “M-make me take it. Want to be... want to be good for you.”
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, hips pistoning faster, fingers circling your clit in tandem with his thrusts. “You’re so good. Taking me so good.”
Words start to fail you; your jaw falls slack, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Every thrust makes your head loll back, your eyes glassy and half-lidded as you try to hold onto his gaze. You’ve gone quiet in a way he recognizes, letting out nothing but soft, breathy little gasps that punctuate the rhythm of his relentless pace. It’s the way you get when everything's too much, too good, too intense, words unable to keep up with how you’re feeling.
“Oh god,” you inhale sharply, tightening around him all of a sudden. “Steve, I’m... c-can I… hm—"
“What do you need, baby? Tell me.”
“Can I—ah, can I please come?”
“Hah, shit—”
Your question knocks the air out of him before he can even think. Hits him squarely in the chest with all the blunt force of a Mack truck.
He lets out a strangled groan: loud, guttural, punched out of his lungs and edged with something close to pain. He has to stop thrusting for a second, has to bow his head, press his forehead against your shoulder and fist the sheets to stave off his orgasm.
You’d brought this up during The Talk. About wanting to ask for permission. For his permission to come.
Still, it catches him so off guard it leaves him reeling, gasping for air.
He takes a slow breath to recover, eyes clenched tight. Then he resumes his pace, nodding against your neck.
“Y-yeah, go ahead, baby. Let me feel you. Come for me.”
He keeps his fingers working over your clit, his other hand tucked under your knee so he can hike your leg up higher and drive in at just the right angle. Sucks soft welts above your collarbone while he whispers quiet, adoring encouragements into your skin.
It’s not long before he feels you flutter around him, clenching hard—once, twice—your moans pitching higher and higher against his ear—
And yeah.
Yeah.
He gets it now.
Really, truly gets it.
Why there are books and movies and magazines dedicated to this stuff. Whispers of a world he never quite understood before.
Beautiful doesn’t even begin to cover it.
There’s something near spellbinding in the way you move: the slow twist of your wrists, the curve of your spine, the turn of your face as you press your nose into your arm, one delicate teardrop rolling down your temple.
You look caught between two instincts; pulled into the warmth of him, recoiling from the depth of it, wanting to escape the intensity and reach for him in the same breath.
There’s no solving it, no containing it. No way to deal with it, except to surrender.
To feel it. To take what he’s giving you.
And he watches, struck silent, realizing that he’s the one drawing that reaction from you.
“There you go,” he grunts, keeping his thrusts deep, stroking over that sensitive spot inside you. There’s this strange, heady sensation that surges through him while he watches you squirm, his chest seizing with an overwhelming desire to protect, to hold, to keep. “Such a good girl. My girl. All mine, aren’t you?”
You nod through your orgasm, unable to do much else but whine and whimper and rock your wrists side to side as the pleasure crests.
“That’s it. Take it. Take all of it, baby. Let me feel you.”
Your orgasm hits harder and longer than he’s ever seen it. You can’t seem to stop quivering, shaking, squeezing around his cock in long, drawn-out pulses, over and over. And every time he thinks you’re about done, there’s just a little more.
He rides it all out with you, his own climax washing over him with a quiet shudder. It’s insignificant compared to watching yours unfold; he’s too mesmerized to pay it much mind.
And afterward, it takes a few quiet moments for you to come back to the world. He waits, hand smoothing over your thigh while he stays buried inside you.
When your eyes flutter open, lashes jeweled with tears, you let out a soft laugh: a fucked-out, watery sound that floods him with relief.
He drops himself down, lips colliding with yours in a desperate rush of feeling. Knows he should give you another second to catch your breath, but this is the only way he knows to bleed out some of that intense pressure in his chest. Well, that and:
“God, I love you. Love you so much. You’re so fucking beautiful.”
You giggle, panting softly, giving his lips another peck. “So... you liked it, then? The rope?”
“Liked it?” He huffs, nuzzling your neck, lips trailing soft kisses down your throat. “Baby, I fucking loved it. Can’t believe I got to see you come like that.”
You laugh at the ceiling, letting out a quiet puff of air. “Ok, good.”
He glances up at the headboard. “You feel okay? Wrists hurt?”
You hum quietly, flexing your fingers. “Not at all. Guy who tied 'em up did a really good job.”
He lets out an affectionate huff, dipping down for another kiss because he can’t help himself. “Oh yeah? He sounds hot.”
“Eh, he’s okay.”
He quirks a brow, pushing himself up on his hands—still buried inside you, still half-hard.
“Just okay?”
You nod, smile blissed-out and lazy. “Mm, yeah. I try not to encourage it. He—” A quick nudge of his hips forward, just a tad, and it earns a soft gasp from you. “—h-he gets a little cocky sometimes.”
He snorts, sinking down onto his elbows, licking a smirk across your lips.
“Don’t think you were complaining about his cock a second ago.” He mumbles, gently rolling his hips, feeling himself grow fully hard again. Knows he could go for at least three more rounds, easy.
He reaches his hand down to tease your clit, feeling the slick heat of you under his fingers, a living, pulsing reminder of just how hard he made you come. He knows you’re sensitive, especially after an orgasm so intense, but this—this was another one of your brilliant, wicked ideas: to draw out the pleasure, take whatever he wants to give you.
Your breath hitches against his mouth, and suddenly a dozen new ideas start rushing through his head.
“You wanna keep going?” he breathes, glancing up to where you’re still bound to the bed. His eyes sweep along the gentle indentations along your wrist: no irritation, no signs of strain.
“Mhm,” you nod, breathless, utterly boneless in his arms.
And wrapped up in the quiet power of your surrender, Steve’s mind starts to wander again.
To burnt pancakes and mismatched mugs.
To messy gardens and sun-warmed porches.
To footprints in flour and laughter filling the kitchen.
To days that start with your smile and nights that end with your hand curled in his. To shared plans whispered in half-sleep and the deep, unshakable comfort of knowing that no matter what comes next, you’ll be beside him through every season.
Love. Devotion. The sweetness of home he’s found in you without ever realizing he’d been searching for it.
And now, threaded through all of that, is something new. Something tender but fierce, a protective warmth that takes root in his chest.
He’s only just beginning to understand it. Only discovered it because you trusted him first—trusted him in ways he’s still learning how to live up to.
He hopes he’ll get to spend his lifetime cherishing that trust.
Cherishing you, if you’ll have him.
You smile up at him, hazy and adoring, and he mirrors it without thought.
“You want more?” he whispers, stroking your cheek in a quiet sort of promise.
“Yes.”
“Then ask me nicely, honey. I want to hear you say it.”
if you want to read abt how these cuties ended up together, this fic is sort of a sequel to this one!
okay but can you imagine touch starved! Steve who learns to hug like this?
like growing up he never really got the affection from his parents, and then when he started dating it was only meh? sure, making out and sex was easy, but intimacy? the hand on the back of the head?
would you by any chance be able to do some halloweeny type masterlist headers pls?🥰
i’m making a new account and i love all of your dividers and headers and wanna keep with your themes❤️
Ahh hi, thank you so much! And sure! I made some up - I def got too excited about these, haha. These ended up a mix of Halloween/fall vibes. Hope you like them!!
If you missed it, I have: witchy, and skeleton (part 2 here) themed headers! And have more dividers here 🎃🍁💖
Peter turns a golden-hour apartment photoshoot with a vintage Polaroid into playful stripping: tee, bra, boy shorts, all captured in teasing poses. The session escalates to oral on the rug, wall sex with a timer-shot climax, and a creampie. They end sprawled under a blanket, sorting 23 photos; one hidden in his web-shooter for patrols.
CONTENT WARNING - explicit sexual content (oral, wall sex, creampie, photographed during intimacy); voyeurism
“Say web-fluid on three!”
Peter’s voice was muffled behind the vintage Polaroid OneStep he’d rescued from a Queens yard sale. The apartment was golden-hour warm, late October light spilling through the fire escape and painting everything peach.
You leaned against the kitchen counter in one of his Midtown High tees - threadbare, hem brushing mid-thigh - and stuck a deliberately cheesy pose: hip cocked, peace sign, tongue out.
Click. Whirr. The photo slid out like a secret.
“Perfect,” he breathed, already shaking it dry. His cheeks were pink, but his eyes behind the lens were hungry. “One more. Lose the socks.”
You toed off the fuzzy spider-print ones May had knitted him last Christmas. The floor was cool under your arches.
Click. Whirr.
Peter bit his lip. “Shirt next?”
You lifted the hem an inch, teasing. “Only if you say pretty please.”
“Pretty please with a cherry on top,” he said instantly, voice cracking like he was sixteen again.
The tee hit the floor.
—
You started playful - hair over one eye, arms crossed over your chest, pretending modesty. Peter circled like a nervous satellite, snapping from every angle.
Click. You blowing a kiss.
Click. You twirling so the light caught the curve of your spine.
Click. You perched on the windowsill, knees to chest, chin on them, grinning like you hadn’t just made his brain short-circuit.
He fanned the growing stack on the coffee table. “These are… wow. You’re art, babe.”
“Art you’re gonna hide in your suit?” you teased.
He flushed scarlet. “Maybe one. For morale.”
—
“Bra,” he said, bolder now, voice soft. “If you want.”
You reached back, unhooked. The lace slid down your arms and you let it dangle from one finger before dropping it on his pile of web-shooters.
Peter’s hands shook. The camera whirred three times in a row - insurance shots.
“Turn around,” he whispered.
You did, slow. The light loved you: collarbones, the dip of your waist, the swell of your ass in cotton boyshorts.
Click. Click.
He stepped closer, close enough you felt the heat of him. “Can I…?” His free hand hovered over your hip.
You nodded.
His palm settled warm, reverent. The shutter snapped again - his thumb brushing the dimple above your underwear.
“Peter,” you laughed, “you’re gonna run out of film.”
“I bough six packs,” he mumbled against your shoulder. “We’re good.”
His lips grazed the shell of your ear. “You’re shaking.”
“So are you,” you whispered back, turning in his arms. You pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Keep shooting.”
—
He traced his fingers along your arm, lingering, still catching his breath. “You’re… wow,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Every single time.”
You laughed, tugging him closer. “Stop talking and kiss me, nerd.”
He grinned, brushing his nose against yours. “Gladly.”
The boyshorts went next. You hooked your thumbs in the waistband, shimmied them down, and kicked them toward the bedroom.
Peter dropped to his knees without thinking - photographer’s instinct. The angle was perfect: your legs endless, the soft curve where thigh met hip, the shadow between.
Click. Whirr.
He looked up, eyes blown wide behind the lens. “You’re… unreal.”
“Focus, Parker.”
“I am.”
You straddled the arm of the couch, back arched, one hand in your hair. The camera loved the line of your throat.
Click.
Another from behind - you on all fours across the cushions, looking over your shoulder with a smirk that said come get me.
Click.
Peter’s breathing was audible now, ragged. He set the camera on the coffee table, still loaded, and crawled to you.
“Last one,” he said, voice gravel. “Want you on me.”
You slid into his lap, knees bracketing his hips. Your fingers traced the faint scar under his collarbone—souvenir from a dock fight last spring. “You kept the negative of that one, didn’t you?”
He nodded, sheepish. “Back of my physics notebook.”
“Pervert,” you teased, nipping his jaw.
“Only for you.”
—
The Polaroid rested in his lap like a promise.
“Hold it,” you murmured.
He did. You guided his free hand to your waist, then lower - between your thighs, slick and ready.
Click. The flash caught the moment his fingers slid through your folds, the way your head fell back, lips parted.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “Is that one just for me?”
You rocked against his hand, slow. “All of them are.”
He tossed the camera aside - gently - and replaced his fingers with his mouth. The rug burned your knees; his tongue burned everything else.
You came with his name soft on your lips, fingers tangled in his hair. He didn’t stop until you tugged him up, desperate for his mouth on yours.
Clothes hit the floor in a blur - his hoodie, your underwear, his jeans barely past his thighs. He lifted you, pressed you to the wall by the window. The city glittered below, oblivious.
“Peter –”
“I’ve got you.”
He slid home in one slow thrust. The Polaroid on the table caught the edge of the frame: your calf hooked over his hip, his hand gripping your thigh, both of you lit gold.
Click. The camera auto-fired on timer - Peter had set it before he lost his mind.
You laughed into his shoulder. “Cheater.”
“Evidence,” he panted, hips rolling deep. “Need proof you’re real.”
You came again, clenching around him. He followed with a broken moan, forehead to yours, spilling inside you like a confession.
Peter flopped back on the rug, breathing hard, eyes flicking to the scattered Polaroids.
“We are definitely going to need more film.”
You crawled next to him, nudging his shoulder. “I think you just want an excuse to see me like this again.”
He grinned, nuzzling your neck. “Maybe.”
—
Later, sprawled on the rug under a throw blanket, you sorted the photos.
Twenty-three Polaroids fanned across the coffee table like a flip-book of surrender.
- You in his tee, laughing.
- You topless, coy.
- You naked, shameless.
- You his, mid-climax, eyes locked on the lens.
Peter taped one tiny square inside his web-shooter cartridge - the one of you biting your lip, hair wild.
“For patrols,” he said, sheepish.
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I’ll need a set of you for while you’re gone.”
He grinned, already reaching for the spare film. “Yes, ma’am.”
While investigating succubus vine in an abandoned greenhouse, Dean inhales pollen that triggers lethal arousal. With minutes to live, you drag him into the forest, let him pin you to an oak, and take rough, desperate standing sex - biting your neck, deep thrusts until you both climax. The cure works; he leaves a bruise and a crack in the motel door.
CONTENT WARNING - explicit sexual content (rough standing sex against tree, biting, creampie); dub con (sex pollen); public / outdoor
CASE FILE: THE GARDEN OF EDEN KILLER
LOCATION: BLACKWOOD NATIONAL FOREST, OREGON
VICTIM COUNT: 4 (ALL MALE, 25-35, FOUND EXSANGUINATED IN THE WOODS, HEARTS MISSING)
MO: VICTIMS LAST SEEN HIKING NEAR THE ABANDONED EDEN BOTANICAL RESEARCH STATION - A COLD-WAR-ERA GREENHOUSE BUILT TO STUDY “ADAPTIVE FLORA” FOR THE DOD. LOCALS SAY THE PLANTS “REMEMBER” TRESPASSERS.
LEAD: A HEX BAG LACED WITH DRIED SUCCUBUS VINE WAS MAILED TO THE COUNTY CORONER WITH A POLAROID: THE LATEST VICTIM, SMILING, SECONDS BEFORE HIS CHEST CAVITY BECAME A FLOWER BED
HUNTERS ASSIGNED: DEAN WINCHESTER, (Y/N) (L/N)
OBJECTIVE: TORCH THE SOURCE. SALT & BURN OPTIONAL
The Impala’s headlights carved twin tunnels through the fog as Dean killed the engine at the forest service gate.
“Place has been condemned since ‘78,” he said, checking the sawed-off in his duffel. “Perfect spot for a witch to grow her own Venus flytrap.”
You zipped your jacket, flashlight beam catching on the rusted NO TRESPASSING sign. “Succubus vine needs living hosts to bloom. Four hearts in six weeks? She’s feeding it.”
Dean’s grin was all teeth. “Then let’s crash her garden party.”
The two of you slipped under the chain-link, boots silent on moss. The greenhouse loomed ahead - glass ribs cracked, vines choking the rafters like veins. Inside, the air was thick, humid, wrong. Rows of wilted orchids flanked a single violet vine pulsing with bioluminescent sap.
Dean’s flashlight swept the workbench. “Hex bag, hex bag…”
You crouched, fingers brushing dusty sigils etched into the metal. “Nothing. Just –”
Dean sniffed. Once. Sharp.
The vine exploded. A golden cloud detonated outward, thick as smoke, sweet as rot. Dean coughed, staggering back, but the pollen clung to his lashes, his lips, the inside of his throat.
“Son of a bitch –” He doubled over, hacking into his sleeve.
You were already backing toward the door, but the wind shifted. A second puff drifted your way. You held your breath until your lungs burned. Dean didn’t.
—
You burst out of the greenhouse into the tree line, boots crunching on frost-brittle leaves. Dusk bled violet through the pines, the air sharp with sap and coming night.
Dean’s stride hitched ten yards in. He braced a hand on a trunk, knuckles blanching.
“Dean?”
“Keep moving,” he gritted out, voice already gravel. Sweat beaded at his temple despite the chill. His hips rolled once - subtle, involuntary - like his body had its own pulse.
You ran back, scanning him. “You’re flushed.”
“I’m fine.” The word cracked like a whip. He wouldn’t look at you.
But you saw everything: pupils blown wide, throat working, the way he kept adjusting the front of his jeans like the denim had turned to sandpaper.
He pushed off the tree, kept walking. Faster. Like distance could outrun whatever was clawing under his skin.
—
Fifty yards deeper, the path narrowed between ancient firs. Dean’s breathing turned ragged. He dropped to his knees in a patch of moss, clawing at the dirt like he could dig the heat out of his veins.
“Call Sammy,” he rasped, forehead pressed to his forearm.
You fumbled out your phone and hit speaker. Sam’s voice crackled through the pines: “Succubus cultivar - old-school. Pollen bonds to testosterone first. He’s got maybe thirty minutes before cardiac arrest. Only cure is… full sexual release. With someone. Skin-to-skin.”
Dean laughed, a broken, manic sound. “Not happening. I’ll –” He retched, dry-heaving into the leaves. “I’ll ride it out.”
“You’ll die.” You crouched, cupped his jaw. His skin scorched your palms. “Look at me.”
His eyes were glassy, frantic, green swallowed by black. “I can’t ask you –”
“You’re not asking. I’m telling you.”
A shudder wracked him from boots to teeth. He surged to his feet, staggering back until a tree stopped him. “(Y/N)...”
The clock in your head screamed. Twenty-seven minutes.
You stepped closer. The forest held its breath.
—
Dean’s back hit the oak with a thud that shook needles from the branches. You followed, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him.
“Don’t,” he warned, but his hands were already fisting your jacket, knuckles brushing the skin beneath.
“Dean –”
“Tell me to stop.” His voice splintered. “Please.”
You grabbed his wrists, guided them to your hips. “Save your strength.”
That snapped the last thread. He crashed into you - mouth hot, desperate, teeth clacking. You tasted pollen, copper, him. His tongue swept yours like he was drowning and you were air.
He spun you, chest to tree, bark scraping through your jacket. The world narrowed to the rasp of his zipper, the frantic shove of your jeans down to your knees. Cold air hit your thighs; his heat hit your back.
“Gonna be rough,” he panted against your ear, breath ragged.
“Clock’s ticking, Winchester.”
You braced your palms on the trunk. Behind you, fabric tore - his belt, maybe his restraint.
—
Dean thrust in with one brutal stroke. The stretch burned white-hot; the oak bit your palms.
He didn’t wait - couldn’t. Hips snapped forward, relentless, each thrust driving a grunt from his chest. Pine needles rained down with every impact, sticking to sweat-slick skin.
“Fuck - so good –” His voice was shredded, barely human.
You pushed back, meeting him, the slap of skin echoing through the trees. His hand slid under your shirt, thumb digging into your waist like he needed an anchor. The other braced beside your head, knuckles white against the bark.
“Mark you,” he snarled, teeth grazing the nape of your neck. “So you know –”
He bit down hard - skin splitting, copper flooding your tongue as you bit your own lip to stay quiet. The pain sparked straight to your core; you clenched around him and he lost it.
Pace turned punishing. The tree shook. Somewhere an owl took flight, wings beating the dusk.
You came first, vision fracturing into gold, nails carving into bark. Dean followed seconds later - hips stuttering, a broken “(Y/N)” muffled against your shoulder as he spilled deep, pulsing, endless.
He stayed buried, forehead pressed to your spine, trembling so hard the tree shivered with him.
The forest exhaled.
—
Dean pulled out slow, the drag obscene in the sudden quiet. You yanked your jeans up, wincing at the twigs in your hair, the ache between your thighs.
He tucked himself away with fumbling fingers, then just… stood there, staring at the bite mark blooming purple on your neck.
“We don’t –” he started,
“Dean.”
He flinched, then finally met your eyes. The flush was fading, but the tremor in his hands wasn’t.
“You’re alive,” you said softly. “That’s enough.”
He laughed, hoarse. “Alive and covered, in sap.” He plucked a needle from your jacket, gentle, then let his hand drop. “You okay?”
“Ask me after I find a shower.”
A ghost of his smirk. “Impala’s got blankets.”
You started waking. The path back felt shorter, the trees less oppressive. Dean fell into step, closer than before. His pinky brushed yours - accidental, then not.
Halfway to the car, he muttered, “Thanks. For… y’know.”
You bumped his shoulder. “Anytime you need to be defiled in a forest, I’m your girl.”
He choked on air. “Jesus, (Y/N).”
But his hand found yours in the dark, fingers threading tight. The bite mark throbbed with every heartbeat.
—
Three Days Later
Motel sink, 2 AM. You’re brushing your teeth. Dean leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the purple bruise bloom on your neck in the mirror.
“Still there?” he asks, voice low.
You rinse, meet his eyes. “Souvenir.”
He steps closer, thumb tracing the mark - feather-light, reverent. “Looks good on you.”
Heat flares - memory, want, possibility.
He clears his throat, steps back. “Night, (Y/N).”
But he leaves the bathroom door open. Just a crack.
Bucky staggers into the locker room affected by a mission gas, feral and desperate. You offer to help; he pins you in the bathroom, forces deep oral until he finishes down your throat, then strips your top and ruts between your breasts to climax again across your chest and face, leaving you marked and breathless.
You weren’t supposed to be there. Just dropping off some paperwork, maybe catching a glimpse of Bucky before calling it a night. Nothing special.
At least, that’s what you thought — until the locker room door slammed open, metal hinges shrieking, and Bucky staggered in.
He looked like hell. Sweaty. Red-faced. Muscles twitching under his tactical shirt, his eyes wild and unfocused like he was still mid-mission. You straightened immediately, heart kicking into gear.
“Bucky?”
He froze at the sound of your voice. His head snapped toward you, pupils blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a mile. There was something… off. Not just physically — feral.
He blinked, jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, but he didn’t move away. If anything, he took a step closer.
“I was just—are you okay?” you asked softly, stepping toward him before you could think better of it.
Something in his eyes darkened. “I don’t know,” he ground out. “Something happened. On the mission. Gas, maybe. Fuck.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and hissed. “Feels like I’m on fire.”
You froze mid-step.
He looked at you again — that familiar, teasing glint from all your shared flirtations replaced by something raw, untamed. “I need—” he cut himself off, breathing hard. “I shouldn’t. Not with you.”
The way he said you sent a pulse of heat down your spine.
You’d danced around this for months. Stolen glances. Close calls. Whispered comments that bordered on indecent. But you’d never acted on it. You were friends. Teasing, maybe a little reckless, but still friends.
And yet here he was, shaking, aroused, looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling.
“Bucky,” you said gently. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”
He growled — actually growled — and then he had you pinned against the wall in the bathroom connected to the locker room, the door kicked shut behind you. His mouth hovered just inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he snarled, but he didn’t back off. His eyes dropped to your mouth. “I’ve been hard since the jet. This stuff—it’s not wearing off. I can’t think straight. All I can think about is—” He cut off again, groaning through gritted teeth. “You’re the only one I trust.”
You reached for him without thinking, palm resting gently on his chest. “Then let me help.”
He was on you instantly.
You sank to your knees as he yanked open his fly, his cock flushed and already leaking. His fingers threaded into your hair, not asking—claiming. You barely had time to brace yourself before he pushed into your mouth with a broken gasp.
“Fuck, your mouth,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut. “So fucking warm. I can’t—can’t hold back.”
You gagged around him as he thrust deep, his grip in your hair keeping your head perfectly aligned with each needy pump of his hips. Saliva spilled from the corners of your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat again and again until you were choking on him.
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Whatever had been pumped into his bloodstream had overridden every filter. All he could do was take.
The first time he came, it was sudden — hips jerking, hot and fast down your throat. You struggled to swallow it all, gasping for air as he pulled out, panting.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed, voice hoarse and distant. “I thought that would—fuck. It’s not enough.”
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, swallowing thickly. Your chest was rising and falling hard, and your shirt clung to your damp skin — more in the way than anything else now. Without thinking, you reached down, grabbed the hem, and yanked it over your head. The air hit your bare chest like a shock, your nipples already pebbled from the intensity and cool tile.
Bucky’s eyes locked onto your tits like they were the only thing in the world.
You couldn’t look away. His eyes were locked on your chest like you were a goddess, not a mess of spit and cum on the locker room floor. And maybe you were—his mess, his obsession, his only focus.
It made you ache. More than his words, more than the way he claimed your throat. You wanted to drown in this.
“You’re perfect,” he rasped, voice thick. His metal hand hovered, then cupped one breast gently, thumb brushing your nipple in reverence.
“Fuck—so soft,” he breathed, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “I’ve thought about this. Your tits, your mouth, everything.”
You shivered beneath his touch.
“I’m gonna cover you, sweetheart,” he groaned, starting to stroke himself again. “Gonna make a fucking mess.”
His hand closed around his cock again, already hard and twitching.
“I need to see it,” he said, voice darker now, hungrier. “All over you.”
You leaned back on your heels, bare from the waist up, arms loose at your sides in submission. “Then take it.”
Bucky groaned like it physically pained him how good you looked like that.
His body was slick with sweat now, vibrating with tension as he pressed his cock between your tits, using them to rut with growing desperation. You held them together for him, eyes glazed, your chest already sticky with his release.
“Look at you,” he snarled, thrusting between the soft swell of your breasts, “kneeling for me like a good little fucktoy. Mouth open. Covered in my cum. Bet you’ve thought about this.”
You moaned, tongue out, saliva and cum dripping down your chin.
And then — again. He came again. Hot and thick over your tits, your throat, your tongue. It dripped down your chest, pooling in the valley between your breasts, a filthy masterpiece only a super soldier could create.
When he finally stepped back, his chest heaving, his cock still twitching, he looked down at you like he couldn’t believe it. The whole bathroom smelled like sex and sweat and him.
You sat there, still panting, face and body a mess, trembling from the intensity.
Bucky ran a shaky hand through his hair, pupils still blown. “I—I didn’t hurt you?”
You shook your head slowly. “No,” you whispered, throat raw. “You trusted me.”
His metal hand brushed your cheek, thumb swiping some of his own release from your skin. He looked at it, dazed, then smirked faintly.
“We’re… gonna have to talk about this,” he muttered.
Your lips curled into a breathless grin. “Later.”
Because the heat hadn’t left his eyes yet. And judging by the twitch of his cock… this was far from over.
babes! hi! wondering -> can you do a subtle Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier themed collection? nothing super bold, but more dainty on the aesthetics? love you!
hi hi mare! 💖 I would love to make some bucky/winter soldier dividers! I hope these fit your vision!! sending love and thank you so much for the request!
Steve bends you over the couch armrest, yanks your panties down, and takes you hard from behind - deep, punishing thrusts while spanking, hair-pulling, and biting your shoulder. He edges you with his fingers, finishes inside you twice, then makes you thank him before a messy kiss, leaving you dripping and wrecked.
You barely have time to process what’s happening before Steve’s hands clamp around your hips, yanking you forward until your chest presses flat against the plush back of the couch. The fabric wrinkles beneath your weight, cool against your bare skin. He doesn’t say a word - just grips the waistband of your lacy panties and tugs them down in one brutal motion, leaving you exposed and trembling.
His cock is already hard, slick from his earlier use of you. He presses the tip to your entrance without warning. You gasp, thighs clenching reflexively, but he just pushes harder. In one cavernous thrust he’s buried to the hilt, and you feel the full, heavy weight of him inside you.
“Fuck,” he growls, voice dark and low, “That’s my girl.”
His first thrust is slow - a deliberate demonstration of ownership - stretching you open, filling every inch until tears prick the corners of your eyes. The contrast between the soft warmth of your body and the firm, unyielding hardness of him is electric. You feel the couch cushion dip beneath your hips as he plants a knee on the seat, leaning into you, commanding each movement.
When he pulls back almost completely - just the tip still buried - you inhale sharply through your mouth. He doesn’t give you a moment to readjust. With a vicious grin, he slams back in, faster this time, each thrust a staccato beat that echoes through the empty living room.
Your hands scrabble against the couch’s edge, nails grazing the seams as you fight for purchase. He notices instantly:
“Squirm again,” he warns, “and I’ll remind you who’s in control.”
He brings a hand down across the curve of your ass in a sharp smack, the sting flaring warmth against your skin. You yelp and your hips jerk involuntarily, desperate for the friction, but he holds you still, his hand braced against your back.
Steve’s other hand moves to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the nape of your neck, tugging your head back so you can’t look away from the chaotic dance of your bodies. His thumb brushes your jaw, tracing the teardrop that’s escaped your eye and mixed with the sweat glistening on your cheek. He smirks at the ruined mascara streaking down your face.
“Pretty,” he rasps, “so fucking pretty like this, melted for me.”
You whimper around the rough fabric of the cushion, mouth open, tears falling freely now. He pauses only long enough to kiss your shoulder - teeth grazing the skin before he bites down gently, leaving a bruise. The bite sends a fresh shiver through you.
Then he shifts you forward, planting both hands on either side of your torso and dragging you until you’re bent over the armrest of the couch. His body presses hot and hard against your back as he lines himself up again, cockhead brushing over your slick folds before he thrusts in once more, deep and merciless.
“You like being used, right?” he growls into your ear. “Like having my cock rammed into you whenever I feel like it.”
Every thrust is punctuated by the wet slap of skin on skin, the squeak of the leather couch under pressure, and the ragged sound of your breath. His dominance is absolute: he fucks you at his whim, without concern for your pleasure - only for marking you, consuming you.
When he pulls out again, you’re so overstimulated that your entire body quakes. He doesn’t give you a second to gather yourself. With the same hand that held your hip, he dips two fingers into your slick heat and drags them up over your soaked mound, stroking through your folds. You moan, a broken sound, as he pushes those cum-covered fingers back inside, curling them just enough to brush your g-spot.
“Gotta keep you full,” he murmurs, “keep you dripping with me.”
Your walls clench tightly, and he chuckles, thumb rubbing lazy circles over your clit. Your nails dig into the couch cushion, bits of leather fraying under your grip. The overstimulation hits you like a tidal wave - you can’t tell if you’re shaking from pleasure or from how completely he’s broken you.
Before you can catch your breath, he pulls out and lines himself up once more. This time he fucks you slowly, savoring every inch, the head of his cock dragging through your drenched entrance in languid strokes. The pace is almost torturous - slow enough that you can feel each ridge of him, each pulse of arousal carrying straight into your core.
“Mine,” he whispers, pressing forward until you feel the base of him flush against you. “Only ever mine.”
The indecent creaking of the couch and the thud of his hips are the only sounds as he begins to build toward his climax again. His hand moves from your hip to your back, fingertips digging into your flesh in a firm grip.
When his pace quickens, you know he’s close. You feel it in the way he’s trembling against you, the slight stutter of his hips. With a strangled groan, he pulls out and positions himself at your entrance, pressing the tip to your folds one last time before driving in with a final, shuddering thrust.
“Fuck,” he growls, voice raw, “gonna fill you up.”
His cum pours into you in hot, relentless spurts, each pulse deeper, messier than the last. You cry out, the gaggle of feelings so intense you can’t form words. You can feel him twitch and pulse as he empties himself, painting your walls with his release.
But he’s not done. He holds you there, cock buried, and leans down to bite your shoulder again - this time harder, a toothy claim. His breath fogs against your skin, heavy and possessive.
When he finally pulls free, he stands for a moment, letting you feel the aftershock of his cum dripping from you. Then, without a word, he lifts your chin, turning your head until you’re facing him.
His cock, still leaking, taps once against your lips.
“Say thank you,” he orders, voice low.
You’re dizzy, slick, coated in him, but you obey. “Thank you, Steve,” you whisper, slurry and breathless.
He grins - a predator satisfied - and then bends, capturing your lips in a messy, insistent kiss, tasting yourself on him. His hands slide over your body, brushing the sticky sheen of sex and tears into your skin.
Finally, he releases you, stepping back. Your limbs tremble as you try to right yourself. He watches you with dark, hungry eyes, cock still dripping, and you know he could take you again in a heartbeat if he wanted.
For now, though, he lets you catch your breath - knowing full well that you’ll be ready the moment he decides to use you again.
